

One Year of Instants (2015)

Published by C M Weller at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 C M Weller

ISBN: 9781311099099

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

Hevun's Gate

One Year of Instants

The Amity Incident

Better

Visit all of these works at Smashwords.

My thanks to the myriad of internet people who dropped a prompt into my submissions box. Thank you for inspiring me.

Table of Contents

Challenge #001: The Better Part of Valour

Challenge #002: Buggier Than a Backyard Barbie

Challenge #003: A Short, Sharp Shock

Challenge #004: Might or Flight

Challenge #005: Do We Need Them?

Challenge #006: Fighting Words

Challenge #007: Draco Concilium

Challenge #008: Havenworlders V Humans

Challenge #009: Fighting Against the Stereotype

Challenge #010: Not Quite MST3K

Challenge #011: You Stole What?

Challenge #012: A Requiem for Glory

Challenge #013: Comparative...Let's Say 'Humor'

Challenge #014: Baldie

Challenge #015: Unlikely Meetings

Challenge #016: What a Voice

Challenge #017: Informed Decision

Challenge #018: Crazy Apes

Challenge #019: Sensible Economic Decision

Challenge #020: When is a Troll Not a Troll?

Challenge #021: Tea Solves Everything

Challenge #022: Attempted Poisoning

Challenge #023: What is Dog?

Challenge #024: It's Just Politics

Challenge #025: That is Not a Solution

Challenge #026: The Visitor

Challenge #027: So That's What They're Up To...

Challenge #028: Wardrobe Malfunction

Challenge #029: Hug-a-Bunch

Challenge #030: What a Waste

Challenge #031: Numedid Meets the Birds of Earth, Part 3

Challenge #032: Return to the Greater Dereg That Got It Right

Challenge #033: Emergency Procedures

Challenge #034: One Harried Evening in an Interspecies Beauty Salon

Challenge #035: The Travelogue Continues

Challenge #036: The Coming Devestation

Challenge #037: Pure Badness

Challenge #038: Ballistic Rock

Challenge #039: Ancient Writings

Challenge #040: Great for Business

Challenge #041: Veni Vidi Vetinari

Challenge #042: It's Physics!

Challenge #043: The Careful Calculation

Challenge #044: Muffin

Challenge #045: The What?

Challenge #046: Hwell Barrow/Ax'and'l Incorporated

Challenge #047: Logic Dictator

Challenge #048: Fame and Glory(1)

Challenge #049: Fame and Glory(2)

Challenge #050: Suddenly Christine

Challenge #051: Quirks of Psychology

Challenge #052: No Cause for Alarm...

Challenge #053: Water Worship

Challenge #054: One Fine Birthday Party in Paris

Challenge #055: One Otherwise Dreary Afternoon Backstage

Challenge #056: Still in South Park

Challenge #057: The Human Answer(1)

Challenge #058: The Human Answer(2)

Challenge #059: The Human Answer(3)

Challenge #060: One Fine Afternoon Constitutional

Challenge #061: One Smoke-Filled Evening in a Dimly-Lit Room

Challenge #062: One Puzzling Afternoon in the Ambassador's Lounge

Challenge #063: The Arboretum of Death

Challenge #064: Come to Scenic Gravity Falls

Challenge #065: These Humans Are Crazy

Challenge #066: The Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Really Bad Idea

Challenge #067: A Solid What?

Challenge #068: What, When You Own The World?

Challenge #069: Back Off, We're Celebrating!

Challenge #070: When Lorraine Met Walter

Challenge #071: Diggy Diggy Hole

Challenge #072: How the Flakk do You Stop Human?

Challenge #073: BSOD'd? BPFB!

Challenge #074: The Ultimate Punishment?

Challenge #075: Permanent Hold

Challenge #076: To Ride the Dark

Challenge #077: What's Your Emergency?

Challenge #078: Flight School

Challenge #079: T'yoree the Reckless

Challenge #080: Horror Cuisine

Challenge #081: Varied Diet?

Challenge #082: "No, Try it, it Goes Good With Everything..."

Challenge #083: He Said/He Said

Challenge #084: No Connection

Challenge #085: Inappropriate Love Gifts

Challenge #086: Infectious Craze

Challenge #087: Something of a Gift

Challenge #088: Potentially Kindasorta NSFW Prompt...

Challenge #089: True Words

Challenge #090: Going Viral

Challenge #091: Super Ordinary

Challenge #092: Ordinary Super

Challenge #093: Bad Day at the Office

Challenge #094: Living in Interesting Times

Challenge #095: One Guaranteed Angel

Challenge #096: Cataclysmic Server Event

Challenge #097: Homicidally Annoying

Challenge #098: You Can't Really Go Home

Challenge #099: Comfort Food

Challenge #100: Fun Park a la Deathworld

Challenge #101: Picnic in the Park

Challenge #102: ...Okay?

Challenge #103: Parents Just Don't Understand Adventuring...

Challenge #104: Close Encounters of the Blurred Kind

Challenge #105: Elvis Has Left the Building

Challenge #106: The Telephone Game, Divine Edition

Challenge #107: Prêt à Porter

Challenge #108: Infodump

Challenge #109: Penfold... Hush.

Challenge #110: When Clint Met Natasha

Challenge #111: Complaints Department

Challenge #112: Relics of a Previous Age.

Challenge #113: In Vino, Vastitas

Challenge #114: Hearts Wild

Challenge #115: Vortex Realm

Challenge #116: The Diving War

Challenge #117: It Just Goes

Challenge #118: Tough Crowd

Challenge #119: One Fine Bar Fight at a Galactic Crossroads

Challenge #120: One Fine Evening at a Galactic Mixer Party

Challenge #121: Catching Up

Challenge #122: Summons in Trouble

Challenge #123: Ahead by a Nose

Challenge #124: One Dark and Stormy Evening in an Abandoned Subterranean Clank Lab

Challenge #125: Just... Don't Ask

Challenge #126: Wake up and Smell the Progress

Challenge #127: Come Up to the Lab, See What's on the Slab...

Challenge #128: Abominations of Nurture

Challenge #129: Cue Maniacal Laugh

Challenge #130: The Inadvisability of Truth

Challenge #131: Escape

Challenge #132: Shattered Fables

Challenge #133: Versatility

Challenge #134: One Blood-Soaked Evening in a Norse Battlefield

Challenge #135: When You Have a Hammer...

Challenge #136: Manuals Exist for a Reason

Challenge #137: Mistakes Were Made

Challenge #138: One Mildly Hazardous Evening in the Commercial Concourse

Challenge #139: Never Hitchhike Drunk

Challenge #140: A Call Home From College...

Challenge #141: Children of the Monitor Light

Challenge #142: Distracting Objects

Challenge #143: Sufficiently Advanced Technology

Challenge #144: Things To Do...

Challenge #145: DO NOT ASK

Challenge #146: Walk This Way

Challenge #147: Educational Aside

Challenge #148: Tokens of Adulthood

Challenge #149: Feelers

Challenge #150: One Missed Point on the Commercial Concourse

Challenge #151: Stifled Rude Noises

Challenge #152: Stress Indicators

Challenge #153: Thievery Can Net You the Most Interesting Trinkets Sometimes...

Challenge #154: Dawn Technology

Challenge #155: Unexpected Bastion of Safety

Challenge #156: Can't Eat, Won't Eat

Challenge #157: Station of Babel

Challenge #158: Nonse

Challenge #159: Absolute Power...

Challenge #160: Nil Mortifi Sans Lucre?

Challenge #161: Malevolent Dictatorship

Challenge #162: Perish the Thought

Challenge #163: The Unexpectables!

Challenge #164: The Old Heart-Stopper

Challenge #165: Instruments of War

Challenge #166: Adult Onset Responsibility

Challenge #167: Rule of Cute

Challenge #168: Rule of Innocence

Challenge #169: Mama Bear

Challenge #170: Strange Creatures

Challenge #171: In a Shared Domicile on Amity...

Challenge #172: One Thing in Common

Challenge #173: Cat Day

Challenge #174: Easter Egg

Challenge #175: Change of Afterlife-style

Challenge #176: SUO's - Small Useful Objects

Challenge #177: True Love's Kiss

Challenge #178: Howling Mad

Challenge #179: Origin Story

Challenge #180: In the Slightly-Paraphrased Words of Robert Heinlein...

Challenge #181: Mama Hen-Bear

Challenge #182: The Challenge of Challenging

Challenge #183: Cautious Eaters

Challenge #184: Wheeeeeeeeee!

Challenge #185: Hoarders Unimaginable

Challenge #186: Hoaders Impossible

Challenge #187: Hidden Treasure

Challenge #188: Here's to the Parents

Challenge #189: Awkward Re-union

Challenge #190: Heavenly Harmonies

Challenge #191: Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Challenge #192: Unblinking Stare

Challenge #193: Witnessed

Challenge #194: The Feel When No Sex Life

Challenge #195: In the Instincts of the Beholder

Challenge #196: Just My Type

Challenge #197: To See What is There

Challenge #198: Fortifying Education

Challenge #199: Ban the Hammer

Challenge #200: Bunkmate From Hell

Challenge #201: We Are Magic

Challenge #202: It's Just Physics

Challenge #203: Loverly Spam...

Challenge #204: Human Terminology

Challenge #205: An Ace Up Her Sleeve

Challenge #206: Living Proof

Challenge #207: Human Phenomena

Challenge #208: Universal Reactions

Challenge #209: Arachnophilia

Challenge #210: Idiosyncrasies

Challenge #211: Skewed Threat Assessment

Challenge #212: 'Straya Mate

Challenge #213: One Bad Day at Station Customs

Challenge #214: After the Revolution

Challenge #215: The Houyhnhnms' Arrival

Challenge #216: Let Sleeping Beauties Lie...

Challenge #217: Death Be Not Proud

Challenge #218: To Boldly Bed...

Challenge #219: Sailor Fey

Challenge #220: Pacifying Maneuvres

Challenge #221: Innovative Resource Management

Challenge #222: Millie the Conquerer

Challenge #223: Careful How You Wish...

Challenge #224: Minnie Mighty

Challenge #225: Convoluted Jones

Challenge #226: Obligatory Baby Adventure

Challenge #227: Mortal Mutant Powers

Challenge #228: Slight Technical Hitch

Challenge #229: One Stormy Evening in a Former Enemy's Tool Closet

Challenge #230: One Gloomy Evening in a Dimly-lit Tavern

Challenge #231: Just Like Bricks Don't

Challenge #232: Love and Hate and Love Again...

Challenge #233: Where Have All the Dinos Gone?

Challenge #234: A Nice, Hot, Cuppa

Challenge #235: Consult the Tea

Challenge #236: STEVEN!

Challenge #237: One Bland Morning in an Infectious Diseases Lab

Challenge #238: The Unstoppable Human

Challenge #239: One Agumentative Walk Following a Bad Spill

Challenge #240: During the Wee Small Hours on a Long-Haul Scavenger Vessel

Challenge #241: A Ghost of a Chance

Challenge #242: Outed!

Challenge #243: Entertaining Angels

Challenge #244: The Guest

Challenge #245: Subverting the Assumptions.

Challenge #246: Rictus

Challenge #247: The Prying Eye

Challenge #248: One Crowded Hour in a BBC Studio

Challenge #249: And What is a Pineapple Anyway?

Challenge #250: Who's There?

Challenge #251: Abandon Hope, Ye Who Enter...

Challenge #252: A Need Like Breath

Challenge #253: Party Zone, Fun City.

Challenge #254: One Skull-cracking Morning in a N'Ozzie Holding Cell

Challenge #255: What is 'Light'?

Challenge #256: A Question of Choice

Challenge #257: The Power of the Pointer

Challenge #258: The Houyhnhnms Fandom

Challenge #259: One Dull Morning in a General Supplies Store

Challenge #260: What is 'Painting'?

Challenge #261: It Doesn't Mean What You Think It Means...

Challenge #262: The Path of Love is Rough...

Challenge #263: Unexpected Divinity

Challenge #264: One Stuffy Hour in a Remote Meeting Hall

Challenge #265: Miss Communication

Challenge #266: Time to Clean the Tank

Challenge #267: What a Nice Zoo. May I Live Here?

Challenge #268: One Turmultuous Afternoon in an Evil Keep

Challenge #269: Paradise Made

Challenge #270: Suck it, Scheherazade!

Challenge #271: A Real Powderkeg

Challenge #272: The Power of Chatter

Challenge #273: Bird Spotting

Challenge #274: Love Cancels Out

Challenge #275: Karma Incorporated

Challenge #276: Draco Persistent

Challenge #277: What's Nice About Prophecies?

Challenge #278: History Q&A

Challenge #279: Trolling at an Intersection

Challenge #280: Didn't Think Things Through

Challenge #281: B-GUD

Challenge #282: Know Your Enemy

Challenge #283: One Smoky Afternoon in a Dive Bar

Challenge #284: Rescued!

Challenge #285: User Interactivity Issue

Challenge #286: What a Wonderful World

Challenge #287: Tough Assignment

Challenge #288: Feel the Burn

Challenge #289: You Know What You Did

Challenge #290: The Thirteenth House

Challenge #291: No Such Thing as Normal

Challenge #292: Don't Let Them Breed

Challenge #293: One Near-Apocalyptic Afternoon in Bloomington, Illinois

Challenge #294: Before She Met Hwell

Challenge #295: One Terrifying Adventure in a Hidden Bunker

Challenge #296: Explaining History

Challenge #297: One Post-Adventure Evening in a Village Tavern

Challenge #298: Non Sequiturs of Doom

Challenge #299: I Love in Spite of You

Challenge #300: Cursed Blessing

Challenge #301: Attitude Problem

Challenge #302: Pupup

Challenge #303: One Dull Afternoon at a Public Crossroads

Challenge #304: After the Game is Over

Challenge #305: Slow Acceptance

Challenge #306: Once Was Lost

Challenge #307: Depth Charge Demir

Challenge #308: The Tenant

Challenge #309: This Old Haunted Mansion

Challenge #310: Unwelcome Help

Challenge #311: One Very Bad Day

Challenge #312: Self-Aware Adventurer

Challenge #313: Inexplicable In-Jokes

Challenge #314: "Surprise" Party

Challenge #315: Economy Exorcism

Challenge #316: Afoot in the Grove

Challenge #317: Ashes to Ash...

Challenge #318: Fidelity

Challenge #319: One Entertaining Evening in the Local Theatre

Challenge #320: The Way to Win is Not to Play

Challenge #321: Subtle(n)...

Challenge #322: Joint Custody

Challenge #323: Eventual Amity

Challenge #324: For a Dog to Tear

Challenge #325: Angels Unawares

Challenge #326: Desperate Measures

Challenge #327: Reset... Reset...

Challenge #328: In the Middle of a Faery Tale

Challenge #329: First Impressions

Challenge #330: One Miserable Evening in a Wave of the Future Science Outpost

Challenge #331: The Ambassador... the Hat

Challenge #332: The Pros and Cons of Cute

Challenge #333: Santa Claws

Challenge #334: Touch Feast

Challenge #335: They've Been Hiding up There For Ages

Challenge #336: A Reason to Sing

Challenge #337: Out in the Rain

Challenge #338: One Slow Afternoon at Unsuitable Food Eat

Challenge #339: One Good Apple

Challenge #340: Pursued Knowledge

Challenge #341: One Lazy Afternoon in Shayde's Entertainment Lounge

Challenge #342: When Realities Collide

Challenge #343: Ah, My Old Enemy...

Challenge #344: An Unsettling Necessity

Challenge #345: Urban Swashbuckler

Challenge #346: A Miracle by the Riverside

Challenge #347: Epic Levels of Pettiness

Challenge #348: It Used to be a Good Shortcut...

Challenge #349: Found Divinity

Challenge #350: Haunted Model

Challenge #351: Dir Satan...

Challenge #352: One Early Dawn Ceremony Far From His Master's Tower

Challenge #353: The Cosmic Balldance

Challenge #354: Past, Present and Future

Challenge #355: One Inconvenient Mid-morning in a Haunted House

Challenge #356: Catch of the Day

Challenge #357: Sympathy for the Demons

Challenge #358: The Third Strike

Challenge #359: Here There Be Dragon Nesting Grounds

Challenge #360: Registering as Immortal

Challenge #361: One Little Slip

Challenge #362: Slip of the Tongue

Challenge #363: But What Does it Mean?

Challenge #364: Selat Yriaf (1)

Challenge #365: Selat Yriaf (2)

You Made It!

About the Author

Challenge #001: The Better Part of Valour

Person #1: A 'strategic withdrawal' is running away. But with dignity.

Person #2: So lay in a course and let's get the dignified hell out of here.

Human ships. A fleet's worth. Just hanging around in space, as one of their own authors was wont to say, in precisely the way that bricks don't.

The crew of the Expendable Question could instantly tell that these vessels had been made by humans. They showed a deathworlder's evident disregard for basic safety.

"Sir?" said science officer K'cops. "Might I recommend a strategic withdrawal?"

Captain Mij was busy staring, transfixed, at the view screen. "Very carefully, if you please." Her hands were shaking. "Passive scanners only, gas thrusters only. Do not do a single thing to earn their attention."

"Aye, Sir," said Ulus, at the helm. She even moved to manipulate her controls carefully.

It was as if the entire bridge crew were holding their collective breaths.

Lieutenant Aruhu, the only male on the bridge, focussed his attention on the ear-bud that was near-permanent equipment as a comms officer. "I'm monitoring their communications, Sir. There's no signal whatsoever. No radiation... nothing."

"Best to be safe and certain, Lieutenant," said Captain Mij. "Let's be sure we're out of scanner range before we engage the big engines."

"Aye, Sir."

Probes, sent much later, would verify that this particular patch of space was a dumping ground for decommissioned terran space vessels.

Captain Mij refused to feel silly about it. Those were deathworlder ships. For all she knew, they were rigged to explode.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #002: Buggier Than a Backyard Barbie

You know, the only good thing about [operating system] is that even the viruses have compatibility issues.

Yusslisstek BSOS had only one advantage over other, more stable systems. It was almost completely immune to any kind of virus, trojan, spyware, malware or worm ever concocted by the devious minds of hackers anywhere.

This was mainly because BSOS was a collection of kludges held together by the willpower of the coders and, some suspected, dark sorcery.

It would certainly explain why, when it was installed, the cooling fans of the hapless computer would soon sound like eldritch chanting.

And if it wasn't for the invasion of the Yobsidith, BSOS would never have gained fame. All it took was Junior Technician Tammy convincing them that that OS was all they needed to conquer the world.

It took all of twenty minutes before the Yobsidith fleet caught fire.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #003: A Short, Sharp Shock

"It occurs to me...your inability to use the brain evolution granted you is none of my fucking concern."

(There's a difference between being differently abled and BEING WILFULLY IGNORANT)

[AN: Oh, don't I know it. Just look at the majority of the Republican Party, anyone wealthy enough to never worry about bills, or Tony Abbott]

They'd carried through with it. The police, who he paid for with his taxes, had done little but make sure a car cruised by his mansion, once a day. And it wasn't even on time. He would have been far better off paying for an independent security detail. But then, he'd trusted his taxes to work for him.

Then again, They, whoever They really were, had got him while he was in the bathroom.

And now he was in the mud and filth of a half-filled pothole. In an alley that was strewn with garbage, offal, and faeces.

Urien Peel allowed himself three seconds of bemused bawling before he found the strength to at least pull himself out of the noisome puddle. What he could see of the sky was grey. There was no indication of where he was or how to get back to Nirvana Estates.

"You're going to have to sell that suit, friend," said a voice from the debris. What he'd thought was another mouldy pile of garbage turned out to be a Noper located somewhere within a baggy, knitted... thing... that he hoped was at least warm. It certainly didn't look to be good for anything else. Especially the general health of the area.

It would take him some subsequent weeks to learn that the unhealthy-looking colouration of that garment was the product of random dye, and not the mildew and filth that seemed to abound in the area she called Lower Skunge.

But, right now, he tried to recoil without stepping in something that would leave a stain.

The Noper in the tattered tarpaulin tent just giggled. "Relax, friend. If I'd have meant to roll you, you'd never have known it. Been watching over you. Should be grateful."

"How do I know you're not the one who put me here?"

More laughter that showed off, not horrible and yellowing teeth, but starkly white and well-kept dentition. "Friend, does it look to you like I have the resources to bust into Elysium or Nirvana or Shangri-La or wherever you're from and hijack your overfed ass?" She moved, standing up slowly. Revealing that most of her apparent bulk was insulation. "Naw, friend, you were dropped off by the Karmic Re-Alignment Society. KRAS. They got themselves something of a Robin Hood scheme going on."

She must have weighed sixty-five kilos, sopping wet. And she sure didn't have any kind of physical advantage.

"Robin Hood?"

"Yeah. But in this case, it's steal the rich, make 'em poor, and see if they don't live long enough to change their ways. I go by Angel. 'Case you're wonderin'."

"I'm Supreme Senator Urien—"

"Oh, I know who you are, Mr Peel. Everyone in Lower Skunge knows who you are." Another surprising smile. "You're the asshole who wants to nuke the poor. You goin' nuke yourself, now, Mr Peel?"

"I'm not poor! I have Quintillions! All I have to do is snap my fingers to the right people and I'm back in charge of your sorry ass."

"Well, if you want to get to the right people alive..." said Angel. "I strongly recommend you engage in some protective camouflage. People're gonna notice that suit. That suit says you have money. Hell, there's some folks here in Skunge who'd skin you just for your buttons."

He didn't doubt her. He knew the criminal element was rife in the Poverty Quarter. "Why haven't you?"

"Because my best interests lie in you seeing how the other half lives. If you've been there... you're not likely to be nasty to them as is still there."

She lead him on a labyrinthine journey, through the Swap Markets where he traded clothing from the skin up ("Keep the socks, friend. Socks is hard to come by.") for far more disreputable wear and some face paints ("These'll change your face until the beard comes in.") as well as some basic hygiene products("It's worth it to brush every day. Trust these teeth.") and a large assortment of gewgaws that went into a voluminous sack ("They arrest you for having cash, down here.").

"Why should they arrest you for having money?" he asked over a bowl of something that, while not the fare he was used to, was at least warm and promised to fill his belly. It was definitely not vegan or good for his waistline.

"Evidence of drugs," said Angel. She ate as if she didn't expect another chance to. With the bowl right under her mouth and very little time wasted in getting the food inside her. "Any money is proof that you been dealin' drugs in Lower Skunge. They don't 'spect you to earn any other way. And if'n you're pretty enough, it's evidence of prostitution."

He remembered campaigning for those laws, in an effort to wipe out the drug trade and prostitution. The two major sins of the Nopers. He hadn't expected that law to ever hurt himself, and not just because he wasn't involved in either crimes.

It went like that for months, as his beard grew and the face-paints flaked away.

To get money, one had to be registered for employment. To be registered, one had to pass a written test (Urien hadn't held a pen since he left elementary, and many of the reading and comprehension tests had words that baffled him) and have obtained previous work for cash (which he could be arrested for holding) as well as passing a physical.

The last part was a sticking point for Urien. They failed him for eating fast food, which was the only food he could legally obtain. Even the work trucks that sent him out for sweaty, back-breaking labor in the fields didn't pay him in the fresh, healthy, natural food that his party insisted was available to everyone.

"Don't they see how many corners I'm backed into?" he ranted over the evening fire.

"The word you're looking for," said Angel, "is 'we're'. We're backed into corners. We're forced to decide whether to do something illegal and get executed, or to keep legal and starve. Even this fire could get us arrested if we were in the wrong place."

And that was how he learned that the fire brigade for the Poor Quarter was forcing people who had homes to freeze in the winter. The homes of the Poor Quarter were bleak, concrete cubes that were lucky to have a door. There was no heat and no chance of trying to be warm without lighting a fire. And fires indoors (whether or not there was a door) were an offence punishable by life-term imprisonment for the family, and death for the fire-lighter.

The good news - according to Angel - was that the fire brigade enforced this law by district, and the cold families would huddle together around fires in other districts.

And, once in a great while, the better part of an unmonitored district would go up in flames (the cheap concrete was re-enforced with wood fibre and flammable chemicals) and the fire brigade would insist on stricter laws and more funding.

Urien had been all for handing them whatever they wanted. It had been his opinion that the Nopers were too stupid to know what was good for them. Now he understood what they were up against.

Three months after he woke up in a puddle, Angel lead him to The Wall. The fifty-foot tall barrier between the Poor Quarter and at least the middle class. It was telling that he had been poor long enough to fear the armoured and armed police force.

Angel downed her bag five feet beyond the bright yellow line. "This is as far as I go, friend. I'm pretty much as illegal as you can get while still being a citizen. Clean your face. Announce who you are in a loud, clear voice. Hold your hands high. And... you're gonna have to leave your sack."

Urien nodded. Carrying a sack past the yellow line was like carrying a visible bomb anywhere near a public figure. The contents of the sack would at least buy Angel some meals. Maybe even a nearly new pair of socks.

She helped him shave. One last act of kindness from a woman he barely knew. Angel kept herself to herself, and only showed him the ruin his laws had wrought.

It was intense, showing the police force who he was. Getting arrested and processed anyway. Getting interrogated.

Learning that, at least legally, Angel was really a man. And since she was also brown of skin, that meant she was a Dangerous Element... and therefore had to be rounded up and punished for public safety. She must have known this. But she helped him anyway.

And after that, months and months of deprogramming. He learned, in the end, to repeat what was told to him. But he could never un-see what he had seen.

They wouldn't let him back into politics. The people who counted, the people who paid their taxes, wouldn't vote for anyone who had 'gone soft' on the poor and criminal.

All he could really do, was divert his wealth towards helping those poor souls on the other side of The Wall. Which meant funnelling his funds towards bands of fellow bleeding-heart hippie whack-jobs trying their utmost to help the disadvantaged. After the inevitable divorce, of course.

Funds that included a sizeable monthly stipend for the Karmic Re-Alignment Society.

Every little bit helped.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #004: Might or Flight

"You suggested something diplomatic," [Person] noted.

"What, I can't be diplomatic?" I asked, affronted. "I'm extremely diplomatic. I'm just brimming with diplomacy."

"Of the Admiral Perry variety," [Person] said.

"Gunship diplomacy is still diplomacy," I protested.

"This is all very well for definitive terms," reminded Captain Mij. "But when it's us versus the humans, perhaps a more delicate version of diplomacy might be called for."

"They're closing on us," noted K'cops. "Five thousand Rels."

"Also, Admiral," said the captain. "Gunship diplomacy is universally deplorable. You open fire on a weaker party, and you are reviled as a bully. You open fire on a stronger party and you're lucky if there's anything left to inter for a funeral. You open fire on an evenly matched party and you take your chances. Rattling sabres only really works until someone's smart enough or stupid enough to call your bluff... which leads you straight back to the previous three choices. I told you when you started this 'pleasure cruise' of yours that I won't be a bully and I'll be a blob of grease only after you volunteer. Well you bloody volunteered, Admiral! Shall I throw you to the humans and take my chances or let us all become vapour in space?"

The Admiral, already slick with sweat, murmured a noncommittal noise.

"Four thousand, five hundred Rels," intoned K'cops.

"I have a translation," said Arahu. "According to the computer, the humans are angry because the Admiral opened fire on an unarmed transit shuttle. Full of school children."

"Best effort message back," said Captain Mij. "Match speeds with us, and we will send you the individual responsible."

"MUTINY!" Bawled Admiral D'wolbarh. "Insubordination! I'll have your stripes for this!"

Captain Mij sighed. "That would only work if you were assigned command of this vessel, Admiral. And only then if you weren't retired. It's a big, bad universe, Admiral. Much has changed since your days of Conquer by Command. For a start, we met a bigger, badder, meaner group of Deathworlders who would literally eat us alive if we tried the... idiocy... you did today. My best bet for a continuing peace between us and them is to gift-wrap the asshole who pressed the big, red button."

"You can't do this to me!"

"I can and I will, even if I have to stun you and cart you over piece by piece, Sir." Captain Mij discretely hit the button to summon security before she stood up and advanced on the older woman. Backing her towards the vertical transit. "You opened fire without knowing the situation. You opened fire in direct opposition to the standing orders from Space Fleet Command. You opened fire, Sir, on an unarmed vehicle full of minors. I can and will do anything I please to you and Space Fleet Command will give me a firkin medal. Assuming we survive."

"Human fleet stabilising at four thousand Rels distance, Captain."

The security goons arrived, and Admiral D'wolbarh tried to fight. It was pathetic, especially considering the fact that Security was equipped with Stun Sticks as standard issue.

Captain Mij didn't have to follow Security and the limp and twitching form of Admiral D'wolbarh to the best escape pod to fire her, alive, towards the waiting human fleet. She did not, having followed Security to the pod, make sure the Admiral was safely buckled in. Nor did she have to press the button that ensured a non-emergency release.

But she did all of that, anyway. And then she watched from a local screen display as the humans took the pod, the Admiral, and then took their leave. She watched until the human fleet was just a pinpoint of light in a sea of other pinpoints.

On one hand, it was a lucky escape. On the other hand, it was the definitive loss of a friend and mentor.

Captain Mij dismissed the Security detail and adjourned to her quarters. She had a letter to write to the Admiral's husband and children.

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Challenge #005: Do We Need Them?

A friend and I, up in tropical Queensland on holiday \- land of my birth. We are being buzzed by flies large enough to need Air Traffic Control, and slowly being drained of blood by the clouds of mozzies. The following conversation does not reflect any of my actual views. It was borne of frustration and humour.

Me: -slap- Hey, do we need flies for anything? Like, do they perform a vital role in the ecosystem or something?

Friend (amused): Yeah, I think they do.

Me: Soo... I'm not allowed to plot their extinction?

Friend: No plotting species extinctions. I think that's a valid blanket rule.

Me: -slap- What about mozzies, do we need mozzies for anything? I mean, unlike flies who are mostly just -slap- annoyances, mozzies carry malaria and denghue and ross river fevers and stuff - are the benefits they provide in their -slap- ecosystem role outweighed be being probably the most dangerous macroscopic animal on the planet, gram for gram?

Friend: I thought we had this rule.

Me: Aww... c'mon, just one little extinction? They'd hardly even notice, they have like -slap- five synapses.

Friend: No. I refer you to the rule.

Me: Not fair. Our common ancestors got to make mammoths and sabretooths and all these other cool things extinct, all I'm asking for is one family of -slap- - freaking annoying \- insects. :poke tongue and quickly retract it lest it become a landing pad for insects:

Friend: And wouldn't you prefer it if you could see some of those species?

Me: You're only saying this because -slap- they're mostly ignoring you. I forgot how bad it is here, that's the only reason you could talk me into this - I was quite fine in sub-tropical areas, thankyouverymuch. AH! Goddammit that was a horsefly!

(Sorry if that was too long)

AN: For Americans and other non-Australians, the horseflies we get here are not limited to flies that bother horses. We have the ones you could plausibly fit with a saddle and tack. They're vicious bastards that can get to over an inch long and feature bright yellow pinstripes from head to tail. They're not venomous, per se, but they can make you regret your place in life and their place on your leg for as long as two hours. And, according to [ this article, yes we do need mozzies.]

The influence of man, one author said, is so widespread that he doesn't notice he was never there.

To put it in more scientifically accurate terms: introduce humans to an environment and watch the trophic cascade happen.

The first year of Wiwazheer was an education in trophic cascades for everyone.

To make room for the colony's hobbit-holes and Central's Anthill science complex, large volumes of trees, shrubs and other plant life had to go. There was loads of it elsewhere, of course. Part of the reason why it took six months to clear it all was that everyone was making absolutely certain that they weren't causing an extinction by accident.

But what they did do, Susan noted, was cause a very localised deforestation, rendering entire populations of birds, bugs, lizards and amphibians homeless. Very few of them died for science, for which Susan was secretly glad.

And where the predators are away, the prey will play. Which, from a human point of view, lead to clouds upon clouds of locally-spawned insects. The air was sometimes so thick with them that it was hard to tell night from day.

And some of them were the kind of insects that no human would miss. The blood-suckers, the stingers, and the ones that loved you like a long-lost sibling. And, of course, the ones that liked to breed inside food.

Susan could only watch as her parents and all the other adults donned face masks and eye goggles and just soldiered on through the thick, living blizzard made of billions of winged bodies.

But the plague of bugs was relatively short-lived. Birds, lizards and amphibians soon caught on that there was a feast available in the burgeoning expanse of Wiwazheer. They were very un-used to humans and didn't know what these balding, upright apes could have meant to their species. Some of the littler kids lined the windows and laughed at how the birds and other insectivorous species would casually use humans as a roosting spot before launching towards another cloud of bugs.

For Susan, it meant that her parents were no longer covered in bug bites at interviews through the safety partition. They were covered in insectivore crap instead.

"Do we really need to let the ecology settle?" Susan begged. "Look at you. You just got over the bug bites and you're covered in potential pathogens."

"We came here with the ideal of living with the ecology, not fighting against it," said Momma.

"We're already doing enough damage by clearing this much forest," added Dad. "The rest is just the critters being themselves. You can't hate them for that."

It was a hard lesson to learn, she knew. Humans were used to eliminating that which annoyed them. Or taming it to the point where it was unrecognisable as the original species.

But it was a lesson she took to heart. And why she fought so hard against her instincts when she first saw the image of a Numidid on Doctor Theresa's screens. And why, when she saw one in person for the first time, told hir to move away for hir own safety.

And why, in the long run, she became Ambassador.

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Challenge #006: Fighting Words

"Veni Ad Me Frat", Latin for "Come At Me, Bro".

Shayde sighed as Rael caught her out again. "No? How about 'non me tracagnum'?"

"Don't beat me," said Rael. "How about you stop pulling your Hackmeyer strategies, lay off the BS, and talk like a scientist to these people?"

"It's hard," Shayde whined. "I'm too used tae no' being listened to. Too used tae being dismissed oot a' hand. Too used tae tha' jammy bastard takin' all the credit jus' fer translatin'. Badly. He's left 'is mark, the spavined sod."

Rael was ready for this, he'd done his homework. "Fair enough. Imagine, instead, that you're giving your presentation to," he consulted his reference notes, "Adam Savage, Jamie Hyneman, William Nye and Steven Hawking."

Shayde glared at him. "Aye, leave the most important one fer last, why don't ye?"

Odd. He thought he hadn't. Evidently, more homework was necessary. "And anyone else I may have missed."

Shayde re-consulted her e-ledger. "I'm goin' have tae re-write all'a this..."

He breathed out. At last. The point he had been trying to get across for half an hour. But, on the plus side, he was being paid for this.

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Challenge #007: Draco Concilium

Dragon Convention, Not just European please, there are Chinese, Pernese, Cartoon dragons, Reluctant and Mu Shu, Better stick to the Mythical and Literary type. Have Fun. — knitnan

The place was huge. It had to be. Some attendees needed to break the rules of physics just to exist[1]. And even a relatively small number of attendees managed to make a crowd.

Neg'ret waited patiently behind a Rainbow Serpent making out with a Quetzalcoatl and tried to pay more attention to the singing Luck Dragon dancing in the darkening sky. Luck Dragons had the best voices. Mortals frequently likened it to the ringing of a gold bell. But mortals didn't have the sensitivity of Dragons.

His personal sense of pitch and tone that made him perfectly suited for his day job in the mortal world. But today was not a day for mortal things.

"Squishy," rumbled a voice behind him. A claw poked the small of his back. "What are you doing here, two-leg? Are you in the buffet?"

He checked over his shoulder. One of the greater dragons of Europe. A snub-nosed one. And, judging by the dull appearance of hir scales, one of the inevitable ones about to start the traditional convention plague. This was a Dragon who couldn't smell what was right in front of hir.

"I'm a dragon just like you, hombre," said Neg'ret. "I just find this form more convenient." He had been amongst mortals almost too long. While it was still an effort to maintain his human guise, it was starting to be an effort just to become himself. "There's other shapeshifters in the queue. Go bother them."

"What are you gonna do about it, Squishy?" Poke, poke, poke. "I could eat you for a snack."

That did it. Neg'ret relaxed into his true form. Twenty times his mortal size, red of scale and claw, and thoroughly more flexible. And, incidentally, just a smidgen smaller than the infectious European Dragon. "You might want to think twice about snacking on me."

"Ahem," said a rather ordinary-looking man in a suit.

Neg'ret waved. "Hey, Oolong. Sorry about that. Every year, it's the same thing." He absently signed the book and paid his fees. Gold coin, of course. Nothing less would do for dragons.

Oolong checked the signature. "Er. Who is Steve Negrete?"

"Whoops. Mortal name." He crossed it out and signed his true sigil. "I should get out more. The squishies are getting to me."

"It's not entirely unpleasant," murmured Oolong.

Neg'ret waved him a farewell and strode out onto the convention floor. Someone was hawking collectable craw stones. So funny.

[1] I'm looking at you, J.R.R. Tolkein.

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Challenge #008: Havenworlders V Humans

Hypothetically, a universe where keratin (our hair and fingernails) is a rare and valuable resource. Accounting for the sugar walls from a previous story it would potentially be considered a strong, nonreactive material.

Seeing humans with it on must be like watching someone walk around with steel-tipped claws and spun-titanium jewellery. Yeah it's a small fortune but a) the person it's attached to must be scary as all get-out and b) it's practically a weapon in its own right, you're not going to mess with them even if they are carrying enough to finance a small spaceship crew.

Space was dangerous. Just going up there was an exercise requiring years of training, conditioning, and a certain amount of armour. Srisi knew this, because she was obsessed with space. And this... thing... that had landed in her Uncle's fallow paddock had come from space.

Srisi had gone to check the fire, with the special anti-fire suit in her pack and a couple of barrels of fire retardant on the saddles of her mount, Bleerh. But none of that proved necessary, because something by the fire was already putting it out.

She watched from hiding, of course. This creature was immense. Taller than a building, and the craft, half-buried in the soil at the end of a very long furrow, appeared to be made out of metal.

Metal! One of the few substances that could cut pure sucrose, once it had set! The most precious of substances, in a structure big enough to be a city for her fellow Ariaseans. Srisi watched in amazement as it pulled up entire Stonehide trees and ripped them to pieces with its hands.

It took four strong males and special tools to down a Stonehide tree.

This was a monster.

But, instead of going on a rampage, the giant creature built a controlled fire and started talking to itself.

As the light faded, Srisi realised that it was inside metal armour. That did not make it any less terrifying.

She turned tail and ran for her Uncle.

*

Once inside the sterile environment, a converted hangar for immense blimp-ships, the Hoomin female was only too glad to shed her metal suit.

Srisi found herself the next best thing to an expert on the Hoomin despite avoiding contact with her. Srisi stayed on the other side of a re-enforced Plex barrier while she and the Hoomin took turns trying to write to each other. Backwards.

So far, they were up to numbers.

Dot was one. Line was two. Triangle, three... and so on. After four, the Hoomin made stars with five and six, but seven was a square and a triangle, one inside the other.

They were obviously limited by their artistic skills.

Words came through, of course. Some were easier than others. Hoomins could eat sucrose. She said it was sweet. Hoomins grew keratin. Naturally! So far, the Ariaseans had only manufactured keratin in labs, and there was a certain amount of stunned amazement to watch the Hoomin casually clip her fingers, toes and hair into the special basket before it went through a rigorous cleansing process.

A small fortune in keratin on a weekly basis.

Srisi's nation of Yarine went from an also-ran to a major contender in the space of a season. All because the Hoomin clipped her nails.

Her name was Lyn. Srisi spent as much time learning to say it as Lyn did trying to pronounce hers. They became friends, of a sort. Even though they could never touch.

The bacteria that inhabited Lyn's skin was deadly to Ariaseans. As were the enzymes in Lyn's saliva. Srisi learned a new word. Deathworlder. Someone who had undergone evolution on a planet that was actively trying to kill them.

Srisi encouraged the efforts to replicate Lyn's hair growing capabilities in the lab. Cheered when they had nailed down the keratin nails. But when she found out they were trying to weaponise Lyn's bacteria and enzymes...

That's when she hatched the escape plan.

Lyn could do weird things with her body. Including making it appear as if she could detach her thumb from her hand. It was that trick that had the guards in panic attacks, and allowed them to make it all the way to Lyn's restored ship.

It was for the best that Srisi stayed behind.

Space was dangerous, and Lyn was proof.

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Challenge #009: Fighting Against the Stereotype

 http://boundlessinspiration.tumblr.com/post/106944373313/hurryupmerlin-thegirlwithgoldeyes-imagine-a

"Bolin! Hey," Sasha smiled for her. "It's so rare to see you off night shift."

"Yeah. Tell me about it." Safely indoors and out of direct sunlight, Bolin shed her hood and took off her sunglasses.

Sasha burst out laughing. "What's with the war paint?"

"Zinc oxide is the only sunblock I can wear. It comes in teeny-tiny pots and a range of colours. None of which match. So... Kabuki dragon." She gestured at her own face. "I need complete coverage if I'm to get through the day without blisters."

"Damn," Sasha shook her head. "I keep forgetting about your sensitivities. I mean, apart from the monthly trip to the ER because of your garlic bread binge."

"Still. Totally. Worth it," Bolin laughed. She had a careful smile. Never wide or open. Always guarded. It had to be. Smiling too much might make people realise something. "Now... What's this about all hands on deck?"

"The Closet Monster Ripper sent in a note saying that the next victim was already staked out."

"If that's a real letter. I told the Chief it didn't smell right."

"Your nose is never wrong..."

"Correction, my nose is wrong one day in the month, and that day is the day after Garlic Bread Day. Which I have to miss out on thanks to this city search. Let me guess. We have a BOLO out on any parked vans with someone inside, outside of residential areas."

"Yyyyyup." Sasha finished her paperwork with a flourish. "We're out in five. Any of your famous inspirations?"

"The ripper's too smart to be visible. If I were to guess, I'd say the perp scopes out the houses from more than one invisible sources. We're not looking for a parked van. We're looking for suspicious joggers or hidden webcams where nobody would look." Bolin toured in front of the boards. One was full of kidnapped children. "And the next victim is going to be on the lower East side."

"What? How can you tell?"

Bolin lined up the children on the timeline. Hispanic, Native American, Black, Asian, White. Hispanic, Black, Asian, White. Black, Black, Black White. "Our perp picks at least three lower-class families before going after a more affluent white family. He's just hit a gated community last week. If we're going to find him, we're going to find him in a low-rent area that the police either avoid, or go in like they're going to war."

Sasha boggled at the timeline. "That fucking shit... he's using our own racism against us..."

The hunt was on. And, if she was really lucky, she could drain this bastard and get away with it. Something about pedo blood made them extra tasty...

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Challenge #010: Not Quite MST3K

"Guys! Guys! I have a loaded machine pistol in my hand and I have no idea what I'm doing!"

Shayde giggled. "Awright. That one had a point. The goal is tae make fun of the movie, not the common hollywood tropes, ye ken."

"It's still fun," argued a SPOEn who called herself Molly Ringwald.

"Aye, it is tha'." She pointed at the screen. "BOOM! Take a shot!" She took a shot of mini M&M's and cackled as the fight scene began to unroll.

"They're wrestling. Do we sing Blue Danube?"

"Oh aye! Da dum, da dum, da daaaaa..."

Rael observed it all from a safe distance. The uneasy peace between Shayde and the SPOEns largely depended on an MST3K night at the Retro Cinema. As long as anyone didn't launch into their spiel... things might actually settle down for a change.

Rael began to wish he knew of any deities that did spec work.

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Challenge #011: You Stole What?

To paraphrase Die Hard:

"Now I have a Death Star. Ho Ho Ho."

"This is your claim. A dwarf planet in a Sargasso. Big whoop."

"It's not a dwarf planet," said Lenn Ybalius. She was busy watching her controls and making certain she piloted her way in on certain vectors.

"Oh, you hijacked a moon," singsonged Prella. She had a low opinion of her business partner. "That's above your usual standards. I'm impressed."

"That's no moon," cooed Lenn, and pressed a remote.

The doors opened, shedding a light cloud of dust and revealing a fully operational battle station within.

"You're kidding me," said Prella.

"You know that Long Haul wormhole that nobody's ever been all the way down?"

"...yeah..."

"I'm nobody." Lenn grinned. "That thing was on the other end of it and I managed to pilot it all the way over to my already-claimed Sargasso."

The bay was large enough to fit more than just their little vessel. Heck, there were some stations out there that were smaller than this drydock bay.

"It was working when I found it. Hell of a power system. Plasma reactors and all still going after who knows how long. All I had to do was install some atmosphere and a food system and boom. Home sweet home. And all the space you could need. Hell, I even put a safety grill over that one vent that's like an achilles' heel to the whole place."

"Achilles heel," Prella repeated. "An area of critical vulnerability. You... salvaged the entire thing?"

"Yeah, the weapons system needed like five hundred people to operate it, so I just pulled that thing to pieces for the salvage value. Didn't need it anyway. Nobody knows it's here except us." Lenn smiled as she opened the doors to her vessel. "Merry christmas."

"There'd be... no limits. We could have all the children we want."

"And decorate how we want. And the scrounge from the Sargasso is literally pulled towards our doors. Life of luxury, babe. Just like I promised."

Prella was speechless, wandering around the pristine halls in a daze. "I take back every single mean thing I ever said about you."

"I knew you didn't mean it. Come on. I'll show you the executive suite. Aka our rooms."

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Challenge #012: A Requiem for Glory

The grass is always greener on the other side of the nuclear war.

Sometimes due to glowing with radiation, granted.

"War," said the Elder. "We had to fight it, of course. Those evil bastards on the other continent were going to destroy our way of life. So we had to destroy theirs."

"Um," said Krii, raising her hand.

"Yes, what?"

"Did they know that was why we attacked? Because, um, it might explain why they wanted a war with us... maybe?"

"We never attacked," snarled the Elder. "We pre-emptively defended ourselves from a virulent enemy who would have destroyed everything we hold dear! Those inhuman bastards didn't even know how to treat women right. They insisted on making them cover up or the girls would get attacked."

Krii, already holding one Bad Chit for having a skirt two millimetres shorter than it 'should have been', asked a dangerous question. "How were they attacked?"

"Acid thrown in their faces. Beatings... horrible, horrible beatings... tied up and shackled if they put a foot wrong. And a man who married her owned her! He could do anything he liked with her, just shy of murder! Now aren't you glad you live here with us? We let you vote!"

"Um," said Krii. "But... We have to cover up. And we're hit if someone says we're bad even when we're following the rules. And... Daddy owns Mom. And she can't say when she wants Daddy to do his business on her. And he's allowed to keep her on a chain in the kitchen... and Mom has to vote how Daddy tells her..."

"That's entirely different and you know it. Or are you a Sympathiser?"

Krii shrank down in her place, holding her skirt as far over her knees as she could make it go. "No? I just... I just want to understand how it's different..." She added the good girl words, "I'm very stupid, but I want to learn."

"You're lucky we're the good guys," rumbled the Elder. "The difference is we're protecting you! Those dangerous animals are lurking on every street corner. Subversives set to ruin us! Agents of evil everywhere! They'd think nothing of hurting a girl because they thought she wasn't behaving right."

Okay. So... just like her Daddy. "How can we tell the difference? I think I know some bad men who might be Agents... and I want to be sure I'm right so I don't wind up in bad girl prison."

The Elder grinned. "Ah. So you think you've spotted some Subversives... You're old enough to support The Party, so I should tell you everything you need to know about fighting for your country, the women's way!"

Krii dutifully wrote down the indicators of a Subversive. Neatly and clearly. This was important information, vital to the upkeep of the nation.

But it didn't make sense.

Every man she knew filled out this checklist to a T. And some of the girls, too.

And they also filled the checklist for a proper Citizen and Party Member.

Krii dared her friend Lel to ask the last question. A girl who asked too many questions was a girl who was Trouble.

"What if someone fills both lists?"

The entire girls' class got hard labour for that one. None of them understood why. It was a perfectly legitimate question.

It was that day, toiling in the hot sun, that the Girls' Patriotic Liberation Front was born. And it was going to cause a lot of problems for The Party.

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Challenge #013: Comparative...Let's Say 'Humor'

Shortly after encountering the Numidid, someone makes the inevitable "Numididn't" joke.

"I am Numidid," said Ambassador Su'sin, offering her hand.

The newly-minted Ambassador for the Consortium of Steam immediately struck a pose and said, "Oh nu-mi-di-en't..."

One of the other members of the Consortium of Steam smacked hirself in the face at that. "We're being ambassadors, today..."

"I don't understand," pleaded Su'sin.

"It's human comedy," explained Ambassador Stiiv, also of Amity. "Remember the archival stuff in your stereotypes module?"

"Oh," Su'sin literally climbed up Stiiv to perch on her shoulder and said. "Let me try to get it right," she fluffed herself up. "Yes she nu-mi-di-id."

It was one of the rare cases that an alien species got along with the Consortium of Steam straight from the introduction. And one of the cases that caused the Galactic Alliance to argue about the infectious nature of human insanity.

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Challenge #014: Baldie

B'rka, the adventures of a goose Numidid with no feathers (For the prompt inspiration, see Borka)

The chick had been left in her nest. It was weak and cold and hungry. Serka knew that she didn't have the time to call emergency services. And, since it was night, there was a high likelihood that they wouldn't turn up until morning. By which time it would be far too late for the newly-hatched keet.

She could see why her mother had abandoned her. There was no down on the tiny keet. No indication of any part of her skin that was meant to grow feathers. Not even a hint of down.

Serka loaned the trembling infant her warmth and regurgitated some of her dinner. She knew what the officials would do for this poor child. For the good of the flock. Serka could not bring herself to do that to a baby.

There was only one place that would welcome such an unusual keet. Which lead to the utterly sane decision to emigrate to Toxic Island, the definitive insane destination for a single mother with a child.

*

B'rka knew she was different. When others fledged, her human friends worked on improvements for her artificial wings.

For summer and winter, she chose clothes. And not just the typical Numidid vest and leg-wraps. She had clothes that covered all the areas where other keets had feathers. Some were bright and happy, while others were dull or matched the pattern of her Mama.

There was another difference. Other keets had as many as seven mothers. B'rka just had one. And no father. It was a lonely house in the middle of the Human city, Huatthehell, but they shared it with a dog and they had friendly neighbours and everyone knew her.

When she was smaller, B'rka would ride their dog, Harg, but now he was strictly for pulling her cart. Harg was a lot faster than even the fastest of her age-mates. And the cart was made specially to avoid any kind of accident.

But as time went by, B'rka could see, more and more, how she was different to the other Numidid. Her own name was an accidental syllable away from the word for 'bald', and some of the meaner keets risked expulsion from school for continuing to use it.

B'rka never let the names stop her. With the help of human intervention, she could glide just as well as any normal keet. She could glide so well that others accused her of cheating when she reached a race-point ahead of one of her feathered age-mates. And she could certainly climb faster than anyone she knew.

But her real passion was science. No other field would take her in just for the love of it. No other field welcomed her under its metaphorical wing like science did.

And, when it came down to the barest of essentials, B'rka wanted to understand why she had been born without feathers.

But her personal anomaly lead to so much other information. How heat retention worked, the genes behind hyper-plumage, how and why follicles appeared at all, the essential role of the body mite in immunity procedures... it went on an on.

Science loved her back. She learned as the humans had learned, that by studying the unusual, one gained understanding of the normal.

And because of her accomplishments, she was among the first to campaign for an end to mutation-related infanticide.

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Challenge #015: Unlikely Meetings

Kurt Wagner meets Francoeur. How do Todd and Emile get on?

It was the first show that the audience ran out on. But, to be completely fair, it was the first one that included the surprise appearance of a blue, fuzzy demon and some kind of humanoid amphibian thing.

Carlotta was ticked, of course. Especially at the fact that both creatures could stick to walls and ceilings, far out of reach of the diminutive cabaret hostess. There was something of a flap about what to do.

Then it turned out that the fuzzy demon spoke French. And German, Swiss, Dutch, a smattering of Italian, and enough Russian and Spanish to cuss in.

Most of which he rattled through as Francoeur approached, bare-handed and bare-footed so he, too, could cling to nonstandard surfaces.

"We're mostly harmless, I promise!"

Francoeur startled with a dovelike coo.

The froggy one, now hiding behind the demon, rattled off something that could have been English in a kind light, but was simply unintelligible to everyone else in the room. The demon could understand him and immediately snapped, "Clappe!"

There were intense, topsy-turvy negotiations by the chandelier, and then Francoeur set them up at a table.

"Yofuzzywhattheheck?" mumbled the frog.

The blue demon - named Kurt - explained in two languages that he and his associate - named Todd - were temporarily temporal refugees. They came from the very far distant future of 2012. One hundred years in the future. And possibly another dimension, as a seven-foot-tall singing flea would definitely have caught a Professor Xavier's attention.

Which lead to the question of how to house them until such time as whatever brought them there decided to take them back.

Neither of the mutants were at all musical. Kurt had physical limitations and Todd had more affinity with mechanical things than anything that made music. But they were acrobatic and, after a few training sessions, came up with something that sort of fit in with the rest of the cabaret.

Which lead to the problems of lodging.

Kurt shed. Todd was sticky, and allergic to anything that would help him be clean. Emile came to the rescue and offered his projection room as emergency quarters.

*

"What did you do to my projector?" Emile wailed.

"Uh..." said Todd. "[Got bored an' fixed it.]"

Kurt, of course, provided translations.

"IT WASN'T BROKEN!"

"[Could'a fooled me, yo. That thing was whack. It works way better, now.]" He gave a demonstration, which caused some uproar in the Parisiennes who had wandered in.

The world in general and Paris in particular was not ready for three-dimensional, full hologram technology with surround sound.

Emile, at least, was rather glad to see them return to the realm they started from.

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Challenge #016: What a Voice

Following in from the last one, the musical shenanigans of Francoeur and Kurt.

Three weeks in...

Audiences loved the acrobatics. Carlotta could have done without the post-show bickering, especially now that Todd was picking up enough French to cuss in.

But this time, the froggy mutant slunk off into the depths of backstage, distancing himself from the slightly demonic Kurt.

Carlotta followed him. She didn't understand much English and he didn't understand much French, but she knew instinctively that he needed a mother. And it was backstage, between the flats, that she heard the voice of an angel.

The song was strange to her, but the sentiment was clear. Lonely and missing home.

"...and much have I seen. Dark distant mountains with valleys of green. Vast painted deserts the sun sets on fire. As it carries me back to the Mull of Kintire..."

He almost jumped out of his skin when Carlotta hugged him.

"[I wasn't doin' nuthin',]" said Todd, ineffectively struggling to get free. He wasn't trying at all. Just making a show of wriggling loose for anyone who might be watching.

He wouldn't understand her, but she could at least try to tell him. "Your voice is magic. Don't hide your light under a bushel."

*

Much, much later, when they were done with their cross-time adventures, Todd sidled up to Kurt and asked, "Yo. What's 'Votre voix est magique' mean?"

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Challenge #017: Informed Decision

Keeping the groups that sing "Under Pressure" and "Ice Ice Baby" apart turns out not to be the hard part - the hard part is choosing which area to stay with. Do you want the eerie whispering, or the sudden heart attack?

[AN: For those wondering where this prompt came from, check out story #171 in One Leap Year of Instants, available for whatever you want on Smashwords. Please choose to pay a dollar value for this anthology]

Humans were strange creatures. Norix knew this. When using them as a labor force, one had to be supremely careful about which sort went on what missions. The primary test was to have them listen to a particular, rhythmic bass track, and note whether they screamed, "Pressure!" or whispered, "Ice, ice, baby."

It was simply a matter of stopping fights before they started. Many pieces of Norix's equipment wasn't meant to withstand the slings and arrows of outraged deathworlders.

Which was why she had warning notes on the entrances to the human working areas. For the safety and sanity of her nonhuman employees.

One warning read: Humans make sudden loud noises within.

The other one, the one that was avoided most by both her and her employees, read: Humans whispering rhythmically within.

Loud noises could be dealt with. They could be anticipated. But the whispering... it reached down into the depths of eldritch terrors and grasped the fight-or-flight responses in an iron fist.

Norix held out for an entire Standard Year before she simply stopped hiring the ones that sang Ice Ice Baby.

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Challenge #018: Crazy Apes

http://imgur.com/gallery/IeLuO

something based on this lovely mini-story?

Understanding the entire concept took some time. Earth bombarded the Dracs with popular media. All the stories where someone made a noble sacrifice for the greater good.

How ingrained in us it was that one life for the betterment of others was the good thing to do. How selflessness was a virtue.

The Ambassadors were horrified. Perplexed. Confused. Bemused. And overall, plain confounded.

The Dracs studied us, of course. Examined Earth for the first time since they discovered us. They learned about the human ability to populate an area until overpopulation became a serious threat. About our ability to drain a resource to the point of scarcity and continue draining it whilst living in heavy denial. All whilst preventing the means with which to pursue alternate strategies.

They saw how our females risk their lives and health just to bring more humans into existence. They saw how our planet was a Class Four Deathworld. They saw how many species used the 'populate or perish' model for survival against the odds. And they saw us. A bumbling bunch of balding apes, struggling against the elements, a hostile environment, and each other to gain whatever it was we thought we wanted.

Then the most powerful species in the known universe offered terms of surrender.

Their surrender.

To us.

Decades after they filled the skies with their warships and declared the entire solar system to be a protectorate of the Dracaenin Empire, the Dracs surrendered to us. And many of us still didn't understand what we did.

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Challenge #019: Sensible Economic Decision

"The universe is probably littered with the one-planet graves of cultures which made the sensible economic decision that there's no good reason to go into space - each discovered, studied, and remembered by the ones who made the irrational decision." - Randall Munroe

They had made buildings to be almost indestructible. Yet the plants were still taking over. The animals were still moving in. Highly adaptable omnivores, all of them.

Tier hated finding graveworlds. There was an intense sense of coming there just a little too late. Even when the evidence indicated that they had arrived more or less a century too late. Whatever had happened here, the ecology had taken some significant time to reach the city hearts.

This planet's answer to goats faced off in what was once a city square. Posturing and butting at each other.

There was no cogniscent life left on this world. They'd run all the possible scans. Even people regressed back to the stone age would have shown a sign of their existence.

Now it was up to Tier and her crew to unearth this planet's cause of death.

Data centres, once revived by judicial jiggery-pokery, showed plethoras of information about environmental impact and how profits were more important than the planet's wellbeing. Lots of arguments along the lines of, "When the last plant dies, we will realise that we can't eat money." But of course the profit-making organisations ignored the naysayers, cancelled all efforts to set up colonies elsewhere, and continued on their path to inevitable destruction.

Poorly-researched artificial foods also contributed, causing disease and metabolic failure in the surviving citizens. Monocultures were wiped out by one plague, and the people starved.

Cause of death: Combination trophic cascade disaster, climate change, and disease. Tier wanted to write: Corporate greed into her report... but the Galactic alliance frowned on that ever since they regulated how far bodies corporate could actually go.

They didn't want the corporations who were doing it right to feel bad about themselves.

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Challenge #020: When is a Troll Not a Troll?

*LOUD ANGRY-* Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so used to people getting it wrong it's a reflex by now.

There are certain phrases that are bound to get a reaction from any fandom. Things like, "Star Trek... that's the one with Doctor Spock, right?" or confusing Star Trek with Star Wars. Proclaiming the love for an almost universally-hated character is a good one. And for those who follow All My Daughters, the phrase, "Why aren't there many men in this show?" is always good to get someone ranting about this new invention called 'equality'.

The longer a fandom has been around, the more established the errors that people assume are factual, and the more tired the fandom is of hearing them. And for the human followers of the Consortium of Steam, it's "Didn't one of those girls used to be a guy?"

Shayde was so sick of hearing it that she began to dread checking their steam-powered merchandise site, because all the people who could decipher what she was doing through her eyescreen would inevitably say the wrong thing.

And she'd been a hardcore fan ever since she'd first seen them entertaining on a street corner near Walter Manor. Shortly before one of the Walter Workers broke it up and dragged them away because they had, once again, snuck out of the mansion and grounds to follow their programming.

She'd had lunch at that cafe, every day for a fortnight, just to see them do it again. She'd giggled at their ludicrous fake moustaches and adored their songs. She'd brought her guitar with her and very shyly asked for a jam.

The robots had been eighty-six years old, then. She was twelve. And she'd asked why Rabbit was done up like a boy instead of the girl she really was.

They'd come by the Galactic Alliance the long way. Down a wormhole to set up a new world, and through the years to the twenty-fifth century. Shayde had undergone a rather intense and painful shortcut through ten subjective years of being called a demon.

But still folks said it.

Someone was eyeing her off as she checked the forums for activity. "Can ye be helped?" she challenged.

"That's the Consortium of Steam forum, right? One of the girl bots was misgendered as a guy for over a century, right?"

She took a deep breath for a full-out holler before her brain caught up with what the poor sod had said. As a result, her first three words were hostile. "Yeh ye can—" Damnit. "Sorry. I'm too used tae correcting people. Accidental rant mode. Would ye like tae know more about 'em?"

"I don't know if I have the Time..." the young lady rummaged in her purse.

"Don't ye fret. I consider this one a free service," she offered a seat nearby. "I first met 'em in eighty-two when they were still callin' themselves Colonel Walter's Steam Man Band..."

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Challenge #021: Tea Solves Everything

Apparently there was an old prank tv show that faked an alien landing on an English lady's front lawn. Her immediate reaction was to offer them tea.

Your prompt is the same scenario except it's a real ship and a couple of extraterrestrials who had to make an emergency landing instead of a prank.

Somewhere east of Cricklewood...

There was no fire. Just a sad hissing of water vapour and the gentle 'pink pink' noise of cooling metal from the middle of her prize Begonias. Elsa tutted to herself and murmured, "Oh dear..." It couldn't be helped, really. She could tell it was an accident. And the lizards inside were alarmed.

Lizard people. They had to be people. They were wearing clothes and shouting at each other in Lizardese. And there were some gestures that, it turned out, were truly universal and generally required most of an upraised fist.

Some of them were hurt.

Elsa scurried back inside for a moment and fetched all the medical supplies she had. And some clean rags. And hot water. And, since the kettle was going anyway, she made tea.

After a bad accident like that, they could probably use a cuppa.

*

The human encountered in our crash site was not the hostile beast we had been lead to believe they were. The creature intuited that we were in need of help and laid before us offerings of a medical nature.

How the creature knew that our battery acid was leaking is a miracle I can't explain. Yet, after the repairs were finished, and we were puzzling how to restock the battery when the human offered us a cup full of the valuable fluid.

Engineer Zhonn was truly excited and made the human show its teeth. An alarming moment until we realised that the display was friendly. It was smiling.

The only disturbing part in the entire encounter was that the human drank her portion of battery acid in front of us. But, considering that we landed on a Class Four Deathworld and lived to tell the tale, I consider this incident to be minor.

It may be possible to train humans to be amenable to frailer species. It would take a long time and a significant effort, but a few examples show promise.

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Challenge #022: Attempted Poisoning

Regarding Onions: The crazy food that turns our tears into sulphuric acid. Somewhere along the way some twit must have had the following thought process.

"AARGH MY EYES IT BURNS I wonder what it tastes like".

Somewhere in the houses of the first cities...

Ari was sick of her husband. He was cruel and vile, and rough with her in their bedchamber. He expected a cooked meal when he came home, expected it hot, but never told her when to expect him.

And he never gave her enough oil for her lamps, forcing her to do most of her work by feel.

He would not let her eat until he had eaten, which made the longer nights insufferable.

Therefore, her only recourse was to poison him.

She'd been gathering them all day. The root of the tassel grass was well known for its eye-burning smell when cut. It served reason that it had to be poisonous.

She'd peeled them and chopped them carefully, and now they were bubbling in the stew while she ate the bread she'd made that day. Let him yell. Let him rave. Let him hit her. He would be dead, soon.

He was too drunk to notice any crumbs on her clothes. He just staggered in and slumped into his place. Thumping the table for his food instead of asking politely. Or asking anything at all.

She made certain he had plenty of the tassel grass root.

"What's this muck?" he poked at it.

"Stew," she answered. "It's always stew. I went gathering them herbs all day. For your health, not that you care."

He grumbled and growled, but was evidently too drunk to swing at her, so he fell on his food like a common pig.

She expected foam. Paroxysms of terror. The slow realisation that he was dying. She expected his face to change colour.

Nothing. He ate it, burped, and cheered, "That's the best stew you've ever cooked, woman! What was that herb?"

"Uuuuhhhh... nyun," she said in a fit of inspired desperation.

"Onion, eh? 'S good." Another loud belch. "Use it more."

She must have done something wrong. Ari, terrified of repercussions if she just made him sick on the morrow, dug through her stew for every fragment of the freshly-named Onion and crammed it all into her mouth.

It was delicious.

How?

And more importantly, what could she do now?

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Challenge #023: What is Dog?

After other species have somewhat adjusted to the whole "vicious predator" == "family pet" thing, they run into this:

[Image shows a man sharing a couch with a dog large enough to be twice his mass]

That is a predator larger than an adult human, whose head is roughly that man's torso's size.

He is a descendant of one of the scariest predators in the world casually flopped on the couch and he loves belly rubs and ear scritches and is just a big fluffy goofball that loves mauling tennis balls - well, maybe volleyballs are more appropriate, given his size.

If his master ever truly pissed him off, he could casually crush his skull, but he doesn't because he loves him.

And humans think he's adorable and fluffy. The reaction is not "HOLY SHIT THAT THING'S HUGE, WATCH OUT!", but rather "aw, he's so cute! I wanna wrestle with him, and hug him, and call him George".

The humans' pet carnivores were beginning to diversify. The cats generally stayed the same size, though there were some that varied in key aspects, but not so alarmingly as the dogs.

There were tiny ones roughly able to menace a keet. And the 'normal' size of dog that managed to make newcomer Numidid nervous despite their friendly demeanour.

And then there was George.

George was larger than some of the horses in Wiwazheer. Well... definitely larger than Tyrtyr's shrunken steed. And larger than some of the other ponies that the humans had. He trotted alongside his human like an impossible thing. Yet he was real.

He could, T'reka couldn't help thinking, easily predate on the human or her children. He could definitely predate on any Numidid in the colony. Yet, when the gigantic canine came up to her, it limited itself to sniffing.

T'reka froze, concentrating on her Science Breathing, as the mouth of a predator investigated the air around her. She let George sniff her knuckles and nervously massaged an ear as she'd been taught with smaller dogs.

The effect was exactly the same. The dog recognised her as an ally and not prey. Leaning into her touch and knocking her off her feet.

"Dog big enough for make saddle," she said, learning how to brace herself against George's affections.

The human laughed. She was one of the ones who had learned not to show her teeth to Numidid. Lyn. "For bird, be likely," she answered, patting her dog on the ribs. "We could train dog for Numidid saddle."

"Being remember Terra poem of Lady from Niger," T'reka answered. "No wanting ride of predator."

"Much wise," Lyn the human clicked to George and he came to heel. "Bird be afraid, predators. Not train good."

The children swarmed over the enormous dog. Hugging him or scratching various areas of his enormous, fluffy body. "Human make dog this big... make for what?"

Lyn shrugged. "Make for sing loud? Self not knowing."

Humans had to be insane.

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Challenge #024: It's Just Politics

"It's like a madhouse, designed by a succession of madmen, each with a deep hatred of their predecessors brand of madness. And it's on fire."

[AN: Never in my life have I been prompted to reply with a screenshot of Google asking "Did you mean 'the Australian Government'?" But no. I am a writer. I make stories.]

Tradition is a very peculiar thing. Things begin with reason and rationality and end in farcical imitation, hundreds or thousands of years later. The story is told of a housewife who cuts her roasts a certain way, because that's the way her mother did it. Research is undergone and traced back to the grandmother, who could not afford a larger roasting pan, like her more affluent daughters and granddaughters.

Traditions don't always have to make sense...

Relwer had had enough of the carryings-on of her local politicians. She also had a kickstarter that explained her lofty goals.

Many of them, she was certain, backed her because she promised to get rid of annoying advertising. The rest of it, citizens' rights, proper drug registration and rehabilitation, the elimination of the glass ceiling... everything that should have been unpopular opinions, basically... all that was overwhelmed by the possibility of reduced blood pressure by way of clever management of really annoying advertising.

She won by a landslide. Filled the houses with people who agreed with her.

It was the first time in history that the political houses were filled with the poor and disenfranchised. Alas, it was also the first time in history that the empowered staged a rebellion. Which was, for the first time in history, the only time that the empowered were successfully overwhelmed by the disempowered, simply because the disempowered actually had a taste of economic freedom under the new regime.

Of course, there were other rebellions, much later. Once an actual even playing field was established. The Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms lovers all teamed up to preserve the way of life they were used to. The people who loved two out of those three teamed up with the religious extremists to try and reassert a rule established by the parts they liked out of a religious book that was written more than a thousand years ago.

Which was quickly squashed by the invention of a community based solely and exclusively on all of the rules in that ancient book. Nobody liked living there. The freedoms they thought they had didn't exist under Holy Writ.

But... also because of Relwer and her Sensible Revolution... The houses of government now all wear silly hats. Because she had a campaign to display how many politicians were overpaid. She relied on all she needed and nothing more, and wore a silly hat to display her open frugality. She declared to the public that politics was a circus anyway, and she was making all the other clowns stand out. And, to prevent falsification, the silly hat also came with a transparent personal budget.

To this day, the politicians of East Lesser Deregulation are the most humble, and the most ridiculous.

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Challenge #025: That is Not a Solution

On the one hand, that is a legitimate problem.

On the other, I'm not sure I could come up with a worse solution to that problem, even if you gave me a research grant and several years.

South-Southwest Greater Deregulation.

The problem element milled around, five yards away from the electrified wiring. Just a few inches short of the raised wire that denoted the area where the guards in the tower would shoot.

They all stared at Monica in desperate hope.

"Are you hiring?" some of the bolder ones asked. "Please, ma'am. My kids need to eat."

Another spoke. "I need to work. I can't afford m—*" cough cough cough cough, "My meds."

"Brass-Balls" Bush grinned as he strolled beside her. "Isn't it wonderful? The only crime they can commit is on each other! It's self-policing. And they can't get any drugs without passing a drug test and writing a two thousand word essay on why they need the drugs. And the hiring process is as simple as picking some of the willing up from the gate."

"We need blankets," complained one of the problem element. "Winter's coming and we're cold."

"Sir..." said Monica. "I don't think this is the solution to the problem that will get you votes."

"Oh I don't need to worry about that," chortled Bush. "Anyone in the poor-sore ghetto is automatically a criminal! They're not allowed to vote, any more. And the people who really care will be voting for me."

Monica suppressed a shudder. "I am hiring," she decided. "I need some housekeepers." But what she really did was train them in covert infiltration and assassination techniques.

Something needed to be done about the status quo. Making sure that it wasn't stable was all she could think of.

...which might not have been the best solution, either.

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Challenge #026: The Visitor

Part of a tiny story - Unfurl by IPostAtMidnight

She usually enjoyed unfurling a fresh sheet over her bed, swishing it out like they do in those detergent commercials. Tonight, however, as the sheet settled down onto the empty mattress, it outlined the contours of a body.

It wasn't a pleasant silhouette, either. It was the doughy shape of a man who couldn't be bothered with himself. And further, the sheet above the body immediately stuck to pools of what she hoped were sweat. Vigorous action around the crotch region indicated that the man was pleasuring himself.

"Hey babe," said a familiar voice.

"Ugh," whispered Bea. God, not Tony. Fucking Tony. "What the flying shit, Tony?"

"How'd you know it was me? You got no proof."

"Given the number of times you've orchestrated an incident where I 'accidentally' walk in on you masturbating and you ask me if I like what I see? Plus I know your voice. Get out and take your skeezy habits with you. I already told you I never want to see you again."

"I know," said the invisible Tony. Still masturbating lazily under the sheet. "That's why I went to extreme lengths for you. I know you want to get fucked by the invisible man."

Bea glared at the space where his head should have been. "Which part of 'fuck off' did you repeatedly fail to understand?"

"I heard 'fuck me'..." he purred in what he imagined to be a seductive tone.

"Get out. Get lost. Go find some other woman to annoy. I don't even like you. You're a disgusting example of a human being and I would prefer that you took up residence on the other side of the universe."

"Aw c'mon, babe. I did all this for you. You should be grateful. Everything I've done, I did it so you would love me."

"Obviously taking a shower wasn't in your itinerary," Bea observed.

"I know you want it dirty..."

"I would rather burn this house to the ground with me inside than have sex with you!"

"Third degree burns? Kinky. I think I could swing it. For you, babe."

Bea had a better idea. "Close your eyes and no peeking."

He evidently put her night mask on.

She set him on fire instead. Watching the invisible douchebro burn was hilarious. Besides, she never wanted to touch that bed or those sheets again, now that they'd been infected by Tony's presence.

Unfortunately, he survived. Bawling all the way through hospital, court, and into prison that the fire hadn't hurt him as much as her rejection.

And, strangely enough, Bea was grateful to him in the end. If it wasn't for the court case, she'd have never met the love of her life, Andrea.

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Challenge #027: So That's What They're Up To...

Scenes from an apartment building for divinities who lack major worshiper populations. Thor complains about Sobek using all of the building's hot water, Huitzilopochtli and Apollo are catty he-bitches to each other, and even the other Gods of Death agree that Anubis is damn creepy; that sort of thing.

[AN: Apologies for the eurocentrism, but I did have to do very quick research on this and finding non-european obscure gods is an exercise in frustration]

Hestia ran the apartments. As far as being a landlord was concerned, this was her heaven. She was a goddess of hearth and hospitality, and ran a family clinic on the side with some of the other fertility gods.

St Isidore teamed up with Mímir, a disembodied and mummified head, to run the internet equivalent of an advice column and were seldom seen outside of the shared meal times in the dining hall. Which was when Mímir would tell his 'joke' to anyone who bothered to hang around and listen to it.

"...and then Odin goes to the dwarfs and asks them nicely for them to create a new body for me, since Vanir threw a hissy fit and shredded my original corpse..."

Iris, clad in clashing spectrums of gaudy, angrily added food items from the buffet to her tray. "Mercury! Bloody Mercury. I could have been just as good for the messenger business. But no. They had to go with a dude with wings on his hat and his winkie hanging out..."

"At least you get girls named after you. All I get is the occasional side-fling in Sailor Moon episodes and scungy weeaboos using my name in vain."

"...flaw after flaw after flaw after flaw," Mírmir continued. "They fix the knees but the hips go wrong. They fix the hips, but the neck goes wrong. They fix the neck..."

Antevorte sighed. "Nobody is really listening and if you do finish, you're going to get eggs thrown at you again. I'll help." She reached forward to soothe Iris. "It's all right. We're all here, hoping for our next big break. And believe me, it's harder than it seems. You have to find a really specific niche."

"I might have an in with crazy cat ladies," offered Faustitas. "Hardly anybody has herds of anything, any more."

Mímir was nearing the end of his joke. "...and finally I said - You know what? Odin can just carry me around. It's a hell of a lot easier than returning this curse-ridden body to the shop every other day. Not that you're not doing your best—"

The entire room chorussed, "But it's better to quit when you're a head." and then half of them threw eggs at him.

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Challenge #028: Wardrobe Malfunction

We return to the campaign of Kermit the Frog and Undead!Fred Rogers, who is now starting to look a bit...ripe. This leads up to a live debate where bits of Mr. Rogers visibly start falling off, ending in a total structural collapse during his concluding speech.

Even with one member a rapidly putrefying puddle of flesh, the Frog/Rogers ticket is still far in the lead.

[AN: I want to go on the record that I find this idea really disrespectful to Mr Rogers, everything he stood for, everything he lived for, and his surviving friends and family. Thanks, you have left me in a place between my collected morals]

"Mercy..."

The interview jinked to a sudden halt. Rogers was holding his right arm. Moving it back into his shoulder socket with his left hand. "It's running out," he said, looking horrified. "I didn't mean to alarm anyone. This is... this is what happens to the human body once it's dead. I'm sorry."

Those were the last words he spoke through a fleshy mouth. Kermit explained it, while a team of aides hustled Rogers out. First, behind a curtain, and then, into a prepared facility.

"You see, kids, in order to come back from the-from the-from the other side, Fred Rogers had a choice. He could inhabit a living host, which would steal their life from them, or he could re-animate his own, dead body... which -uh- which would... you know... have its drawbacks. We did everything to keep him together, but..." Kermit sighed. "None of that was enough."

"Are you going to continue your campaign now that your running-mate is out of the picture?"

"Who-who-who said he's out of the picture. We've had a plan for this since we started."

*

They put his bones back together with artificial joints. Clothed them with the additive foam process. Used the best science to reconstruct his face. His eyes, though artificial, still needed glasses.

The best of puppet science made him something of a macabre puppet, himself. Opposition rallied with the phrase 'puppet government', but the kindness and caring evident in the remains of Rogers, as well as in Kermit, convinced millions to vote for them anyway.

The republicans were livid.

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Challenge #029: Hug-a-Bunch

"And here we have- please put the new ambassador down."

"But (s)he's so cute and cuddle able!"

Ha'ri still didn't understand how she became an ambassador to her people. She was just one of the many, many asteroid-chasers trying to make enough money to pay for more than her ship and its fuel. Especially damages.

Then a ship belonging to the strange, balding apes had come out of nowhere and she made the mistake of hailing them.

Now she wore a gold version of her work clothes, and walked among giants.

The humans were all right, really. They were just mind-bogglingly insane. But insane in ways that bordered on genius.

No other species would have thought of tying a ship's proximity sensors to the grapplers, and then programming the latter to take anything it snagged straight to the on-board processors. And nobody else would have considered calling the resultant, cthuloid monstrosity a harmless-seeming name like "the hungry caterpillar".

It took Ha'ri all of ten beats, watching it in motion, to want to have that system attached to her ship. It was a nightmare made mechanics, but it was a potentially profitable nightmare.

And now, she was in another nightmare. An immense space station seemingly designed by a warped mind. Her human guide had explained that the station had just happened. Various people throughout the ages had added to it, reconfigured it, and otherwise messed around with how it was put together. Ha'ri was so used to humans by now that she was not surprised at all to learn that there was a cult of humans who considered the station to be a living being.

And then there was the welcome she got upon entering the Ambassadorial Conference Arena. There were already people there. If one greatly expanded one's definition of 'people' to include a group of human-shaped machines playing instruments with a glowing-eyed creature with sharp teeth - while a blue-skin man looked on in resignation.

"Aaaaaawwww..." cooed the black-skinned humanoid with the guitar. Her glowing eyes had somehow turned pinkish. "Aaah 'is such a cutie..."

"Shayde," warned the blue man. "No..."

By then, the being known as Shayde was across the room and had literally picked Ha'ri up and was vigorously cuddling her.

"Put the new ambassador down!"

"Aw but she's so cute an' huggable..."

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Challenge #030: What a Waste

A numidid who is the living embodiment of handsome - his feathers are perfectly aligned and gleaming, talons sharp and shiny, vibrant crest, and zygomatic arches to make everyone swoon.

He's also a scientist. (from Amity or not)

Commence shenanigans!

Lu'iz had no idea he was handsome. He carried on in all his beliefs and allowed everyone else to be mistaken in theirs. Such was the life of a scientist.

And yet, every day, he would hear some female on the streets or public transits sigh and murmur, "What a waste..." as if his very existence was offensive to the order of things.

It plagued him ever since he passed puberty, and continued to confuse him for some years into his lonely adulthood.

Young storekeeps would coo or bob for him... right up until the moment he opened his beak and spoke like a scientist. It would be then that he heard those fated three words and the regretful sighs.

Sometimes, he received hate... as if his very existence was an aberration like none other in the universe. Lu'iz had very little idea how he had managed to capture their ire. He was, according to them, deceptive and dishonest. Trying to trap honest females in a sordid relationship with a -ugh- scientist.

He had given up trying to explain that he wasn't trying to do anything of the sort when T'reka the Mad's transmissions began from Toxic Island. He began avoiding going out in public, too. At least until the equally insane humans' views began to infect the general populace.

His neighbour, Ii'ree was the first to talk to him. Nervous and clearly afraid of anyone seeing her at it, she asked, "Why did you go into Science? You could have easily been an actor. And far more acceptable."

"Acting is the art of lies," he answered honestly. "I have a far better relationship with the truth."

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

"None at all. Everyone keeps calling me a waste. Or a liar. I... I don't like that."

Someone came through the hall, cutting off all opportunities to speak further.

Lu'iz thought nothing of it for the following months, until she found him calibrating a telescope on the roof of their shared domicile. It was late afternoon and he was checking the orbit of the local gas giant.

"You'll burn your beautiful eyes out," she cautioned. Ii'ree was gathering her laundry from the rooftop clothing lines.

"All is well," he assured, "I am not looking at the sun. I'm observing the nearby planets."

"In daylight?" she scoffed. "There's nothing up there."

"We see the moon, do we not? There is more to see if one knows how to look. "I have counted four moons around Stripy Titan already."

Ii'ree looked up at the boundless blue. "There is nothing to see but the air..."

"Then come and look closer. I promise you won't catch Science Germs."

She put her basket down and hopped up to his perch. Peered skeptically down the eyepiece. And then Ii'ree squawked and leaped backwards. "Impossible!"

"Deep breaths," he soothed. "Impossible is another way of saying 'don't look'. The universe continues to work without our observation. The blue Stripy Titan is proof."

"...but... but... How?"

"It's always there. Night just allows us to see it better. And I counted the moons by the shadows they cast. It's quite fascinating."

"It's terrifying," breathed Ii'ree.

"Why?" he asked. "How could it hurt you?"

Ii'ree had no answer. But for the rest of her life - including the passage of time when it was legal to be his wife - she would take the time to look at the sky in wonder.

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Challenge #031: Numedid Meets the Birds of Earth, Part 3

Numedid meet the Penguins, finding them to be practicing Marxists with the capacity to utterly conquer the known galaxy, but have held off because they "want to see how the whole human thing turns out first".

[AN: Not gonna lie, my first thought was with the Penguins of the Madagascar movies... resisting said temptation with my entire might.]

Humans called them Emperor penguins. They had a much more complicated name for themselves that T'reka the Wanderer could never pronounce, but they were kind enough to allow her the luxury of calling them 'Emperor'.

"We are bird-kind," said the Matriarch. "We have no ill-will to bird-kind. The bipedal, bald mammals... we watch them. They are kind enough to us. We share... planet for now."

"What do you mean?" asked the Numidid.

"We share much. We share the cold. We share the nurturing and feeding of the young. We share the fish. It is no great stretch to share a world. No need for us to conquer the humans. They will exterminate themselves in time. Or leave. Either way, we are patient. We have always been patient. Winter ends."

That was two words with an ocean's full of meaning. Winter ends. The dark times of the season, or the dark times of the epoch, or the dark times at all... would end in the fullness of time. All the Emperors had to do was endure.

They were prepared, if it came to a fight, of course. They were Emperors. They were prepared for anything. They had a camouflage flock up on the ice to appease the humans who came to make documentaries... but in the caves underneath Antarctica...

It was a Survivalist's wet dream. Shelter, facilities, factories, farms... everything a nation of penguins could ever want.

Including weapons.

T'reka fluffed out her feathers on instinct. She was in the company of dangerous Birds.

"There's hope for the humans," soothed the Matriarch. "If they ever get too unruly, we might have to step in."

Considering that the Emperors had already allowed the humans to slaughter whales, overfish to the point of global ocean breakdown, and dumped tons of plastic in the waters... T'reka had to wonder what that fatal line would be.

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Challenge #032: Return to the Greater Dereg That Got It Right

Exactly what it says on the tin.

AN: This would be directly related to Challenge #323 in [One Leap Year of Instants, available for whatever you want at Smashwords]

How to run a world without taxes, Kell wrote. First: Eliminate the government. Elected officials only care for their results in the next election, leading to years of nothing done, followed by flurries of activity nearing the election season.

Public services are therefore run by non-profit organisations with client care as their first priority. Volunteers are hailed as heroes and paid a bonus based entirely on how many lives they save.

Those who wished to be educated paid their educator on a pre-arranged system based entirely on information retention. Thusly, this planet has a high mass of extremely informative memes.

Libraries run entirely on the funds from book and information rental. And are extraordinarily well-kept.

Those who care to can learn from generations past at a fraction of the cost a live tutor would demand. This has lead to a lot of 'genius from the underclass' stories before the idea of underclass was understandably eliminated. Social change continued along these ideals until all reason for despising another individual besides jealousy was gone.

The media runs itself, of course, going with what sells the best. And advertising costs are appallingly low.

It's not been made easy to succeed. All the normal social blocks are gone, and in their place are others. Foreigners expecting to stay are also expected to contribute. Holidays are something that happens when the holidayer can afford to go.

Nevertheless, businesses have found out through trial and error that allowing their employees time off leads to greater productivity.

The atmosphere of the entire planet is one of enlightened self-interest. Citizens help the poor and downtrodden because eliminating poverty also eliminates the need for crime. The mentally disabled are nurtured with proper care because they would easily become hazards to the smooth running of society, were they allowed to run loose.

In fact, all disorders are equal. If cures are not available, palliative care is at cost. Exorbitant prices for medicine are unheard of, here. One sick person can make many sick people, that is why they do their utmost to eliminate sickness.

I heartily recommend this planet to the Cogniscent Rights Committee. Please take the assorted leaders of the other Greater Deregulations to this world, so they can see what their world could be if they just allowed the people to run the world.

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Challenge #033: Emergency Procedures

"When in trouble, when in doubt. Run in circles, scream and shout!" Have fun with this!

These were the most bizarre aliens she had ever seen. Their emergency klaxon was a twinkly little tune suitable for Play School or Sesame Street[1] replete with singing. The jolly lady's voice instructed the entire crew on how to panic in the same tone of friendly warning that other PSA's would tell children where and how to cross the road[2].

Allie just danced through the panicking Gallusians and fixed the problem. It wasn't even that big a deal. A simple solder and the diverse alarms fell into silence.

"Oi!" Cork protested. "Why'd you have to go and do that for?"

"It was broken?" Allie suggested. At their collected, avian, blank stares she added, "It needed fixing, so I fixed it."

"That's for the third chorus," said Cork, as if the visiting human in their midst was beyond dense. "We get our panicking over with, and the automated systems then tell us who needs to do what so we can do it. Then we finish with a round or three of orchestrated panicking so everyone has it out of our systems and we can move on."

"Why not just fix the problem and then do all the de-stressing?"

Cork looked at her as if she'd grown another head. "Where's the fun in that?"

[1] Some things will last forever. Do not argue with me on this.

[2] Look up They Might Be Giants' song In the Middle, In the Middle to hear what I'm talking about.

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Challenge #034: One Harried Evening in an Interspecies Beauty Salon

A human opens a Beauty Salon for Reptilian Customers, it occurs to me that its Male reptiles who often try to attract mates.

The concept of cosmetics is as old as dirt. Literally. But the humans, of course, were the first to take it to extremes.

This shop, Universal Beauty, was the one responsible for introducing the seal-like Iil'shur'aur'ur to hair gel. Though it was not responsible for the minor wars that followed[1]. It still does roaring business despite the fact that it's run by humans.

"Welcome to Universal Beauty. Do you have an appointment?"

"PLEASE," begged the lizard, "She said 'yes' and we're going to meet face-to-face in three hours! I have to look my best for her, I have to! Please. I'll pay double-time!"

The clerk took in the lizard's general air of inspired desperation, and the offer of double time, and set off a softly musical alarm.

Experts swarmed, whisking the desperate lizard away and into the one studio that was always kept empty for such emergencies. Meryl Jonson saw all this on her monitors and descended from her office for a consult. They would have called her down anyway.

She arrived just as they were scanning the poor male in his underwear. He had a nice, matching bra for his heat packs. Good. That was a start.

"This is your first time in any beauty salon?" she asked.

"Yessir," the hapless male squeaked.

"Don't worry. We don't use the more frightening aspects of the cosmetics industry. All we are going to do is... accentuate... your natural assets."

"...but all of the options in the menu..."

"Are lies. You don't want to be deceitful during your first meeting, do you? Starting a relationship on deceit is not the way to go."

"Oh. Uh. Yes. Of course. I just want to look my best for her."

"That's what we're very good at."

He still got The Works, of course. Paying double time gets anyone The Works. Full derma, nail, and crest treatments, with the gentleman's choice of alluring scent. He left glistening, with his clothes neatened and pressed.

And in good time for his date, who had booked an earlier appointment weeks ago.

[1] Because it's surprising the lengths some people will go to to have selkie-smooth fur.

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Challenge #035: The Travelogue Continues

After leaving Francoeur behind, Kurt and Todd find themselves in South Park, bizarre animation and all. How will they cope with being the 184th strangest thing to happen to the town?.

It had been another typical morning at the bus stop. The usual debate had come around to the subject of mothers.

"Mmf F mmmf mf Mmmmmmm'f mmf mf f mmmmf," said Kenny.

"You take that back, you sonofabitch," Cartman challenged.

"Get over it, Cartman," sighed Kyle. "Everyone knows your mom slept with everyone in town."

Everyone else but Cartman laughed.

"So... pissed... off.... right now..."

"Mmmf, mmm'f mmmf f mmf mmf mmmf mmmf mmf mmf."

"PEOPLE DON'T FALL OUT OF THE SKY, KENNY!"

{Pop!}

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

{FLUMPF!}

"Git offa me ya fuzzy— hey kids!" An extremely ugly teenager grinned at them. "You didn't see nuttin', amiright?"

Also climbing out of the snow was a blue, fuzzy demon with glowing yellow eyes. He looked supremely bored.

"San Francisco is that way ya fuckin' gays," said Cartman.

"Cartman's mom's house is that way if you have a dollar," said Stan.

Everyone except Cartman laughed.

The ugly one searched his pockets while the demon covered and uncovered one eye.

"I dunno. Does she take last century's Francs?"

"Mmm'f mmmf mmmf mmmmmmm'f mmmf."

More laughter.

"GOD DAMMIT KENNY! I'LL KILL YOU!"

"Todd," said the demon.

"What?" said Todd, the ugly one.

"You notice anysink veird about ziss place?"

"Mf mmmmmf mmmf f mmmmmmf. Mmmmf mf mmmf mmmmf mmmf mmmf mmf."

Even more laughter. Cartman turned violently red.

"I think I'm glad I can't hear zat kid," said the demon. "Excuse me, kinder... is there a reason you don't find mien appearance alarming?"

"Eh," said Stan.

"You guys are like the 184th-weirdest thing to happen in this town."

"Ooooohhh.... kay." The demon stood up out of the snow. He had weird legs and a tail. "Anyvon hiring, or must ve do ze street theatre?"

At that moment, the bus pulled up. Chef looked at the mutants. The mutants smiled nervously at Chef.

"This has got to be the 184th weirdest thing to happen in this town."

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Challenge #036: The Coming Devastation

The last time the Great Wyrm attacked, the Kingdom of Nalun'g was rent asunder. Now, after almost a century of repair and reconstruction, the land sickens, holy symbols warp and tarnish, and the young and artists are plagued be nightmares that, horribly enough, may be prophecies.

The signs are there. The Beast is Coming...

Of course Nalun'g searched for a hero. Knights, barbarians, thieves and assassins all tried their hands at eliminating the Wyrm.

They were never seen again.

Simisola, a child of Nalun'g, had always been a strange girl. She rarely spoke and hardly interacted with anyone. She never looked a person in the eye and largely communicated by pointing at what she wanted. She spent a majority of her life in the library, though nobody knew if she was actually reading or just paging absently through the chained books in their special cellar.

They called her Simple Simi whenever she was out, either in the town or roaming the hillsides and coming home with bundles upon bundles of weeds or vile byproducts of corruption, rattling in tin boxes. The children made fun of her peculiar walk and occasionally threw things at her.

But Simisola never said a word. She just went about her business as if she didn't care.

On the day that the beast overflew the village, vomiting corruption on all that it saw, Simisola set out with heavy knapsack and bedroll and bags. Dressed gaily in reds and yellows in a pattern that bedazzled the eye.

She followed the Great Wyrm to its lair, and all were certain that Simple Simi would die there.

But the corruption faded. It withered and died, instead of spreading. The Great Wyrm was not seen for a week. For a month. For two months...

Rumour spread, as it was wont to do. The dragon had been defeated by Simple Simi's great innocence. Some even began worshiping her as a saint. Children denied that they had ever been mean to her and talked endlessly about they had been kind to her in numerous small ways.

And then Simisola returned to Nalun'g.

On the back of the Great Wyrm.

The beast was no longer corrupted. But she was not yet whole. There were still the marks of a great sickness on her body, but also many signs of improvement.

Those who had sanctified Simple Simi turned against Simisola in a matter of seconds. They were prepared to burn her at the stake for her sorcery and black magic. They readied sticks and stones to throw at her, but none hit their mark. The dragon protected her.

"PEACE," Roared the dragon. She had pouches and packs strapped to her back. Many were from previous heroes who had gone to fight her and died. One talon ripped open half a dozen, and gold and jewels spilled to the cobblestones of Nalun'g.

Some fell on the wealth as if they had never meant either dragon or girl harm. The rest dropped their improvised weapons.

"My name is Cevahir. For decades, I was plagued with a disease known as The Blight. It corrupted my thoughts. Turned me into less than an animal. Made me corrupt other areas. But this... brave maiden... thought to seek out all possible cures for The Blight and see to my medicine and care. She has saved me. And she has saved you. And she has told me all of what you have done to her.

"Therefore she is now my ward, and under my care. Any who harm her will have an argument with me." A gout of flame showed all watchers how that argument would go. Quickly, decisively, and without a chance for rebuttal.

"She can't have told you," said one of the recent hypocrites. "She can't talk."

"You don't listen," said Simisola, her voice flat and bare of emotion. "You never did."

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Challenge #037: Pure Badness

You venerate purity for its own sake, a most pointless exercise. Pure Iron is brittle, corrodes and shatters easily. Pure copper or tin do not have the strength of bronze. Alloys are Stronger

There was a civilisation on Tsarkis. If one could call it that. In the Galactic Alliance's opinion, it barely passed the bar.

For a start, there was a very rigid caste system. Enforced by the military caste and massive walls that divided district from district. Few, if any, were allowed any kind of social or geographic mobility.

And as for the ruling caste...

Inbreeding had done its work. There were family lines distinguishable by their noses or foreheads or chins. They were all pale and frail albinos. Physically weak, twisted things.

All except for the ruling family of one island-continent in the tropics. There, the hostile life that bred there had lead to a high mortality rate, even amongst the high-born.

Therefore, every fifty years, they had a true Cinderella Ball. Anyone who was unmarried, with the means to arrive in a certain city by a certain date, had the chance to meet and mingle with the crown heir.

It was unorthodox, and frowned upon by the twisted and grotesque examples in the other city-states. And every kind of broken taboo.

And yet, that island-continent was the strongest of all the disparate nations extant on Tsarkis... and the other royalties continually borrowed from their line.

Of course, the instant that the Galactic Alliance set up a trading post on that planet, the potential for chaos increased exponentially with every passing day. Which was just how the Alliance liked it.

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Challenge #038: Ballistic Rock

"We will, we will, Rock you!" As sung by the United Trebouchet Operators Choir. You figure out the circumstance. Have fun.

The trebuchets, massive siege weapons of wood and rope, fired silently. It was their payloads, landing against the stunt castle walls, that were part of the performance.

Two solid rocks, and a missile made of gravel and dried clay. They landed with a WHUMP-WHUMP, TSSSSHH. A relentless beat that required the scurrying co-ordination of hundreds.

"Buddy you're a young man, hard man, shouting in the streets, gonna be a BIG MAN SOMEDAY. Got blood on your face, big disgrace, wavin' your banner all over the place."

Everyone manning the trebuchets sung in chorus, "WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!"

WHUMP-WHUMP, TSSSSHH. WHUMP-WHUMP, TSSSSHH.

"WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!"

The Ambassador for Shoggott, a class five deathworld, stared at the performance in shock and awe. She leaned over to the strategically-seated Ambassador Shayde. "Your people make music with weapons?"

"Oh aye. You should see the next act. It's a Zeusophone."

Nyansi looked at the demonically-shaped human. She seemed to be enjoying the show. "What is a Zeusophone?"

"They play music wi' lightning. It's a wee ripper."

Nyansi was rather glad that they had sued for peace with these crazed, balding apes. They were beyond all realms of understanding.

Unseen, the frailer members of the Galactic Alliance exchanged touches of reassurance and congratulations. Their cunning plan had worked.

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Challenge #039: Ancient Writings

Bring it the fuck on = Eam non valent, in (Eng->Lat)

[AN: My google translate disagrees and provides "adducet eam ad irrumabo" I trust any latin nerds in my audience will settle the debate]

Of all the things that could have possibly sated Shayde's wanderlust, exploring he less popular areas of the station seemed the safest and least bother. What Rael hadn't known at the time was Shayde's capacity for finding adventures.

"Ey oop! Humans have been here." Her sharp-toothed grin was a clear indicator that adventure was about to happen. "It's real old, ye ken."

"Really?" Rael did his utmost to show as little interest as possible.

"Aye, it's in Latin. Near as I reckon, this were left behind somewhere by a pre-Alliance human colony. Or a bunch'a real nutbars."

"Either is likely. Can we stick to the main corridors, please? Going down the path less travelled is what got us in this mess."

Shayde turned to face him, gesturing at the ancient message, "But it says 'bring it the fook on'. How can ye resist tha'?"

"Easily," explained Rael. "I just walk away. Observe." He picked a path based on the right-hand rule and began moving away.

"Three dead ends and a doorway tae the Glunk," she warned.

He could see two of those. "You're a daily reminder of why I hate magic."

"Glad tae know I do somethin' for ye every day." She loosened the lock with a metallic squeal of protest. The door groaned as it opened.

Beyond was a rather dismal hall with another door. And beyond that...

A tastefully appointed...

Dimly-lit...

Dusty and musty drawing room.

Relief fought a losing battle with disappointment. "And here I was thinking you'd lead me through a fight with some forgotten tribe who'd been living independently on this station until we blundered into their territory."

Shayde laughed. "Na. I'm savin' that fer twenty rooms on."

It was hard to tell when she was joking until it turned out that she was.

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Challenge #040: Great for Business

I never just derail a train of thought. I make wrecks that catch the cars on fire.

Kalle had 'disruptive influence' on her permanent record. She had no idea what to expect when Central Administration sent her to a training camp. Her vague concepts were nothing like the experience before her.

"You are a disrupter," said the uniformed Administrator Plexx on the stage. "You can use this to the advantage of many. Corporations around the globe will pay good money for strategic disrupters and SOME OF YOU—" she glared pointedly at a small group who'd started chatting, "—are more talented than others."

Kalle couldn't believe it. The people who had annoyed her mother at work... were people who were in the business of disrupting, interrupting, and otherwise breaking unauthorised chains of thought that could have lead to interesting inventions, profitable weapons, or lucrative medicines.

All because the people they were pestering were supposed to be doing low-level labor for their company.

Her mother had been on the verge of a eureka moment so many times... and now she was going to be one of Them.

Of course she studied. Disrupters got bonus pay. Bonus pay got perks. Perks got a better future for herself and her spawn. But... Kalle had seen what a Disrupter could do to a creative mind.

She had watched her mother wither with frustration. Pickle in anger and futility. Dim and fade with depression.

It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

Kalle vowed, privately, to be the sort of Disrupter who disrupted the current goings-on of the world. She would find places for the unauthorised ideas and the idea-havers. She would let them have their eureka moments and then quietly ask what lit them up like a firework.

And then... she'd find a place for them to take it. People to help them. It wouldn't matter to the companies if they lost or gained lower-level employees. But it would matter to the planet and the people who share it.

She just needed to remain subtle about it all. Lest she get a bad reputation.

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Challenge #041: Veni Vidi Vetinari

A magic demonstration goes wrong, and Lord Vetinari finds himself in modern conservative backwoods Texas.

The smoke cleared and Lord Havelock Vetinari raised an eyebrow. He was now seated on the stump of a tree and facing a very surprised and sunburned family who were evidently cooking something on a portable grille.

They were a mixture of scrawny and over-fed. And the most overfed were the adult males. Their bellies lapped over their pants. The females were underfed. Or rather, the young ones were. The eldest of them had a body made by bearing children young, and then bearing them often. At least two of the older females were in the transition betwixt rail-thin weed and earth-mother.

All this, Vetinari saw before one of them reached for his weapon.

It looked almost exactly like the Gonne, but this was significantly more advanced. Reason dictated that he take charge.

"Good day to you and blessings on your household..."

*

President Gunther was permanently red-faced and bamboozled. Everyone knew he was the puppet of the angular gentleman all in black, murmuring behind his left shoulder.

The Media called him The Thin Man and never acquired his name because President Gunther always called him 'Slim', and so did his multitudinous family that managed to occupy almost all of the bedrooms in the white house.

But, they all agreed, America had never done better. All with simple changes to the laws of the land that guaranteed freedom for all its citizens. In two short weeks in office, President Gunther and his svelte puppeteer had eliminated crime of all kinds, illegal immigrants, poverty, and the welfare debate.

He also championed the rights of the downtrodden and worked on a rather strict system to eliminate racism across the country.

All by doing almost the exact opposite of what the Conservatives used to champion.

When told of the mythical welfare queens, the Thin Man said simply, "Show them to me."

When told of the drug cartels, the Thin Man went on a brief sabbatical and returned with names and addresses for the FBI and the CIA. Including, embarrassingly, the cartels run by the FBI and the CIA.

All in all, the people in power were rather glad when he vanished without a trace.

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Challenge #042: It's Physics!

I think the only apt description for particle physics these days is 'punch it until its maths come out.'

[AN: I always thought particle physics was throwing tiny bits of the universe at each other to see what fell out of the crash...]

It looked like a cross between sanskrit, greek and cuneiform. Because of the lines and brackets, Kylie guessed it was intense math. She boggled in amazement at her roommate, Katie, as she worked on the complicated sigils before her. A girl five years Kylie's junior was working on punching a hole in the universe.

And if you judged her only by the way she sprawled on the floor to scratch sigils into the battered notebook, one might guess that Katie Walker was playing at being a college student.

She finished half a page of complicated sigils and circled it in red pen. "This is it. This is the formula." Katie grinned up at Kylie and showed her the page like any other kid her age would show her fan art of New Kids on the Block. "D'ye ken what this means?"

"I'm an art major," said Kylie. "I don't even know the names of half those symbols."

"This is math that's goin'a change the world." She sprang up to sit next to Kylie, her auburn ringlets bouncing. "This is the trick o' the universe. We're goin' le'p straight through all th' stages o' civilisation, ye ken."

"...stages?"

"I keep tryin' tae get ye intae science fiction..." Katie rolled her eyes. "Stage one is us, ye ken. Usin' t' resources o' one planet fer energy. Stage two is usin' the energy of their sun. Completely tappin' ye ken."

"Oh, like solar panels?"

"Er. More'n 'at. Probably more like a Dyson sphere o' solar panels, but yer gettin' there. Stage three... is usin' whole galaxy o' stars. This," Katie tapped her circled math, "Will be tappin' a whole other universe. We're goin' tae pierce a brane."

Kylie winced at her enthusiasm. "Is that murder or medicine."

That earned her another pained sigh from Katie. "Not B-R-A-I-N. B-R-A-N-E. It's short for 'membrane'. It's the wee layer 'twixt one universe an' the next. And I found one..." another tap at the math in her book, "that's nowt but pure energy. We plug intae tha'... we never have another worry fer energy again."

Sitting there in a dismal dorm room, staring at half a page of inscrutable math in a 99-cent store notebook, Kylie stared at the sigils that could change the world. She felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff. Something like a caveman trying to jump to the moon. She wondered if Einstein had tried to share his theories with someone like this, and if they had felt the same way.

"Are you going to show your professor?"

Katie blew a raspberry as she put her book away. Just like that, she was a fifteen-year-old kid again. "Nah. He wouldnae understand. What I'm goin' tae do is celebrate." She took out her Savings Jar and unloaded it onto her bed. "Pizza and doughnuts."

"Rock on," grinned Kylie.

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Challenge #043: The Careful Calculation

Person #1: Fear is easy. Fear is cheap. Instead of fear, we're going to give the people hope.

Person #2: Fear vs. Hope. Hardly an even match.

Person #1: That's because you think of hope as something light and fragile. My version of hope has calluses and dirt under the fingernails and isn't past bringing brass knuckles to a fight.

The board meetings of Cinderella Dreams were interesting. Around the Boardroom walls, circling the ceiling, was the company motto: omne quod est, semper fuit. They were words to be taken seriously, and only those who spent every day there knew what they meant[1].

The winners of the tri-annual Cinderella Dreams reality show always had an interview in this room, with the words neatly framed behind their heads. The Board lived for that part of the show. They adored the irony.

This year, as the life and times of last years' winner was winding to a close, The board were considering the profiles of the potential next winner's circle.

"Of course, we must be careful. We will keep the best of the plebes going with lucky chances. They must never be aware that they were pre-selected to win."

"The entire year of selection is a ruse," explained an elderly member of the Board to her successor. Tompkins to her granddaughter. "We give the plebes the hope that the people like them are going to win. Right up until the last moment."

"That's why the final circle for the year of games has to include one member of each hue, one member of each gender, one member of each minority, and one visibly disabled person," said her neighbour, Jenson. "Of course we select for as much overlap as we can."

"But the winner," said the CEO, "is always white, abled, heterosexual, skinny and pretty. They haven't noticed this in over five hundred years."

"Why?" asked the junior Tompkins. She was thirteen.

"We're very good at this," explained the senior.

"No. I mean, why does the winner always have to be all that stuff? Why not pick one of the others?"

Tompkins patted her successor's head. "Because all those other kinds are far too smart and won't let themselves be manipulated. Nobody cares when another pretty white person vanishes from public notice. We have so many."

"Hope is a very careful balancing game," explained the CEO. "Too much, and they fight for it. Too little, and they surrender to despair. Just enough... and you can keep an entire planet tractable for generations."

"That..." said Tompkins Junior. "That sounds kind of evil."

"You'll understand when you get older," said her grandmother. "It's for the greater good."

[1] "All is as ever was" in case you wanted to know.

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Challenge #044: Muffin

Turns out some incubi or succubi do just as well - if not better - on platonic love than sexual.

Cue making covert bargains with children - the 'cubi take the form of a stuffed toy, often creeping into the toy pile before the child can even walk, and become a beloved item. In return they keep the child safe from any other creepy crawlies that might be lurking. Some take up residence in nurseries and schools, the softest, best calm-down toys ever.

Most never reveal that they can move or talk, let alone their other forms and nature. They simply leave quietly once their child no longer needs or feeds them and are dismissed as one more lost toy.

[AN: What most people don't know about 'cubi is that succubi and incubi are two sides of the same... supernatural entity. The succubi steals from a penis-having human to become and incubi and thus curse the uterus-owners. I'm a writer. I research this shit for fun.]

Ze called hirself Muffin, ever since hir assignment to corrupt a pre-pubescent child had ended in a pleasant surprise. There was more to pseudo life than stealing souls. There was... love. Muffin never forgot hir first child. Max had woken that night in tears and terror, before Muffin could ever get to him, and grabbed the first soft thing his blindly groping hands could find.

Max had grabbed Muffin, who was masquerading as a velveteen dog at the time. Ze had been shocked at hir first contact with love. It was like... being drenched in a warmth that was completely unlike the familiar fires of hades.

It was so...

Gentle.

And yet it burned the hell right out of hir.

And Muffin whispered the words that would serve hir well for the rest of eternity.

"I'll protect you from the things that bump in the night, until you no longer need me."

Initially, Muffin allowed hirself to be passed along, but the wear and tear of love on a plush body meant years hidden away in storage. Years in hunger... waiting... and fighting the temptation to resume hir older ways.

Those were not good years.

So Muffin de-corporealised and went roaming. There were always new children. They were always afraid of the dark.

Ze always took the form of a toy dog. Always a little bit loved, but not dirty or beaten. Always overlooked, in the hands of hir new, infant charge. And if ze was noticed by the adults, the conversation went a little like this:

"Where did we get that stuffed dog toy?"

"I forget, really. But [CHILD] loves it so much."

And, once in a great long while, Muffin would protect hir children from the real dangers in the world. The people who, like fleshy 'cubi, lived to shatter the innocence of a child and called it love. Muffin could sniff them out. Warn her charges in a voice only they could hear.

And one night... ze attacked. Bit off the offending hand. Gouged out the lusting eyes. Removed the offending genetalia.

That child's name was Twyla.

They found her, hiding in the closet, with her best toy, Muffin. Crying, still. And they couldn't get any more information out of her about what happened to her 'bad uncle'.

All she would say was, "Uncle Paul came to do the bad touch and Muffin turneded into a real live wolf and ripped him up. But Muffin's a good dog. She pertecks me."

Hardly anyone noticed that Muffin's muzzle and paws were stained with the bad uncle's blood.

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Challenge #045: The What?

How do the penguins feel about the slaughter of their Northern cousins, the Auks? The human word "Penguin" means "Southern Auk", as far as I am aware. But there are no longer any Auks for them to be compared to.

"I have done some research," said T'reka.

"Good for you," said the Matriarch. She was not exactly dismissive, but she was busy. Assigning troops to the surface for the human naturalists to observe and film.

"Your people are named for a different species. The great Auk."

"Mm? What was so great about them?"

"Evidently, their down. They were killed as food and bait, then prised for their down... and finally hunted to extinction because the museums wanted examples to show their patrons."

"Hnf. Must not have been that great, then."

"Do you not want to see a picture?"

"Later. At the show and share. Winter business is important business."

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Challenge #046: Hwell Barrow/Ax'and'l Incorporated

On an idea: Hahaha you can't be serious oh god you're serious.

"I told you, friend. Getting there faster gets us a bonus you wouldn't believe."

"That is an embargo net," Ax'and'l gestured at the distant array of vessels. "It's not only illegal to cross it, but it's also lethal!"

"Naw these assholes aren't sanctioned by anyone but themselves. It's a mercy mission we're on. Promise."

Ax'and'l had checked the cargo and destination. He knew this human was on the up-and-up. "It's still suicide..."

"Naw. I have a plan. Check me nav file for asteroid B-37K. We're going to ride it right through the blockade."

Ax'and'l checked. "Are you insane? Wait. I'm talking to a human. Of course you're insane. That's a gravel clump. The only thing holding it together is wishful thinking."

"Right," grinned Hwell. "Which is why landing on it is such a great idea!"

Ax'and'l stared at the grinning mammal. "And how do you suggest we land on it and live?"

"I know a trick from me mining days..."

The saurian Ax'and'l had yet to learn all the portents of imminent danger, and thus allowed the mad human to de-activate the Hungry Caterpillar, and use gravity alone to gently descend towards the dusty surface of a stellar rock that was beyond fragile.

He was still having conniptions as the embargo net moved vessels aside to allow the asteroid to pass. Ax'and'l decided, then and there, that he was going to spend a good portion of his bonus on a permanent therapists' appointment.

He was going to need it.

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Challenge #047: Logic Dictator

A sentence that made me just want to hug the mad genius until they felt better:

Everything I did was logical. One day I'll understand why that makes me the one who's nuts.

I think they thought I'd be easy to manipulate. They thought they could feed me the correct facts to sway me. Sadly for them, I saw them for villainous plotters who would all be my puppeteer for two pins. They were quickly exposed for voting fraud and incarcerated for all their other political crimes.

And I already had the will of the people for re-examining all extant criminal cases and punishing the unjust equally. And since it was legally no longer a crime to be poor, I went about curing the cause of the symptoms that so many vocal types complained about.

I'm a very frugal person. Therefore it was no great strain for me to abandon the glittering mansion of the Head of State for a modest flat. And also no great strain for me to live on the lowest existing stipend current for the unemployed. The others in my cabinet had a great hue and cry, though, at the thought of following my lead.

But they were astonishingly fast to vote for raising the stipend. Especially when it looked like I was going to make that change mandatory.

Paying the hospitals based on their successes quickly rid the medical system of all the bad doctors and nurses. The same with the schools and the teachers who coasted along on tenure.

Decriminalising addictive drugs and putting them in the hands of pharmaceutical companies eliminated drug crime overnight. As did recognising sex work as legitimate work. Many of the pimps didn't care for my health and safety workplace laws, but the sundry employees loved it.

And with crime at an all-time low, I was at my leisure to oust the racist, sexist, and any other deplorable -ist police members.

Things had never been better.

But when I tackled the famine and the plague with the same ruthless efficiency... I was called a monster. Those people were the most likely to die. I just saved the healthy.

But they called it a senseless massacre.

And put me in prison.

For my crimes.

One day. Someone might explain to me what they were.

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Challenge #048: Fame and Glory(1)

(1) "Oh! never try for the top job! Too many want to knock you off. Not even second or third, a comfortable spot somewhere near the top is best. And it's So interesting watching the carnage. You might even get a book about it."

(2) "Famous!! You want to be famous, Are you stark raving mad!"

(1)

Merryl was, as far as all other contenders were concerned, very bad at the Game of Houses. The goal was to win the throne, and power, and enough loyalty to actually enjoy it for a while.

But Merryl never got further than advisor to the throne. She had a high-born, if incompetent husband, and a healthy clutch of children who were allowed to marry into the lesser families of the court. Many weren't even sure she was playing.

But the smart players, those who knew how the Game was really played... they made certain they had Merryl's favour. Followed Merryl's advice.

Because they knew for certain that Merryl was playing the Game. She was playing the long game. She didn't want or need the power of the throne.

She had the power of the Monarch's Ear. She was in every court session. Whispering or murmuring advice into the current King or Queen's right ear. And if they had a sour ruler? One who was rotten on the inside? They would inevitably make the mistake of imprisoning Merryl or threatening her family.

And that King or Queen had only days to live.

She had been sentenced to execution five times in as many years, and it was behind these prison walls that Jolf the Gnarled met with her. Ostensibly to play chess.

"The people want a Givalda on the throne. The people are stupid. The entire family is rotten and debauched. Except for you."

"Huh," Jolf moved a pawn. He did so awkwardly. A birth defect had left him with but three fingers on his dominant hand. The other was a paralysed claw. Disease and disaster both had left him looking like a monster. "They say I am the physical manifestation of my family's sins. They would go through and then execute all of my family before they'd accept the likes of me on the throne."

"They will do that, I have no doubt." Merryl delicately moved a piece. She wasn't playing to win. She was playing to keep the game in play. "I will write letters to my daughters... and then to my sons. And then to my granddaughters. I trained all my children in the ways of the game."

Jolf uncurled from his habitual stoop. Staring at the grey-haired woman who had lived so long in an age of knives. She had clever children... who she had placed carefully across the entire realm. Thrice before, this woman had written letters, and a new monarch had pardoned her. "I dare say they play it as well as you."

Merryl smiled. "You're smart. Good. Are you smart enough to play the fool?"

"Madam, I once saved my sorry excuse for a skin with a joke."

A rook moved across the checkered space of the board. "I remember. Play at being addled. Let people laugh at you. Be bumbling... but in your own lands? Be generous. Care for the health and welfare of your subjects."

"More generous than I am? My family demands their taxes."

"A lottery will suffice for generating that revenue. In fact... quietly run several gambling chains. They will fill your coffers very sweetly and none will be the wiser. Just make certain that some of the funds go to charity houses for the poor. And run them very well."

"The favour of the people..." Jolf murmured. "Others will leave their lands to share in mine. I might snap up my cousins' neglected lots in a game of dice."

"Indeed. It'll be easier when you seem stupid." A knight. "Are you capable of siring an heir?"

"Capable, aye. No woman would want me, though."

"I'll search for the right one. I'm very good at this."

"I've noticed."

"For public appearances, it might be advisable for you to cultivate a slur, stammer, stutter or other speech impediment. So long as they underestimate you, you are safe."

The current King died in the following week. It was no great shock that the next monarch in the throne immediately pardoned Merryl to resume her place just to the right of the throne. She survived five more monarchs and two more incarcerations before Jolf and his surprisingly lovely and loyal bride were placed jointly on the throne.

By that time, the only Givaldas left were Jolf and his shockingly adorable children.

Who were all taught the Game by their Aunty Merryl.

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Challenge #049: Fame and Glory(2)

(1) "Oh! never try for the top job! Too many want to knock you off. Not even second or third, a comfortable spot somewhere near the top is best. And it's So interesting watching the carnage. You might even get a book about it."

(2) "Famous!! You want to be famous, Are you stark raving mad!"

(2)

"The Consortium's gettin' a gig," Shayde argued. "Why not me?"

"Because you're not representative of a planetary body, nor enough citizens to become a virtual planetary body. Galacticly speaking, you don't have a presence. Without a presence, you can't really have a culture. Therefore, you're not really allowed to share."

"Bullshit."

Rael boggled at her.

"I have the culture I left. Six billion souls or more left behind in time. I saw a lot o' the planet. Learned a lot o' the languages. I can sing a damn lot o' the songs. Pop me in a damn museum an' I'll bring 'em all tae life fer anyone who'll listen. Anyone who'll ask."

"And your reason for doing this is...?"

"I always wanted tae be Noticed. Cut an album or more. Somethin' other than bein' trapped in a room full'a fusty old nerds who keep calling me 'my dear' and talkin' right over me, ye ken."

"You want to be a... what was the phrase? Pop star?"

"Somethin' like that. Just... a space to be me and loved for it too. Is that so nuts?"

"Yes," said Rael, a little too quickly. "You get sycophants, toadies and pretenders latching on to your tail coats. And paparazzi in the hydrangeas. Or... anywhere they could hide. They try to capture pictures of you with your pants off."

"They're still around?"

"They're almost extinct, but they do exist."

Shayde blew a raspberry. "They'd 'ave tae work hard t' catch me with me knickers down."

"Telebees," said Rael.

"Ye woh?"

"Tiny drone cameras. They can get into your private spaces through the air vents. And get some -ah- very intimate photographs."

"Remote controlled, aye?"

"Aye-uh. Yes."

"Faraday cage in the privy?" she suggested.

It was shocking how quickly she adapted. "That," he said after pondering the concept, "is a very astute idea."

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Challenge #050: Suddenly Christine

I refuse point blank to touch '50 Shades of Grey' with the proverbial 10 foot pole so. "Mister Grey or whoever he is wakes up in the body of a woman, one who is being manipulated by a scumbag like him. — knitnan

[AN: I'm not into that either. TW: Abuse, blood, pain, suicide, coarse language]

Pain.

His entire body hurt. He swore his hair hurt. Every inch of his skin was a sizzling symphony of agony. Christian Grey tried to move and winced as the sheets stuck to his skin. The air was rank with the smell of blood... but why was he hurt?

A male voice. Not his. "I said that it was time for breakfast. That means you have to move that lazy ass, slave."

It was his blood. Liberally covering his body. Especially his breasts, hips and thighs.

What?

Christian pulled the sheets off him. A battle since they were stiff with his blood. He cupped his breasts. Amazed at their presence.

"Yes. They're lovely," said the strange man. "Red is my favourite colour. This is your third chance to do as you're told."

"Are you insane?" said Christian. "Look at me. I need medical help." His voice was high and reedy. Shamefully thick with emotion. "These wounds could get infected. Do you know how many pathogens are in human blood?"

The next thing he knew, his face was hot with agony and the stranger was in his face. Pulling his hair and choking him. "I. Said. MOVE! Or do you want another lesson like last night?"

Considering the pain and the spatter... and the dimming light available to his eyes, Christian shook his head. There had never been a sweeter breath of air as the one Christian took when the stranger let go. But he didn't entirely let go. He still used Christian's hair as a leash. Steering him into spacious and spotless kitchen and dining area. Forcing him onto a white leather stool and incidentally mashing his face into the white marble countertop.

His white marble countertop. His white leather furniture. His spacious, spotless, and well-appointed apartment.

And he was, according to the reflection in the marble, a mousy-haired, dough-faced creature with at least a halfway decent body. Exactly the type Christian would pick to be his personal slave and stress relief.

The stranger placed a plastic bowl in front of Christian and cuffed his hands behind his back.

"Since you insist on acting like an animal, Christine, you will eat like one. Bow your pretty little head and eat out of the bowl like an animal."

It was scorching-hot oatmeal. And if he didn't eat, he would doubtless have his face thrust into the hot goop. He ate enough to make the stranger ease down from his readiness to strike. "This can't be legal," he whispered. "It isn't legal."

"Is is, my dear. You signed the contract. You signed the NDA. Everything I do to you is with your prior consent." A condescending chuckle. "It's not my fault you were so hungry for my cock that you didn't read it. Stupid bitch." He smacked Christian with his open hand. Possibly to remind him that this stranger was the one in power. "You don't have a legal leg to stand on. And if you dare try to escape again, I'll sue you for breach of contract so hard that your distant relatives will have to share your debtor's prison."

Escape, he had said. Again. This meant that the Christine-he-was-now had some backbone. Which meant that this monster was going to be training her... him... with increasing violence until she was broken.

Not on my watch.

Christian ate. Grudgingly. Kept up the act until the monster was satisfied. Asked, politely, to have a bath, please master.

Of course he loaded the water with a stinging antiseptic. Ducked and scrubbed him roughly. And by all the signs, he was not going to stop until Christian cried. By the end of it, he was twice as sore as when he started. Left chained to a plinth of cruel-looking instruments. Doubtless designed to scare Christine. Christian knew them well.

"Be a good pet," said the monster, "and I might be kind. Instead of using those on you tonight."

The cuffs were tight and hard to escape. The apartment rather bare of everything that could cut... scars on Christine's wrists indicated prior suicide attempts.

But there were still mirrors.

He put himself on the public, pristine master bedroom before he stabbed the broken glass into his inner thigh. Rolled all over the white comforter while he still had the power. Made sure his blood got everywhere.

There was more than one way to escape.

He remembered grinning as the power faded from his limbs. "Red is your favourite colour..." he said in Christine's voice. Tried to laugh as the light faded from his eyes.

And woke in shock and agony in the same room he started in.

"I said that it was time for breakfast," said the monster. "That means you have to move that lazy ass, slave."

There truly was no escape.

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Challenge #051: Quirks of Psychology

Someone who worked for Norix and was a Whisperer, at the end of the Standard Year, who really needs that job.

They're a Queen fan and don't know why they're a Whisperer.

"Please... please don't let me go. I can change the song. I've been working on it. I have. I love Under Pressure. I just... don't... understand... why I keep singing Ice Ice Baby."

Nor looked down on the pleading ape. Lucy. There was a thin veneer of civilisation between this deathworlder and literally tearing Norix apart in cognicidal[1] rage. Norix was endlessly shocked at how strong that thin veneer was. A being who could quite literally tear most of Norix's processing facility to expensive pieces had put herself in a submissive position to a level 2 Havenworlder who was a tiny fraction over half her height.

"I understand your problem," soothed Norix. "Can you understand mine? You are a brutal people. This facility cannot withstand fights amongst your kind."

"I know. I listen to Under Pressure every morning... and in the shower. I'm trying to train my traitor brain. Please. I need the Time."

Norix pondered the begging human. Three steps away from being an utter monster... and yet performing a display of abject weakness. "Familial obligations?"

"I'm trying to export my mother from Greater Deregulation West."

Ah. The people who had sold this human to Norix for a one-off payment. Who had, in fact, sold an entire, crammed shipload of humans to Norix for what they imagined to be a profit in useless gold. The humans under her care had been shocked and amazed that they were being paid. And many were using this advantage to buy their family.

At least until Greater Deregulation West had realised that Time was where the real money was at, and effectively shut down the population drain.

"I can petition Cogniscent Rights on your behalf," offered Norix. "And I know some associates who will... hire... Whisperers like yourself."

Lucy breathed out in a relieved sob, almost collapsing on the floor. "...thank you..."

"I shall give you a glowing recommendation," added Norix. "And excise negative remarks about your singing habits."

Sobbing. "How can I repay you?"

"Live well," she said, "and get as many as you can the hell out of Greater Deregulation West."

[1] Well it can't exactly be homicide, can it?

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Challenge #052: No Cause for Alarm...

When someone who's covered with blood and carrying a knife asks me politely, I'll usually say "yes"

[TW: Blood, murder, implied abuse.]

I found her on the highway. She was wearing what had once been a pink, teddy-bear nightie, but was now a rich, blood red and soaking wet. Poor kid looked like she'd bathed in blood. And the big kitchen knife clutched in her white-knuckled hands didn't do much to help the image.

She was so tiny. I guessed her age at four or five. Daycare age. She should have been watching cartoons and playing with dolls, not wandering the roads in the middle of the night and covered in blood.

Of course I stopped. I'm not a monster. I might as well have been by the way she cringed and wept.

"Are you okay, kid?"

"...i've been a bad chipmunk[1]," she whimpered. "...i killed th' big bad wolf... an' then i killed the sheep who let him... who let him..."

I didn't advance on her. I just hunkered by the side of the road with her. Keeping my hands where she could see. "It's okay," I cooed. "I bet the big bad wolf hurt the little chipmunk; she's not bad if all she was doing was making him stop."

Best to keep to her own distancing language. Best to sound reassuring.

"...some of the sheep went through it before," said the blood-soaked little kid. She had a pretty pink bow on top of her head. Well. What used to be a pretty pink bow. "...and one knew it was happening... but they let it... they let him do—" She stopped looking at the ground long enough for me to look deep into eyes that had already seen Hell. She was four. "...chipmunks shouldn't tell lies..."

"Are you running away? From the big bad wolf?"

Nod.

"Where are you headed?"

"...mexico... canada... where the bad people go."

Ah. "Well... the bad people go to the police first. I can take you right to them. It isn't safe to go walking on the highway."

"...whatever..."

She had killed her family. And an exam showed that she had been trying to tell the truth about her father. And her brothers had suffered before her. CSI obtained evidence that the mother was battling depression and mixing her self-medications.

Her name's Clarissa. She's in therapy, now. Talking about all the 'lies' that the bad chipmunks tell. If all goes well, she might be better by the time she's eighteen. I visit her every day and teach her more ways to keep the big bad wolves off of her.

I just wish I'd gotten to that scumrat of a father before she did. I'd have made that human garbage suffer.

1] For full details on this poor mite, check out Clarissa by Jason Yungbluth. TW: ALL THE TRIGGERS. [http://www.whatisdeepfried.com/2000/12/31/clarissa/

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Challenge #053: Water Worship

The first thing the humans of Amity made when they reached the beach was the pipeline. The second thing they made was surfboards.

From the Journals of T'reka the Inquisitive:

Play is seemingly an important to these dangerous creatures as work is. I have personally witnessed their emergence onto the beachfront with a mixture of trepidation and fascination.

Their work was to build the pipeline previously mentioned. Their play... immediately followed. Some brought colourful discs with them for what I posit to be some form of weapon play [CENSOR ALERT: REFERENCE TO ALARMING FOOTAGE. File reference: Frisbee] Some made alarmingly temporary and illogical sand structures.

And some, puzzlingly, hurried away on their ungulates, only to return with baffling equipment.

It resembled an ovoid board, curved like a leaf and possessing at least one fin. It, too, was in bright colours. Its human bearers were also bedecked in toxic colours. A sensible warning for all life to not eat them, lest their bodies poison the entire ecology.

Each of these boards were strapped to the humans by the means of a long tether.

The humans then proceeded with their equipment into the water. They used these strange planks as impromptu boats, paddling out above highly risky depths. Even to the point of piloting through the waves.

At risk to my life, I documented what happened next. [CENSOR ALERT: REFERENCE TO SUICIDALLY DANGEROUS PRACTICES] One human in the group matched speeds with a wave and then stood upright on their board!

She made it dance on the waves before tumbling to what should have been her doom... and yet emerged alive and -I hesitate to say- laughing.

This scientist cannot fathom the meaning of this ritual. Is it a sacrifice to their ocean gods? A display of vitality and fitness? A mating display? Or is it used as a means to defuse their perpetual destructive rage?

Of course, I am keeping my distance and doing my utmost to remain undiscovered as I examine this bizarre and terrifying ritual.

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Challenge #054: One Fine Birthday Party in Paris

Prompt: SPG and A Monster In Paris. The band comes to visit the best cabaret in Paris and see the famous Masked Musician...

AN: I already have a much longer one in progress [ here-\(unfinished\)/), so I'll pretend it doesn't exist in my continuity just for you. (Seriously, keeping a continuity is vastly important to me and registers on my OCD) You're welcome]

1912

There was a small dirigible docked with the Eiffel Tower, which some Parisians still called "the tragic coat hanger". But even they had to admit that it did come in handy as a dock for dirigibles, a lighthouse, and a radio tower.

The peculiar family that disembarked... was something Paris had never seen before.

Two of the men, one older than the other, looked like they'd stepped out of a photograph. Supremely pale of skin and black of hair. Another young man was almost identical to the photograph-boy in everything but colour. He was blonde and a comparative picture of health. The boys' mother was so unremarkable as to almost vanish from sight. Though she wore demure green, she blended into the scenery until the elder of the photographs caught her up in an enthusiastic hug and kissed her passionately.

Then... she glowed.

Following her onto the tower were four metal people. Giants like the eldest Photograph man, and taller than him with it. They were all dressed sharply in black and red. Copper, silver, brass and bronze.

The copper one played hopscotch on the gantry and, once across, wheeled to face the other metal men.

"See d-dummins? It's all safe!"

The brass one somehow glided across the gantry. Then the bronze one was the living embodiment of perfect posture and marching form.

Leaving the silver one whimpering and beeping uncertainly on the dirigible.

There was some evident debate held between the metal men by means of birdsong before the copper one stomped all the way back and carried his silver brother to join his metal family.

The Walter family had arrived in Paris.

When they arrived at L'Oiseau Rare, they were given special seating (the automatons had to sit on the stairs since no chair in Paris was robust enough to hold them) and champagne and the show of a lifetime.

They stayed to interview Francoeur, Lucille, Raoul and the Professor about the giant flea who sang.

And it was the robots, bickering in binary, who got Francoeur to talk. After a fashion.

Soon, all five of them were chittering eagerly amongst themselves and jamming with the orchestra's instruments and generally laying a soundtrack to the humans' conversations.

And when it was revealed that the Walters were in Paris for Iris' birthday... well... she got an impromptu concert the likes of which no-one had ever seen.

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Challenge #055: One Otherwise Dreary Afternoon Backstage

AMiP again. Francoeur vs. a laser pointer.

After their strange friends from a different future left, Raoul found a tiny trinket in one of their bunks. It looked like a cylinder... and it had a button, but beyond that, there was no clue of how it worked or what it was.

So, naturally, he pressed the button.

There was no hum. No whirr. No noise of anything mechanical going on, and no hint of what it was supposed to do. Raoul jiggled it. Pressed it against his ear. Tried talking to it. Nothing.

Then he noticed that Francoeur was busy chasing something around the walls and ceiling.

It was a pinpoint of a red dot. Caused... caused by the small cylinder in Raoul's hand. He almost forgot to be curious about the little cylinder, favouring watching Francoeur scurry about after the tiny red dot and giggling like a child.

Lucille stormed in like one thousand avenging angels. "What the living devil are you two doing?"

Raoul turned off the tiny light and pretended he had been doing exactly nothing at all. "Who? Me?"

Francoeur chittered a mournful little song and pointed to Raoul.

"Really," Lucille marched over and tore it out of his unresisting fingers. "And what is this?"

"Uuuuuuuuuuuhhhh... really ineffective electric torch?"

"Hmf." She turned it on, examining the spot in her hand, then against the wall, and then reflected by a mirror. Francoeur chased the dot with chirps of joy.

At length, she decided, "While I agree that this could help Francoeur get his exercise without disturbing half of Paris..." she flipped the little light off. "We should not be messing about with things from a different reality. I'm putting this in a lockbox for all our safeties."

Francoeur sulked for five days before Raoul began to work out how to make one of his own.

Thus, in that reality, the inventor of the LASER was Raoul DeChagny in 1922, and it was vital in the victories of the second world war.

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Challenge #056: Still in South Park

Kurt and Todd, still in South Park. The "184th" line has pretty much become their soundtrack. Todd is rolling with the weirdness, but Kurt is nearing a breakdown (shot at by Jimbo and Ned, witnessing Kenny die multiple times, constantly stalked by geneticist Dr, Mephisto). They're walking down the street discussing this, when they see Jesus and Satan at a cafe having coffee. Cue freak-out.

"...so hungry..."

"Yo, hungry's your default state, Fuzzy."

"It takes calories to teleport, freund. And I've needed to teleport a lot."

"Speakin' of. Shotgun nutso's, eight o'clock."

Kurt leaped before the distant, "IT'S COMIN' RIGHT FOR US!" could echo against the buildings, and was out of sight before they could get a bead.

Todd had taken a very long time to figure out why Fuzzy was so great at dodging people with guns. Now that he had it confirmed, he felt compelled to take Fuzzy's side.

Thus, he crossed the street with his fists primed and his het up. "Whassa problem wit' y'all? Why you gotta shoot at my friend? Y'r assholes, you know that?"

Ned raised his device to his throat. "Nnnnn... we're-just-trying-to-make-a-living."

"Son, we're running a very important local cable show and your pet is the hundred and eighty-fourth weirdest thing in South Park."

"Nnnnn... He's-on-our-list."

"He's not an animal, yo! He's a human being!"

"Well he sure as shit don't look like one," retorted Jimbo.

Todd sighed. He was getting really sick of these lunatics taking pot-shots at the closest thing he had to a friend on this crazy journey. "Look. I don't want you killin' my friend, awright? Y'all never done catch and release?"

"Nnnnn... That's-for-pussies."

"You could interview him. Have him on your show and then - done. No more need to shoot him."

Jimbo glared at him. "Where's the fun in that?"

Somewhere down the street, Kurt screamed. Todd flipped the hunters a double-barreled-one-finger-salute, and literally leaped down the street.

There, at the local cafe, Satan was sipping coffee with Jesus and amicably chatting about relationships. Or they had been before Kurt broke down sobbing in the streets.

Todd hustled him off the road. "Dude, what the hell?"

"It's okay," he said, wide-eyed. "I have faith. I shall be reborn like that little boy who keeps gettink killed, ja? And this time, I shall have ze body on an angel..."

Jesus said, "Yae, I am not going that far."

Kurt giggled. It wasn't the giggle of someone having a good time. It was the giggle of someone who had stared too long at the Elder Gods and was failing their sanity check.

"Could'ja go as far as -Idunno- GETTING US THE FUCK OUTTA HERE? This place ain't no good fo' his health, yo."

"Um...." said Jesus. He looked pleadingly to Satan.

Satan sighed. "All right, just this once I'll be the good guy."

Todd had to drag Kurt through the whirling vortex.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #057: The Human Answer(1)

"What the Heck are they doing?"

"They're having Fun."

This is a line from a Very old Movie called The Boatnicks" See what you can do with it, not necessarily to do with boats, could be anything us humans think of as fun.

2. Jam, treacle, puffed rice. Who would have thought it could be used as a weapon.

3. "Once you open a can of worms, it takes two cans to get them back." have fun.

(1)

Usually, the Numidid said, when deathworlders meet havenworlders, the deathworlders win. They take over by force of numbers, by disease, by war, by famine, and in most cases, by their sheer capacity for breeding.

Humans were the first known deathworlders to try and make everything even for everybody.

Can't glide like the Numidid? Humans will engineer wingsuits that turn unaerodynamic apes into the best fliers.

Not as fast or as tireless as a Human? They have a special breed of horse that will carry you in a smooth and level gait, and help you keep up with your human associate.

They defied death on a daily basis.

And they invented strange passtimes.

T'reka watched in curiosity as the young humans hauled themselves up to the branches of a sky-raker tree by means of a swing seat attached to a set of pulleys. Once up, they would lower the seat for the next child. Those already on the branch waited in a queue to get to the outer part of the branch and then leap off, relying on nothing but the fabric attached to their harnesses to keep them from grievous injury upon landing.

She would not be shocked if those demi-spheres of fabric were made from cellulose.

T'reka finally swallowed her trepidation and lit by an adult helping the young fold their deflated demi-spheres for the next trip.

"What are they doing?" she begged.

"They are having fun," smiled the human.

Of course. They were deathworlders.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #058: The Human Answer(2)

"What the Heck are they doing?"

"They're having Fun."

This is a line from a Very old Movie called The Boatnicks" See what you can do with it, not necessarily to do with boats, could be anything us humans think of as fun.

2. Jam, treacle, puffed rice. Who would have thought it could be used as a weapon.

3. "Once you open a can of worms, it takes two cans to get them back." have fun.

(2)

Captain Pam was an unassuming woman who tended to call everyone "dear" or "sweetie". She was nice to everyone she met, and polite as she could be.

Which made people wonder how she came to be the leader of the Bloody Fang Pirates.

Some would say she made most of her Time by telling her story, and she was glad to tell it. And it went like this:

Oh, it was years ago now, when my little Lynn was just a toddler. The Bloody Fang captured my freighter and demanded poor Lynn as a hostage. She's all grown now, but she was nearly at the terrible twos, then. And she could escape anything. Her playpen, her clothes... I lost count of the number of times I had to fetch her in an escape pod, naked as a jay, and covered in something sticky.

So I didn't just give them my Lynn. I gave them some food for her. Treacle, jam and puffed rice. Three of her favourites at the time.

Do any of you have small children? No? Then you have no idea what a devil puffed rice is. I had to buy a gengineered critter just to keep it out of my air vents. We called it Rover.

Anyway, I went into my cell as quiet as you please. Did you know the Bloody Fang used to make their internal bulkheads out of toffee? Peanut brittle to be precise. I figured it might slow my little Lynn down, a bit, but it wasn't long before the screaming started anyway.

Never act scared of a baby. They think it's funny.

I think it took a sum total of three hours for them to surrender. And a further half hour to get all the stuff out of Lynn's hair. And being a good businesswoman, I taught them all how to make better money at what they do. It was just natural.

Oh, and I'm the inventor of the Sticky-puff bomb, for all my sins. Nasty job it does on the air. And once you have a Spacer's air, you have their undivided attention.

May I have another drink, dear? Thanks very much.

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Challenge #059: The Human Answer(3)

"What the Heck are they doing?"

"They're having Fun."

This is a line from a Very old Movie called The Boatnicks" See what you can do with it, not necessarily to do with boats, could be anything us humans think of as fun.

2. Jam, treacle, puffed rice. Who would have thought it could be used as a weapon.

3. "Once you open a can of worms, it takes two cans to get them back." have fun.

(3)

Everyone thinks that Ghishem is a lawless system. This might be largely due to the sheer volumes of what other planets call crime in there.

But, however, should one attempt to travel through official channels, you will find the most intensely tangled gordian knot of red tape ever conceived by the minds of Lovecraftian demons.

And yet - humans came up with it.

Tangle with Ghishem law, it was said, and be prepared to lose the rest of your life to forms and madness. And it was in this madness that Captain Krik was trying to extract hirself.

"It is not my department," sneered the clerk.

"I was informed it was," said the Captain. "I need to obtain form E98-TY234 in order to retrieve my vessel from impoundment and get the flakk off this damnable planet. To get that form, I need form 3459-HY87-B to get form EGRY8-345BKJ, to get form 3498Y-MBN34. But in order to get any of that, I have to start with FR5B4-Y238-K. Which I was told was your department."

A single raised eyebrow. A consultation of a computer, one precise keypress at a time. The metronomic tick-tack of the keys soon matched the twitch under Captain Krik's eyelid.

"Ah yes. FR5B4-Y238-K... sadly you must first fill out R42-085UY-8E4."

The Captain let out a very undiplomatic growl. Carnage was soon to follow.

It was then that one of Krik's companion crewmembers (they were taking it in shifts by now) came up to the counter looking angry. "Excuse me," said the human. Her name, as far as Krik could pronounce it, was Lor-el. "Excuse me! In order to issue R42-085UY-8E4, you first have to complete the competency test for form 8623SK-1D00. Have you actually done so?"

"Er," said the clerk. And quickly ran off.

Krik looked stunned and amazed. "Crewman, what—"

"It's okay, Cap," soothed Lor-el. "I'll take it from here."

Krik followed in increasing confusion as Lor-el went from office to random office, demanding that each clerk fill out or qualify to fill out form 8623SK-1D00. It took her half an hour to get the entire administrative complex busier than an ant's nest looking for this purely mythical form.

And just when they were at their peak of panic, she idly asked the extremely terrified and occupied clerk for the original form E98-TY234.

They had it in a drawer, and were eager to get rid of her in their hurry to find form 8623SK-1D00.

"Et voila," smirked Lor-el.

"You've earned a promotion, a paid holiday, and shares in the fleet," boggled Krik. "How did you know to do that?"

Lor-el smirked. "Saw something like it in an archival cartoon, once. When we're safely away, do remind me to tell you about Asterix the Gaul."

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Challenge #060: One Fine Afternoon Constitutional

Image prompt!

The story of two birds, Numidids optional.

[AN: Image shows two long-necked birds(possibly egrets) facing each other on opposite sides of what looks to be a canal. One bird is white, the other is grey.]

This is Earth. It now prides itself on the strange, the bizarre, and the unusual. Its citizens, for a modest fee, will gleefully exhibit some of the more baffling and alarming passtimes that humans have invented over their many centuries on the planet.

This is a small township called Cunabarabran. It's one of the few places that's safe for havenworlders, owing to the fact that everything potentially hazardous on a macroscopic scale has been carefully removed from the environment.

And this is S'sid'nii, a curious havenworlder seeking to reenforce his DNA by osmosis - that is, making his species stronger by careful and regulated exposure to deathworlders. As part of his daily constitutional, he takes care to chat with the human natives and learn interesting things.

And one of those interesting things is a human, also taking a walk, with a large bundle of leashes. At the end of each, a long-necked water bird. They were a chaotic squabble and seemed determined to tangle their leashes at the slightest provocation.

As the human continued her walk, she barked orders at the birds by name. "Snowy, cool it! Edgar, get on the other side. Clarence... Clarence... OI! To the back. Bernadette, stop picking on Chloe."

As a fellow bird, this raised his interest. S'sid'nii followed in curiosity, and cautiously caught up with the beleaguered human.

"Yeah nah I'm not takin' you in, mate," said the human. "I already got enough feathers in me cap."

"I am an independant entity," soothe S'sid'nee. "I am meaning to ask... of what kind are these pets."

"Egrets," said the human. "I wish I had a few."

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Challenge #061: One Smoke-Filled Evening in a Dimly-Lit Room

Vetenari being a tidy soul, would have made certain that the mess he'd tidied up Stayed tidy.

Republican Secret Congress, the not-too-distant future...

"Okay, so the Thin Man is gone, and so is President Gunther. The question now is, how do we reverse the damage to America?"

"We can't use the old arguments," said one of the shadowy figures. "The Thin Man gave them dang Liberals all the ammo they'll ever need!"

"And worse," said another, "he came up with the easiest solutions to all the things we said were ruining America... and he made America the greatest country on this earth!"

"Not that it wasn't *before*," growled the apparent leader.

There was a generic murmur of "Oh yes"es and "greatest country bar none"s, but an anonymous listener could tell that their hearts weren't in it.

"Thanks to the Thin Man, our power system is completely demolished," said the leader. "We can no longer prey on the fears of our people because our great nation has faced those fears and come out smiling."

"It ain't fair," grumbled another shadowy figure. "This one man turns up and just... fixes everything for everyone but us. How the hell are we going to get votes now?"

A young man tentatively raised a shaking hand. "We... could... do something... different?"

He was kicked out of the ever-dwindling Republican Party in short order. But the writing was on the wall. America loved the sensible solutions. The age of unreason was dead.

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Challenge #062: One Puzzling Afternoon in the Ambassador's Lounge

 http://eighthdoctor.tumblr.com/post/104127747867/okay-but-i-spent-the-afternoon-reading-about-venus

"Wait. Wait. I need to understand this."

Shayde sighed. It wasn't the first time she'd had to explain it in depth. "Go on."

"Your people took seven goes to find a planet."

"Yeh, the thing aboot space is... it's big. There's loads o' stuff in it ye ken..."

"It was your intra-stellar neighbour on an inner track, with a high reflective index. How could you miss?"

"We were gettin' our sights in."

"And then you took seventeen tries to land something there, and a further nineteen to land it on purpose."

"Look, there's many a slip, awrigh'? We were learnin'."

"And then you did it twenty-four times before you learned anything about the surface apart from 'extremely dangerous'."

"Well, aye, we had tae find out why the probes were failin'."

"Before you reached reliable space flight, your people sent well over five hundred probes to that planet, none of which lasted longer than three hours. And then you were mad enough to try terraforming it?"

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Only after you pumped half the atmosphere over to Mars..."

"Aye, but th' Venusian spas are fookain brilliant."

"THEY'RE IN ACTIVE CAULDERA!"

"Carefully monitored active cauldera, thanks. We're no' completely nuts."

A stunned and awed silence, in which Lady Ambassador Grex got in a good boggle. "You could have fooled me."

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Challenge #063: The Arboretum of Death

Bunya Pines. That is all.

[AN: SO very tempted to add a distant relative to Gravity Falls...]

People came from all over to see the deadly plants. They did not come to experience personal encounters with them. Just to see, and goggle in amazement that they existed at all.

Of course, it was no shock to many that the majority of these deadly plants came from Earth

Most of the protected walkways were surrounded on all sides by the best of meteor-proof re-enforced glass, except for five Distance Units in the middle of the track. As far away from the plants that poisoned the air as they could get. And in the Units preceding this patch of track, warning signs told the visitors what to expect. Especially frail Havenworlders would turn around and go back the way they had come. Some would take the underground path to avoid being literally scared to death. A rare few would illuminate the disturbing information about the Bunya Pine.

Emergency medtechs were always standing by for those who did.

Humans, of course, would deliberately stand under the military-grade Springwire and wait for the natural missiles to descend. Often with eager grins of anticipation. Then they would all shriek and scream and holler as a ten Weight Unit pine cone fell at Standard gravity to either ricochet off the Springwire and shatter against a robust tree, or shatter against the special cage.

And then they would laugh.

And buy the souvenir necklaces with a varnished pinecone shard dangling from a chain or a thong, much like surfers would wear a shark tooth.

This is the thing that I survived, the necklaces said. I wear part of it to show my strength.

Even those who scurried through the Springwire section of the track purchased a shard necklace. To show that they had been there. To show that it existed.

And every year... more unbelievers came to see.

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Challenge #064: Come to Scenic Gravity Falls

Mabel Pines and Francouer.

(if you don't watch Gravity Falls a. Do it and b. this is now a free prompt day)

[AN: I do watch, I'm just not into the decoding stuff because I'm daft. I let everyone else do that.]

"I'll show you all! I'll summon a monster from ages past to destroy you all! Destroy you all! Destroy you all! Destroy you all!"

"Uh..." said Dipper. "Was it necessary to say it that many times?" And then he threw the onion.

It bounced with the kind of precision he'd learned trying to win that dumb duck thing and Wendy's heart. It had to be precisely timed to the second, so as to cut off his last word.

The villain du jour did his obligatory scoff while Dipper pretended that it had gone wrong... and proceeded to perform his ritual while the onion continued to careen around the room.

Just as the lights flared from his chalk circle, and he uttered the words, "...a giant—" the onion hit him and knocked him out cold.

It would have been fine if it wasn't for Mabel.

She swung through the spell circle on that dumb grappling hook of hers and said, "FLEE for your lives from Pirate Captain Mabel, aaaaarrrr..."

There wasn't a facepalm big enough.

Smoke fountained up. The spell was complete.

And in the middle of the altar was... a nine foot tall... man? In a zoot suit and a mask? Holding a guitar.

"Brrrp?" he said. Then he said, "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" in an amazingly high voice.

Dipper vented a noise of anguish. "Mabel. What did you DO?"

"I was saving the day," said Mabel, she'd put a bedazzled skull and crossbones on her medical eyepatch. "You're welcome."

"...ou est Lucille?" asked the giant.

Mabel came over all giggles. "Ooo, par-lay voo France-says mon sewer..."

Querying chitters. "...c'est n'est pas Français..."

Giggle giggle giggle giggle flirt. "You could talk to me all day... PLEASE DO!"

Dipper rolled his eyes as he got out the black light. "Well, in order to send him back to where he came from, we have to defeat him with his own skill. Uh. Okay. Show us what you got, big guy."

Coos of glee as the giant picked up an abandoned guitar and doffed his coat.

He had four arms.

Oh. Giant flea. Of course. Mabel had completed the spell.

And damn, but he was good at guitar. And a very good singer. Mabel was practically floating on a cloud of cartoon hearts by the time he was done.

"Great, this is impossible."

*

His name was Francoeur, and he didn't talk much, which Grunkle Stan appreciated. He was also becoming a fast draw for the Mystery Shack, which Grunkle Stan loved.

Every guitarist for miles around would come, take a tour, and then pony up the fifty bucks to try and defeat the insectoid master of the guitar.

Mabel, Candy and Grenda had swooning seats in the front row, but none of them had an impact on Francoeur.

Then the steam-powered stranger came.

Dipper didn't know who she was fooling with that fake moustache, but everyone else seemed to go with it and call her 'sir' and act like ordering hot water and machine oil at the diner was an everyday happenstance. She spoke with a stutter and made machine noises in her absent moments. And, were it not for the verdigris copper of her skin and the red stripes in her outfit, she could have easily passed for one of Gravity Falls elder goths.

She, too, took the tour and paid the fifty bucks to go on the stage against Francoeur. That was when she took off her moustache and announced, "My name is Rabbit, and I was b-b-built back in eighteen ninety six. Y-y-you know, when it was sti-still illegal for women to read, and all the men dressed like Mister Peanut."

"What's going on?" wailed Mabel.

"...music history," whispered Robbie. He immediately started recording on his phone.

Rabbit brought out a Keytar and plugged it in to a speaker. "Sorry, Honeybee. I g-g-gotta defeat ya 'cause of all them wonderful years in Paris."

Francoeur merely cooed agreement and tipped his hat.

And then they Played. Not against each other, but together. Tunes and harmony so excellent that there was not a dry eye in the house. And with a spectacular light show and a fizzle of steam, Francoeur was gone.

Rabbit sighed and whispered, "So long, Honeybee..." There was a fresh trail of oily tears down her copper cheeks. "We always did make b-b-b-beautiful music together..."

Robbie spent the rest of that night info-dumping about Colonel Walter's steam-powered automatons and their incredibly lengthy history as musical machines. But Rabbit left without any trace. Not even an oil spot.

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Challenge #065: These Humans Are Crazy

An aliens reaction to the punch buggy game

"Punch buggy white!"

"Hey! One, that is clearly blue, and two - we're in a freaking car museum. Knock it off."

"Where's your sense of humour?"

Janice gritted her teeth. "We're in front of ambassadors," she grated. "You're embarrassing your entire species."

Meanwhile, Ambassador Vrex was taking notes. Humans are instinctually violent. Even their games and jokes rely heavily on aggressive physical contact.

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Challenge #066: The Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Really Bad Idea

"This year's human sacrifice features something very special- actual humans!"

"What were they sacrificing before?" murmured Edilade "Soy humans?"

"Best not to ask," whispered Janet. "You have any of those smoke bombs I told you to dispose of?"

"Of course not."

"Well, gimme some of those smoke bombs you don't have." Janet had already escaped the natives' shackles. They all had. Being a scavenger crew meant that they were all prepared for the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. "Five each should do it."

Edilade grinned. "Are we gonna pull the Boom Shakalaka?"

Janet considered this, "Eeeeehhh... maybe a hybrid of Boom and Maresidoats. We don't want them worshiping us by accident."

"So... running under a hail of spears, then."

"Be grateful they haven't invented archery. Or long-range accuracy."

*

The captain burned fuel a little faster, getting away from that planet. Unfortunately, they had had to leave some of their tech behind. At least it was gene-locked and the natives couldn't use it for anything more than talismans or, if mood suited them, bludgeons.

The bad news that came with that was that their tech was gene-locked and the Society for the Protection of Societies was going to be on their collective asses if they ever found out.

The big question, however was, "How the heck did they become a cargo cult if we're the first humans to go there?" which Tamika helpfully asked.

"That," said Captain Shanice, "is a question we can log in our defence."

*

In a hidden temple, far underneath where the natives had built their 'space lasso', was the most sacred of their sacred objects. A holy ancestor had tried to catch a star, so the story went, and seized this.

Most of it was sort of octagonal, but the important part was a carefully-polished plaque. Maintained and worshiped as a holy message.

On it was a picture of the device, and two nude humans, and a stylised star, or what could have been a star, if one didn't notice the binary notation of the rays

And a small depiction of a solar system.

One of Humanity's messages to the cosmos.

It was a pity that the natives read it as a menu order from the Gods.

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Challenge #067: A Solid What?

That most interesting of currencies, The Favour.

"It is not worth my Time, patience and anguish to even go near that piece of retro insanity you call a personal vehicle."

Shayde thought she was upping the ante when she said, "I'll owe ye a solid..."

He glared at her. "A solid what?"

"A solid favour. It's a thing. Like ye need me tae do som'att ye don't want tae do or I could only do but I don't really like, ye ken. I'd do it 'cause I owe ye a solid."

"Favours are nebulous and cannot be quantified, therefore it is illegal to trade in them."

She looked so crestfallen and disappointed. "Aaaawww... they did awa' with friendly barter? That's no' fair..."

"...and who said we were friends?"

"Na, na, don't be like tha'... Yer important tae me. Very important. Yer the only one who bothers tae try an' learn what I'm talkin' about half the time."

He folded his arms and turned away. "As your interpreter, I have to. And it earns me a lot of bonuses."

"Gi'wa' wi' ye," she scoffed. "If that were true, I would'nae have those four little words you love tae hear..."

"Don't say them. I'm not interested."

"Powdered. Doughnut. Pancake. Surprise."

Damnit. Rael sighed. He could already feel his personal energies draining pre-emptively. "What's gone wrong with it now?"

"It's the overbluff manifold," she said. "It's no' gettin' along wi' the spline retriculator. I tried everything'."

"Except not putting a modern Grav Drive in a recreation of an ancient technology your peoples used to visit your local satellite planet."

"I think it's cool," she huffed. "Are ye doin' it or not?"

"Praline Ganache on the pancakes?"

"Do I look like a savage? I'll even put sprinkles in t' batter."

"All right," he sighed. "Grudgingly. And my favour is that you change the name of your... 'motor'."

Shayde whined. "Do I have to?"

"I'm not spending any more time than I have to in any vessel named The Vomit Comet."

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Challenge #068: What, When You Own The World?

The domino effect, as applied to takeovers, and what happens when the last one falls.

This was it. The pinnacle of success. Fortune Incorporated had made its last takeover. With this signing, with this handshake, with this cluster of flashes dazzling his eye... Fortune Inc owned every business in the world... and since he owned Fortune Inc, he owned the world.

For the entire press conference, the glamorous soiree, it was all he could do to maintain a restrained and confident facade. He had to wait until he had fashioned a dignified retreat before he turned whooping cartwheels down the halls. Before he hugged the manservants and kissed the maids. Before he did the little victory dance that he had not performed in public since he was five.

He'd won.

From this moment on, there would not be a venture, not be an invention, not be a lemonade stand on a street corner, that did not have his money involved. He, Launcillot Cranstonbury, had every last deal on this planet working in his favour.

Of course he owed a lot to his predecessors, making certain that Fortune Inc was the best and strongest business out there, and generations of Cranstonburies for not fixing what was never broken in the first place. And, of course, his father, for teaching him everything he knew.

And now he was the youngest and most successful business genius on record. The only question that remained was - how to best shape the world in his image?

What would get him the most profit?

*

"...and then there's the Castor Island matter, sir."

Undisputed Economic King of the World, Launcillot Cranstonbury raised a greying eyebrow. "What Castor Island matter?"

"The citizens of Castor Island have decided to shun the body corporate, sir. They're not engaging in commerce as we know it. They're... bartering."

Launcillot laughed. "Barter. In a global economy? That's not going to run for long, is it?"

"They have a unit of exchange that is not based on material wealth, sir. They're minting this... fiat... and using it in lieu of genuine money."

"Oh? What are they calling it?"

"Time, sir. It's based on seconds, minutes and hours of genuine time."

"Well how the hell can anything accrue value that way?" protested Launcillot. "There's no opportunity for investment. No chance of returns."

"Yes, sir." Pevensy consulted her tablet. "Your interests in that area are now money sinks, sir. Nobody shops there. The locals prefer Time to Lupits."

"That's their problem," Launcillot scoffed. "Withdraw my interests there. Let the whole damn island rot without import or export. They'll suffer soon enough."

"Er," said Pevensy. "That's the problem, sir. They're prospering."

"How?"

"Evidently... they've made a form of... black market. The people prefer craft and care to the cheaper, mass-produced fare that has dominated the market since your takeover. And their immediate neighbours are beginning to join in."

"Tell the networks to run the usual smear campaigns. People risking their lives and the lives of their family on products that don't comply with the researched industry standards. And make the industry standards impossible for these yokels to comply with. Standard business. And start a few lines with slightly higher quality for the rubes at twice the normal price. Keep them confused, Pevensy. It's the only way."

*

Launcillot Cranstonbury was a great-grandfather when Time took over the planet and rendered his economic empire moot. He never understood where he went wrong. All he had ever done was play by the rules, and give the people what they said they wanted.

He never understood why... they had no reason to help him in his old age and infirmity, but they did anyway. And they only charged their Time. If they charged at all.

And he never learned that the Galactic Alliance had had a hand in destroying his life's work.

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Challenge #069: Back Off, We're Celebrating!

"Light blue touch paper! Run like Hell!"

It looked like a cylinder with a cone at one end and a stick at the other. The purpose of the string at the stick end was just as mysterious as the cone. It was painted in toxic stripes, therefore it was dangerous.

"What is this?" said T'reka.

"Humans use it to celebrate," said Susan. "They're rockets designed to explode. For art."

Nobody on Amity could side-eye like a Numidid. T'reka gave her a classic one. "Making rockets explode is an accident, not an art."

"We use them to paint the night sky in coloured light," Susan re-explained. She was well used to this after decades of working with T'reka. "They explode on purpose to do this."

"Loud noises and sudden lights. Of course this is a human entertainment. I think I know the answer, but I must ask. What are you celebrating with these?"

"Uh... the fact that we can make fireworks now...?"

"Called it," T'reka muttered in her own tongue. "Have you set out a warning for the Numidid population?"

"Sort of? We called it an invitation, but we did say there'd be loud noises and flashing lights. And screaming humans."

"Many will observe from a safe distance." She peered at the smudged label on the tube. "What are these words?"

"Light blue touch paper. Run like hell."

"How very human," T'reka snarked.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #070: When Lorraine Met Walter

Is it bird! Is it a plane. No it's a Plot Bunny!

AN: This story hails all the way back to story #298 in the first [One Year of Instants. Buy your copy now!]

When she first saw Walter, she mistook him for a hobo and pretended she didn't see him.

Their second meeting was even less auspicious. Her landlord hired her to serve him a writ about the smell. She found him in the middle of a nest of typewriting, strung out on coffee and suffering the early stages of scurvy.

In a corner, as far away from the nest as it could get, was what appeared to be a rabbit crammed into a cage that was far too small.

The smell was him. He hadn't bathed or changed his clothes inside of a fortnight and the food stains were starting to compost. Every time Lorraine went near him, he said, "Hang on, hang on, hangonhangonhangon..." or, "Almost done. It's almost done."

Lorraine stuck the writ to the fridge and took his trash out for him, which did only a little something about the smell. Walter, evidently, had no time for bathing, meals that didn't come out of a microwave, tidying up, or even putting his box-meal scrapings in the bin. Or, for that matter, flushing the toilet.

He finally finished typing with an explosive, "And... DONE! YES!" He gave the rabbit the finger and lurched, zombielike, into the shower where things apparently got orgasmic over soap and water.

Lorraine, meanwhile, at least organised his piles of packrattus and took a curious peek at what he'd been typing.

It was the best thing she'd ever read.

She nearly leaped out of her skin when he tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me? Who are you?"

"Lorraine. Whelks. I live down the hall from you. Our landlord wanted me to serve you notice about the smell."

"Yeah. Things get messy when Fluffykins gets out."

That should have been her first warning. Hell, in retrospect, it should have been the only warning she'd have ever needed... but retrospect has a perfect view.

Things only got worse from there on in.

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Challenge #071: Diggy Diggy Hole

"Didn't anybody tell you that when you are in a hole of your own making, Don't keep digging."

Hwell called it a 'fox hole', but its dimensions were closer to that of an elephant. And it was now very deep, because the native pests had a long reach that went along with their fear of falling.

It was past dawn. They were gone, now.

"We're in a hole," said Hwell. "Um. Too wide to climb out. Loose soil, anyway. Wouldn't work. Even if I hoisted you out, there's nothing near that'd help you hoist me out..."

"That's assuming I want to," added Ax'and'l.

"There's only one rational solution," concluded Hwell. "Dig more!"

Ax'and'l hid the shovel behind his back. "Explain to me how digging ourselves deeper is in any way related to progress towards our escape?"

"Who said anything about digging deeper?" He grinned. "We gotta dig sideways."

Ax'and'l checked the air for any trace of human intoxicants. Then he scanned Hwell's breath.

The human used this as an opportunity to steal the shovel back and start attacking the walls of their hole. "No worries! I got this!"

*

It was later. They were successfully in orbit.

They were also covered in mud and Hwell had yet to let go of the stasis cage with a representative sample of the aggressively carnivorous birds. He was cackling.

"Gotcha ya little bastards. I gotcha little bastards... I gotcha. I gotcha."

There was only one thing to do with Hwell when he was in this manic state of victory. That was agree with him until he calmed down.

"Yes," intoned Ax'and'l. "You got them. And they're little bastards."

"That'll teach ya. Oh yeah."

"Never mess with a human," recited Ax'and'l.

"Neeeee-ver mess with a human," cackled Hwell.

Ax'and'l draped the misaphobic blanket over him and locked the console on autopilot. About all Hwell could do now was interfere with the music player. "Enjoy your victory, O mighty hunter," he snarked. "I am going to enjoy a wash."

Hwell continued to cackle. "I got 'em. I got 'em."

It was going to be a long ride back to the gene-samplers.

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Challenge #072: How the Flakk do You Stop Human?

Human sweat is so acidic, it can corrode metals. By micrometers and over years, but still

Something there is, an ancient poet wrote, that does not like a wall. The poem was about the forces of entropy versus cogniscent-made structures, but Rael knew for a fact that that 'something' also pertained to humans.

They were practically a force of entropy on their own.

Case in point: Shayde.

Not only was she obviously isolated from current societal norms, but she had a large volume of oppositional habits that other humans had been trained out of since birth. Like her habit of running her fingertips along the walls.

"Ey oop. Som'at's wrong wi' t' wall..." Now she ran the entirety of her palm over the surface. Closely followed by the other palm.

Rael sighed. "It's an early experiment to discourage humans from touching walls. The micro surface was scientifically designed to create a sense dichotomy that would lead to feelings of depersonalisation and therefore frighten the humans away from touching it."

"It looks smooth but it feels fuzzy," Shayde giggled, and pressed her cheek against it. "Eee, lovely. I wonder if anyone's tried makin' a dress outta it..."

He physically dragged her away from the wall by her collar. "It used to be prickly. Before your species' skin acids got to it. The scientists forgot to factor in your bizarre fascination with things that make your senses argue."

"Is there still prickly bits? Can I feel 'em?"

Ugh. Typical human. "No."

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Challenge #073: BSOD'd? BPFB!

This is the pink rabbit of happiness. If your story has subject matter that you're wholly uncomfortable with writing for any reason, the pink rabbit steals the prompt and replaces it with "Write a short story about a pink rabbit"

[AN: The whole point of challenges is that I find my boundaries and ways to wriggle around them :D Image shows a pink, plush rabbit toy with floppy ears and a bow around its neck]

There's all kinds of damaged robots who find their way into Walter Robotics' Home for Abandoned Automatons. The broken, the malfunctioning, the virus-riddled...

And then there's Bitzer.

She arrived in a wooden crate and a perpetual state of worry and panic. She preferred to hide under staircases and needed constant reassurance that the Walter Workers there would not "ruin Maman's good work." And she laboured under the misapprehension that her creator, her Maman, was both still alive and somewhere "out in the wide world".

She shouldn't have worked at all, the way she was put together, but she did. And Walter Workers knew better than to interfere with something that worked. Not even to find out how and why. The spare parts and mechanical leftovers that went into her making were almost a century old. Some, more than a century. She was 117 and still suffering from New Bot Narcolepsy. And her patchwork plating needed a thorough going over. And worse, she hadn't had an oil change for decades.

Which was why one morning found the junk-made robot thoroughly wedged under the stairs, repeating, "Non, non, non!" to the crowding Walter Workers. All of whom were varyingly attempting to get her out of there, get her to accept new oil, get her to accept new clothes, or just to find out what the hell she was doing under the stairs this time.

It was at such a point that a serious intervention was in need, and why Matter Mistress Caroline hustled the crowd into the break room for twenty minutes.

She ducked under the stairs long enough to say, "It's all right now. I've made them go away. I'm coming back in just a few minutes and then we can have a nice, quiet talk."

Bitzer gave a very quiet and uncertain whimper, but didn't move.

Caroline dashed for the emergency calm kit (cold water and the best oil) and fetched a pink, plush bunny that was big enough to use as a bean bag, and dragged the whole lot back to the space under the stairs. Once there, she set up a little picnic between herself, the rabbit, and the still-huddled Bitzer. Her scarf for the picnic blanket, of course. And hardy plastic teacups from one of the playsets also stored under the stairs.

With great ceremony, Caroline poured everyone alive a cup of cold water. And mimed giving invisible tea to the rabbit.

This was enough to spark Bitzer's curiosity and get her to join in with the picnic. "Qu'est que c'est?" she whispered. She had yet to talk at what anyone else considered a normal volume. Or, for that matter, act in any way but defensive and cautious.

"It's just water," soothed Caroline, and demonstrated by taking a sip of her own. "You can swap cups if you don't trust me. I don't mind." She made a show of putting her cup down and folding her hands in her lap.

Bitzer settled into a kneeling position opposite Caroline and the bunny. Picked up her own cup and sipped. Then downed the entire thing. A sizzling indicated that her boiler had been running low.

"Another?"

"...'es please..."

It took four cups to refill the boiler to a point where Caroline wasn't worried about Bitzer any more. And even then, she readily refilled the cup whenever it was empty.

"Who is the gentleman?" the junkbot asked.

Oh. Right. Pink was a manly colour before World War Two. "Well, to anyone else, he's just a pink plush bunny. He needs a friend. And a name. Would you oblige?"

"Bonjour M'seur Lapin," she reached across to take her hand and allow the toy to 'kiss' her knuckles. "Je m'appelle Bitzer Kludge."

"All soft toys enjoy hugs," said Caroline casually.

It wasn't long after that that Bitzer had an enormous pink rabbit mostly between herself and Caroline. And it wasn't long after that that she was quietly confessing all of her fears and concerns. Things that could have been easily addressed if the rest of the Walter Workers had just taken the time to both listen and address them.

The only drawback to the 'treatment' was that Bitzer henceforth insisted on the escort of M'seur Lapin. Everywhere she went.

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Challenge #074: The Ultimate Punishment?

"Oh I'm not going to give you time in prison. Your punishment is going to be far much harder. You! are going to help judge Children's Talent Quests. May the Deity of your choice have Mercy on you!" Have fun, endless repetitions of the same routine come to mind, but be as evil as you like.

[AN: This might work on thieves and killers, but it would not be the thing for pedos or molesters]

"Betcher bottum dolleeeeerrrrr... that tomorrOOOOWWW... there'll be fuuuun!" Screeched the kid. Evidently this 'little darling' had opted for volume over tonal control. And they didn't know the words.

What passed for a dance were spasmodic gyrations out of sync with any known beat and a beat behind the more sophisticated moves the mother was doing just inside his peripheral vision.

The kid didn't have rhythm. They didn't have music. They weren't even telegenic and their 'costume' looked like one of those store-bought smocks made out of flimsy shopping-bag plastic.

He wrote his notes in cryptic cypher and called for the next kid.

Their costume was overalls and a styrofoam Minecraft Pick. They proceeded to holler out a rendition of I've Been Working on the Railroad.

These kids had to be the most tone-deaf, uncoordinated, talentless piles of consumers that had ever been born. And ugly. Yikes. Forget being beaten with the Ugly Stick. The entire population of this dirt water area had grown up repeatedly smashing themselves into the Ugly Forest.

Sure, Gareth had repeated crimes. He'd done damage to communities... but did he deserve the rest of his life with this?

He decided not.

After the twentieth rendition of Little Boat on the Sea, he decided. Gareth stood up. "That's it. You can all go home. They're all ugly, talentless little bastards who can't dance, can't sing, and can't act."

He didn't even get as far as the final "Fuck you all."

It was suicide by mob.

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Challenge #075: Permanent Hold

"Your custom is valuable to us. Please be patient and an operator will get back to you." And you can have fun with this.

The music stopped. She took a preparatory breath in. But there was no human on the other end of the line.

"Your call is important to us," said the automated voice. "Customer satisfaction and service is our number one priority. Please hold the line and a representative will be with you shortly."

Sandra Vristen III sighed and kept a note in her journal. She had her name from her Grandmother, who started the call. And who dutifully logged the complaint. The error was still there, of course. She checked daily.

And, because of the laws, she had to have the same name as the person who started the call. It was a global problem that was also in the list of complaints in her generational journal. It was in everyone's generational journal.

And why, for the most part, history on this world had stopped.

There was the thin hope, every time the music stopped, that there would be a representative this time. That help would be coming.

And in the meantime, she performed the rest of her tasks and her life with her headset almost permanently attached to her ear. She had an app that would recognise an actual customer service representative and wake her up, should they come through while she was sleeping.

But she didn't believe it would happen while she was alive. Which was why she combed her daughter's hair. She was also Sandra Vristen. Just as her son also carried his father's name. And it was also why she filled out a daily application to staff the customer representative job application for MegaGloboCorp. They had to need new hires.

It was almost as if the entire help section was empty.

*

"Another record year," crowed the CEO of the only company on the planet. He toasted his board members and grinned. "One hundred percent usage, and zero complaints!"

"Yes sir," said the shifty-eyed representative of the Customer Service division. Nobody else knew nor cared that his staff had been entirely imaginary for generations. All that mattered was the entry-level paycheques shunted around until they got to his bank account. He even used the names of the people who kept applying for non-existent jobs. For verisimilitude.

Not that anyone cared.

The money kept rolling in. And why not? They owned everything.

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Challenge #076: To Ride the Dark

On the Dark Side of the Force: you can't let it guide you like you can the Light, you must not, in fact. Rather, you have to muzzle it - or perhaps ride it, is a better analogy. Use it's power, but do not let it run away with you. Like with a particularly independent, stubborn, and genocide-happy horse.

"You have much anger in you. That is good. It is a feeling. Feeling is life." The Master smiled at her padawan. "What you must never do is allow your feelings to rule you. That way lies defeat. Behold - the little dog in the courtyard. It, too, feels."

The yapping little mutt was chasing pigeons with no hope of catching them. Syla could see that the dog was just yapping after the first creature to move. "It feels that it has to chase," she said.

"Indeed," Master Egris nodded. "The dog expends all its energy in a useless and unfocussed chase. Ultimately, it will be too exhausted to chase, and lose any hope of a prize."

"So I must be focussed like a cat?"

Laughter. "Nonsense, padawan. The cat focuses exclusively on one goal. It focuses too fiercely, and leaves itself vulnerable from an unforeseen attack."

There was a cat in the courtyard, below. A mottled little beast with its amber eyes avidly on one fat bird. It was the perfect hunter. Quiet and stealthy. Low to the ground. Unobserved by its prey.

Until Master Egris pitched a pebble at the feline and it leaped, yowling, away from the attack.

"We are not animals and we should not strive to be them," said Master Egris. "We are people. We think. We are in control of what we say and do. We learn. We can learn from animals, true, but think of the entire example." A smile and a gentle hug. "Between the flurry of the dog and the focus of the cat, there is the ultimate balance. Enough focus to keep the goal in sight, and enough energy to prevent others from thwarting you."

"Balance," said Syla. "That's very... light side."

Egris chuckled. "There's more in common between Light and Dark than most masters tend to admit. The Light believes that emotion gets in the way, and must therefore be eliminated or reduced. The Dark believes that emotion is one more thing to use."

Syla screwed up her face. "So which one is right?"

"Who said either of them are right?"

Syla stared at her Master in confusion. And, once more, wondered why the hell her ancestors had even bothered building New Alderaan in the first place.

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Challenge #077: What's Your Emergency?

Okay, let me see if I've got this straight. You're in a truck, about 500 meters in the air, with a JATO rocket duct-taped to the undercarriage.

[Name], if this was anyone but you, I'd swear this was a prank call.

I'll never know how he did it, but Warren got hold of a JATO. I do remember how we had a barbecue to celebrate. Lots of beer and ribs and a rambling discussion about what to do with the bloody thing.

"Strap it to your truck," said Daryl. "Fuckin' fly to Hawaii, man."

"Dint they do tha' on mythbusters?" slurred Lee. He never could hold his liquor and he'd just had half a beer too many.

"No that's genius," crowed Lee. "They never actually did it on Mythbusters. They had replacements for a JATO, but they never actually had a fuckin' JATO."

"So. What? You're gonna give it to the Mythbusters?"

"No. Dur. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna aim my pickup at Hawaii and phone 'em telling them the myth. Is. Confirmed."

We laughed, and toasted the rocket, sitting under a tarp in Warren's shed. And I honestly thought no more about it.

Warren, evidently, thought a lot about it. He made himself some wings to also strap onto his truck. And got himself a genuine army surplus cargo parachute that any idiot could use. And about a metric fuckton of bungee cord to tie it all on.

He even got hold of a life raft in case he ditched in the ocean.

Last I heard? He was checking Google Earth to see which roads pointed to Hawaii and how smooth they were.

I expected it to fizzle out at any of those stages, but Warren was determined to get into the Jackass Hall of Fame or something.

And then came the phone call.

"I phoned 'em as I passed the coast," Warren yelled over the background roar. "GUESS WHERE I'M CALLING FROM?"

I turned on CNN. Say what you might about their politics, but they're pretty on the ball about showing people doing stupid-ass things. Yup. They were covering a runaway rocket truck. Footage was shaky and blurry, but it sort of looked a bit like Warren's truck with strapped-on wings. And a rocket up its ass.

"How high are you?"

"HAVEN'T TAKEN A THING I SWEAR. GOTTA BE SOBER TO FLY," Warren screamed.

"No. How far up?"

"OH! RIGHT. ALTIMETER BROKE AT FIVE HUNDRED."

"Okay, let me see if I've got this straight," I said. "You're in a truck, about five hundred feet in the air, with a JATO rocket duct-taped to the undercarriage.

"Warren, if this was anyone but you, I'd swear this was a prank call."

The roar cut out. "That's it," chirped Warren. "I'm coasting from here on out. There's not a lot of signal out here, but I'm gonna–"

The call cut out next. All I could do was watch the footage and pray he made it there alive.

Some are born to greatness. Some have greatness thrust upon them. And some, like Warren, actively seek greatness despite only having two neurones to rub together. If I was you? I'd watch out for the third kind.

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Challenge #078: Flight School

"We will begin this course with some examples of deconstructive lithobraking. This 30-minute holofilm is titled 'When the Ground Isn't Your Friend.'"

Wherever humans go, they bring alcohol. In actuality, you are better off if they bring it, because otherwise they brew it. And you do not want to know what goes into the process, because humans will drink the byproduct of anything they can get to ferment.

And sometimes they stick Things in it, after distilling, to "enhance the flavour".

Therefore, when you're running various tourist traps in the Impossible Nebula[1], the best idea is to make certain there's a bar in every mall.

And into one such bar, came a regular casualty.

She was human, of course. Only humans were mad enough to view the fast-transit 'flight' between asteroids as entertainment rather than a means of not having to deal with inconvenient shuttle schedules.

She walked with the help of a crutch, and half of her combination flight suit and life suit was a tattered ruin.

A table full of humans greeted her with whoops and cheers as she limped towards their company.

"Where'd you bite it, Cass?" asked another of the girls.

"I got almost all the way around to the Third Quarter. Would you believe, Sash, that I completely forgot about Big Bad John?"

The entire table moaned in sympathy.

"Yeah. Hit the Caterpillar[2] sideways. Busted my leg but good."

"Three quarters is better than half."

"I made it all the way around..."

"Only because you stopped at every rock, Nancy."

"So what? I still made it."

"You only fly the year[3] if you fly. It's not called 'stop and shop the year'."

Nancy blew a raspberry. "Note the lack of broken bones and my complete absence of flakks to give."

The bartender readied another round of Stellar Slams and rolled hir eyes at the universe. Humans...

[1] A very interesting misnomer. The nebula in question is actually an asteroid belt that has managed to maintain a breathable atmosphere between its disparate parts. All attempts to turn it into a Ringworld have failed.

[2] The 'Hungry Caterpillar' is a grappling-and-processing system that's good for taking debris apart very quickly. In the Impossible Nebula, it has been adapted to preserve tourist life.

[3] The practice of flying through the entire orbit of the Impossible Nebula.

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Challenge #079: T'yoree the Reckless

Prompt: A Lilo and Stitch-esque scene with numidid and surfing humans.

T'yoree was frequently trotted out as an example as to why scientists should not be allowed to breed. She had, even to the humans, the self-preservation instincts of a concussed whelk.

As a keet, she would ride the larger dogs and invented the concept of Frisbee Dodge-em.

Some said that the natural Deathworlder attitude towards risk had rubbed off on her.

And she was the first Numidid to surf. Of course, for decades, she was the only Numidid to surf, but that wasn't the point. She ably demonstrated that it was possible.

She began as a fledgeling. Pretty much as soon as she could gain enough air to light on a surfing humans' shoulders, she shared a ride out into the water. Numidids are not naturally bouyant, so the humans invented a life vest for her.

For a time, she would ride the humans out into the water and, when she felt less than safe, would catch a swimming human back to the shore. Padded-shoulder swimsuits were a natural concept.

Her first day riding a board was February 30th[1], Settlement year 126. For the watching scientists, it was a day of great fascination as T'yoree clung to the shoulders of a human as they stood on the board to ride the waves.

T'yoree soon graduated to riding the board with a human, and then riding a board without any assistance.

The humans quickly fabricated a board more suited to her size and weight.

It took her three months before she began imitating the humans' stunts. She is known to this day for her wipe-out flights. Whenever she lost control of her board, she would take wing and glide towards the shore. The humans found this amazing. Numidids found it merely sensible.

All efforts to develop a surfing wingsuit ended in failures for the humans. There are just some things they can not do.

[1] For those who have not read The Amity Incident... the Amity year is two full days longer than the Terran one, and the human colonists stuffed the extra days into February. Also - go get the book now.

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Challenge #080: Horror Cuisine

The unthinking introduction of an omlette to a birdlike alien species.

"What are orbs?" said the assigned Human Watcher. So far, it hadn't been as dangerous or nasty as she'd been lead to believe. Ri'ki'ki was starting to believe that all the stories were just... stories.

"Eggs," said the human. Her name was Sta-see. Or something close enough. She was organising her little kitchen according to her own rules.

"You having egg in stasis? They is never hatch."

"They is never meaning hatch. Is food. Not baby."

"You eating egg?" Ri'ki'ki yawped.

"Knowing much differing. Baby egg not food. These egg is food. Much differing. Smart ape no eat babies." Sta-see drew an X over her chest, indicating a vulnerable point. "This egg sterile. No baby. Guaranteed."

"Who is make?" Ri'ki'ki asked suspiciously.

The human bought out her infopad and pulled out a picture. "This make eggs. Terran bird, stupid bird. Humans keep for make food. Yes?"

It looked almost like one of Ri'ki'ki's ancient ancestors. Troubling, indeed, how parallel evolution could make things like this happen. The companion footage clearly showed an animal. Not even a cusp-cogniscent being.

Sta-see pulled a pan out of her little oven and transferred the contents to her plate. Then added some irradiated cheese to the top. The product looked and smelled delicious.

Ri'ki'ki knew better than to try untested human food. These deathworlders could happily ingest flesh-eating enzymes and call it a flavour. "What is food?"

Sta-see bit one of her rubbery lips. "Um..." she said. "Please be understand, self is wait much long time. Wait in anticipation, food of home."

Uh oh. She was apologising already. Which meant that this could be perceived as bad. "Sta-see... why is two place empty in egg pod?"

"Is calling 'omelette'. Making of egg. And other things. But first, egg."

And that was how all the rumours started.

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Challenge #081: Varied Diet?

After the omlette incident, realising exactly how much human food, like cake or pies or snacks, involve eggs.

Day 3.

Hen eggs declared non-cogniscent food. Also declared sterile. Also declared offensive. Further adjudication necessary.

Day 5.

Adjudication finished. Human can consume extant eggs, but only in utter privacy and behind offensensitivity shielding. The human must not consume any more eggs or egg-based products while aboard Science Vessel Sigma-Four.

"WHAT?" Sta-see yawped. Humans could get loud. At least she had been trained to not flail her ridiculous, long arms around. "No egg by-products... What the flakk?"

"There is problem?"

"Big problem. Many, many human food having egg for making," she said in broken GalStand. It was the only language they had in common. "Self will starve. This being much bad."

Day 17.

Further adjudication finalised. Human will now consume food behind offensensitivity shield for all meals. Further food imports will be syntha-meals only.

Which was why, on her first day on shore leave from serving on the Science Vessel Sigma-Four, Stacy made a beeline for the nearest Unsuitable Food Eat and said, "Gimmie a double death-by-chocolate, battered, deep fried, dipped in more chocolate and covered over in meringue kisses!"

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Challenge #082: "No, Try it, it Goes Good With Everything..."

It was once said that "with enough fried onions and mustard people would eat anything." This has also been proven to apply to the additions of either chocolate or bacon.

Frankly, as it has been quite a long time since humanity first wound up discovering these multipurpose edibles, it's often considered a great wonder that human civilization has not yet managed to eat itself to death, either by the direct sense of gorging and gluttony, or by the indirect sense of simply running out of other things to apply said universal condiments to and turning on each other in cannibalistic frenzy.

The idea that other cogniscents might theoretically have some species-suitable equivalents to these near-addictive culinary wonders, and simply have not yet discovered them, is thus understandably somewhat frightening to many of them.

The sample laid before them looked like brown, square blobs. It did not look appetising. It did not smell appetising. Nik, at least, had the decency to look embarrassed.

"You have to understand it's a work in progress," said Nik. "I've been working on the theory that certain addictive foods, put together, could become the ultimate super food."

Rael poked it uncertainly. "Are you certain it's edible?"

Shayde picked up one and gave in experimental nibble. "It's got chocolate on it," she declared. She chewed a little more. "Is that bacon?"

Nik smiled nervously, "It is, it is! It is caramelised onion, on top of a square of bacon, wrapped in chocolate."

Rael tried a more adventurous bite. The face he made was not the one Nik was hoping for. He could see Nick's face crumbling in disappointment at Rael's disgust.

"Did ye fry the bacon in maple syrup?" asked Shayde.

"Of course," said Nik. "It is expected when making sweets."

"That's where you went wrong," she began to pontificate. "Chocolate goes best with bitter things, ye ken. You've got your chocolate coated strawberries, your chocolate fondue, all that noise. You match sweet with bitter, you're golden."

"Ah," Nik began to smile again. "I went wrong by making it all sweet, you say."

"Aye, that and you left out the cheese."

Rael began to quietly creep away, these two were dangerous.

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Challenge #083: He Said/He Said

Challenge: Write a story using only dialogue

"This is all your fault."

"My fault? My fault? I just landed in here two seconds ago, how could it be my fault?"

"It's always your fault. How much have you had to drink?"

"Two standard volume units. Of water."

"Huh. Fire water, belike. I know you too well, human. You reek of it."

"For your big daft information, I only reek of it because I took it all out of the still–"

"HAH! I KNEW IT!"

"–to sell to the locals as an inexpensive fuel."

"No 'samples' to 'check the quality'?"

"Don't give me that look! I only got some on me because of the fight."

"Ah, there was a fight. Of course. Who was the woman?"

"It wasn't like that."

"Clearly, it was."

"No. It. Wasn't."

"Convince me."

"...shewashisproperty..."

"Hwel..."

"I know."

"When we're operating outside the Galactic Alliance..."

"I know..."

"We have to brace ourselves to face laws and standards that we, as Galactics, view as criminal or even obscene."

"I KNOW! I know it. I get it. Their customs and laws are not ours but. Damnit..."

"Go on. Let it all out."

"She was twelve if she was a day. Naked as a jay bird. And he was fingering her right there in front of God and everyone!"

"Really?"

"Powers That Be are my witness. You could even see it on the security tape."

"I'm surprised at you, Hwell."

"I know..."

"I'd have killed him."

"I'm sorry I got us in another– wait. What?"

"I'm proud of you. You've shown admirable restraint."

"Thank you."

"...for a human."

"...I think."

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Challenge #084: No Connection

Challenge: Write a story using only one half of a dialogue

Chase: I need you (Sent 1:15PM)

Chase: Like really important (Sent 1:23PM)

Chase: I can see you're online (Sent 1:27PM)

Chase: Please don't ignore? (Sent 1:32PM)

Chase: I'm sorry about everything, ever. Promise (Sent 1:36PM)

Chase: Something blew up and I'm stuck in the rubble (Sent 1:37PM)

Chase: For reals (Sent 1:41PM)

Chase: I'm not fooling here (Sent 1:41PM)

[Picture of broken building parts and one half of a leg, wrapped in jeans. The corner of a shoe is visible, as is some blood] (Sent 1:43PM)

Chase: It's okay. Really. The bleeding stopped and I can breathe (Sent 1:44PM)

Chase: It's just really cold RN (Sent 1:45PM)

Chase: Using phone to keep warm in small areas (Sent 1:46PM)

Chase: Not working v well :( (Sent 1:47PM)

Chase: Down to 25% batt. Will wait as long as poss b4 trying again (Sent 1:51PM)

Chase: Still here. Singing for something to do. Hope someone hears me (Sent 3:23PM)

Chase: Still alive (Sent 4:28PM)

Chase: No matter what happens, I love you (Sent 5:57PM)

Chase: Where R U? (Sent 6:34PM)

Chase: So quiet here. Can hear some1 else getting messages. Lucky dog (Sent 7:38PM)

Chase: 20% batt. Trying 2 call u (Sent 8:24PM)

Chase: OMG I'm so sorry. It's your phone I can hear. Pls b alive. Pls pls pls pls pls b alive (Sent 8:31PM)

Chase: I'm so sorry I ever fought w u (Sent 8:32PM)

Chase: U were right NEway (Sent 8:32PM)

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Challenge #085: Inappropriate Love Gifts

There were a line of little heads on the mat near the bed, just the heads. The damn cat had been at it again!

Sandra drew her toes up again and hid them under her comforter. It wasn't a straight line. More of a curve. All those dead, bloodied little heads. Arranged in something of a semicircle in a kind of post-mortem worship of her bed.

And in came the cat. Black, sleek and proud. Smirking at his fine achievement. Tail held high. And that damned trilby perched on his head.

"I have slain your enemies, m'lady."

Eugh. Gross. "I would have preferred them fully disposed of?" she squeaked. "I can't get out of bed with those there."

"All the better for me," smirked the cat. He made to move in to the bed with her.

Sandra sighed. That ex who programmed her otherwise perfectly fine Augment kitten in a fit of revenge was going to pay. And pay dearly. "If I have to stay in bed, you don't get new Kitty Nomnoms, today."

The look of absolute dread on his face was priceless. And, in a matter of minutes, the heads were gone. Just sad little spots of blood where they had once rested.

Clear enough for an agoraphobic automisophobe to skip awkwardly past on her way to feed the cat. Followed by her usual three-hour shower before her nice, clean day of info-wrangling in the translation streams. And, for lunch, she could resume her complaint against Daniel.

Programming her cat to be a complete dudebro. What a bitch.

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Challenge #086: Infectious Craze

The Birdy dance, aka the Chicken dance. Turn it loose somewhere, have fun.

Shayde was wearing the patched muumuu. Which meant that her 'street' act, today, was something she called Stump the Frump. Which was ironic, because he knew for a fact that she'd spent an entire hour making certain that she looked like she didn't care.

The act was, people would bring her musical instruments and, if she couldn't wrangle a tune out of it, the person or persons with the instrument won the pot.

So far, it was four enormous glass bowls filled to the brim with enough Minutes to pay for half a Month. And she was working on a fifth.

Nobody else had yet noticed that Shayde was paying for new bowls out of her own cash.

Nevertheless, competition was getting intense. And then someone handed her an accordion.

"Aw yer kiddin' me... noooo... No' that..."

Laughter.

"I can only play one tune on this. Yer goin' tae regret it."

The laughter stopped.

"Uh... do you play badly?" risked the accordion owner.

"Worse. I play infectiously." And then she began. Two notes, at first. At increasing speed. The bystanders thought it was hilarious. And then they realised that it was just the preamble to the actual tune.

The rhythm was relentless. The tune simple and repetitive. The actions of the dance... very silly indeed. An increasing number of people moved their hands like beaks, then flapped their elbows like wings, then waggled their rumps like... Rael did not know what. The refrain was graceful enough that random pairs attempted ballroom dancing in the halls.

It was the kind of tune that drilled a hole into the central nervous system and made a permanent home there. Even Rael found himself coming into sync with the ridiculous gyrations of the crowd. At least before he realised what he was doing and forced himself into rigid stillness with the help of a handy column.

She had the entire hallway doing it by the time she finished the number.

Shayde handed it back. "Lor' forgive me, I bought back th' Duck Dance. Yer goin' tae be a year gettin' it oot a' the music halls. I'm sorry."

"But it's such a good song," said the accordion-owner.

"Try tellin' me that in three months, when yer proper sick of it."

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Challenge #087: Something of a Gift

"..The warmest place by the fire was reserved for the Storyteller." You might recognise this from the opening of the Jim Henson series (beautiful!). See what you can do with it.

They called her a foul shade. And, having finally seen what she had for a face, now, Katie could believe it. They thought she was a demon. They had her in shackles that even the best of her knowledge couldn't crack. Not even her secret gift could do anything to it.

She could see that the wizard held the secret to undoing the silver hoops about her wrists. If he told her to be silent, then she would remain so until such time that he freed her to speak.

She only had one person on her side. The wiry, scrawny boy of a Squire, who could barely lift each piece of the Paladin's armour on his own. They called him Carbuncle, and he was so incessantly chatty and full of wonder that the Wizard had absently instructed Katie to 'keep him occupied'.

So she told stories.

Fairy tales, the thousand and one nights, retellings of movies, books, and comics that she knew and loved. Legends and lore from her travels. Even stories from television.

Carbuncle was enraptured.

Currently, she was up to Star Trek.

"And then what happened?"

"Tha's it. That's the end o' that story. The bad guy got exac'ly what he deserved. The end."

"Yes, but... what happened to Harcourt Fenton Mudd?"

"I must nae be doin' me job if'n ye carin' aboot him..."

Carbuncle looked down and away. "Before I was a squire... I was in the service of a man like Mudd. I had no other family an' he was better to me than most would'a been. He never hit me."

Katie winced. Damned with the faintest of praise, indeed. "Aye?"

"I keep wondering. Since Sir Podrik bought me off him... if he ever gets a happy ending."

"Ah, there's no shame in wantin' what's best fer those ye love," she soothed. "Th' trouble wi' Mudd is, his current happy endin' means sorrow fer those around him. The best happy endings are the ones tha' help loads o' people be happy, ye ken. Not just one or two."

"Oh," cooed Carbuncle. "So how could Mudd do that?"

"Through redemption o' course. That'd have tae happen by carin' fer someone other than hisself. Maybe he wriggles his way intae what he thinks he wants, yeah? An' after a while it starts feelin' empty. Ye can have all the things you wanted, but if there's no-one tae be happy with... it's all hollow."

"The beast speaks nonsense," said Sir Podrik. "Of course the goal in life is to gain wealth. Otherwise, what's the point?"

"Ah, let me tell ye 'bout King Midas..."

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Challenge #088: Potentially Kindasorta NSFW Prompt...

Humans are encountered by a race who has cyclical breeding seasons rather than humanlike sex-at-anytime urges. Both are baffled by the other's views on sexuality.

I imagine the human idea of sex being something that is always a possibility, a low level cultural background radiation, would be insane for a race that had naturally-regimented behavior where such urges are only really a noteworthy thing for a few weeks a year (though during that time, it's a BIG deal).

It'd make gender discussions across species interesting if they did have actual, honest to god, biologically-preset responses around sex and gender. "No, I'm not being vulgar, she will literally lose her mind and have sex with anyone. So will I, eventually, it's just something we deal with now and then. How your kind can handle the constant wanting for it, I can't even imagine."

"Pear-mer!" The human held her hands up in a gesture of peace and welcoming. "I haven't seen you in a whille. All is well?"

"Of course all is well," Piar'mir. "It was not travel season."

"Oh..." Ri'ki put her arms down. "This is a culture thing? You go home for the gods?"

"No," said Piar'mir. "Biology. We need to be at home." She lowered her voice to a whisper, "Mating season."

"Aw. I wish you'd warned me," sighed Ri'ki. "I got three month's shipments of Kor'exxi gone to seed, now."

"Three... months..." Piar'mir boggled. "You did not have mating season?"

The human displayed her teeth. "Human mating season is whenever, wherever." Ri'ki shrugged. "Most of pairing up is finding out if the other person is into you."

"Sounds... needlessly complicated," Piar'mir confessed. "But I shall do you a favour, my friend. That rotted Kor'exxi has its uses in the fields. If you ferment it with a special yeast, not only do you get a powerful liquor, but the spent mash is an excellent fertiliser."

"Way ahead of you on the fermenting part," Ri'ki grinned. "I got local yeast because I know the Terran varieties are -ah- aggressive."

It was then that Piar'mir had to wonder exactly what this creature had been up to during those three months.

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Challenge #089: True Words

Beware the happy person with power tools.

There was a sign over the door to the maker-space. Warning: Happy people with power tools inside.

Shayde thought it was a joke until she stepped in. Sure, it had been a few years since she got together with fellow nerds and a bunch of tools to create something. At least, in subjective terms.

In real-time terms it had been closer to five hundred years.

The very concept of maker-spaces had changed while she was away. It wasn't nerds with jig saws, hot glue guns and sewing machines, any more. It was nerds with three-dimensional printers. Nerds with full-out forges. Nerds with sketchpads talking to nerds with devices she couldn't even fathom.

Someone, in a corner, was working on a fully-functional battle armour.

Somehow, her idea of a Mew-Mew Puffy Sama lolita dress wasn't all that ridiculous, any more.

"First time?" said one of the local nerds.

"Sort of. Me an' me mates used tae take over a garage or a sewin' room in th' day... This is..."

"Yes?" the local nerd grinned in anticipation. They liked freaking out the Mundanes. Even when the Mundane in question was a six-foot-tall shadow elemental.

"Heaven," she sighed.

This was not the right answer. And now, somehow, she had become the Alpha Nerd.

She rubbed her hands in glee. "Show me tae th' cuttin' tables..."

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Challenge #090: Going Viral

:Speaking of real-life, actually-happened biological warfare development:

After deployment failed, killing only five hundred million individuals before the target population began developing immunity, development started on another attempt using a different disease. Loss of containment on that one killed ten million during testing, and let the unfinished virus into the wild.

(...The twist is it was the testing of RHD (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabbit_haemorrhagic_disease) in Aussie attempts to control the rabbit population after myxy (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Myxomatosis) didn't finish the job)

Excerpts from Report on the Efforts of Redesigning a Deathworld by Blixxo Maxx:

Having taken note of the mating habits of the resident mammals, we then concocted a virus that would attack their immune system and leave them vulnerable to the planet's abundant diseases. The long incubation period was a deliberate design choice to remove the association of cause and effect, as well as to maximise spread.

Initial results seemed successful, tracking by infection rate, large portions of the population were infected within three decades. However, mutant strains arose, as did awareness of the virus.

Then those apes did something unprecedented. They  tamed a virus designed to kill them and used it against something else that was killing them. Then they designed a drug to  defend themselves against the initial virus.

In desperation, my learned colleague attempted to fan the fires of the native's anti-vaccine movement. He reasoned that the elites and the believers in conspiracies would wipe out a majority of the population intelligent enough to insist on preventative measures.

Fear is an excellent motivator for these balding apes. They have and will willingly walk into peril in order to avoid an astronomically small chance of a feared outcome.

To that end, I am pondering the invention of a purely mythical disease. These apes will believe anything they find on their own entertainment networks. The prevention method, of course, will be something that kills them or at least renders them infertile.

We may yet rid ourselves of intelligent life on this planet, but I have my doubts. These are a resilient species. In the end, we may have to be satisfied with them wiping themselves out.

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Challenge #091: Super Ordinary

Just because you're wearing the cape doesn't mean you can fly.

[AN: Trigger warning for suicide mention and suicidal narrative]

Ellie had been clinging to life by her fingertips. The hardest question of her life before her. As well as the end of it. The question to be answered was... would anyone really care? Sure, for about ten minutes, she might be a splashy headline. For two hours, she'd be a job to clean up.

And the world would forget she ever existed.

Even the police, far below, seemed disinterested in helping. They were standing around and occasionally looking up. She hadn't even stopped traffic.

She stopped looking down. Staring out at the buildings across the void.

If that kid would just turn away... I'd drop off in a cold second.

The kid did look up. Tracking something dropping...

Shit. No. Someone stole my thunder?

Ellie looked up. A bare glimpse of a lurid lycra costume and a flapping cape... And someone landed next to her. Or more accurately, someone flung a bungee lasso around the stonework and eventually bounced to a stop next to her.

There was a bright red cape. Brilliant, sparkling, amber helmet and elbow pads. Green tights and skivvy. The knee pads and boots were silver and chrome. The body armour bright purple. As was the silicon diamond-pattern mask stuck to their face.

"Hi," said the breathless stranger. "Thanks for letting me drop in." She had a completely useless and way-too-short silver skirt on. Possibly in an effort to make up for her streamlined physique and practical pixie cut.

"Hardy har har," Ellie deadpanned. "Of course this is a joke. Why not? Get everyone to laugh at me."

"Sorry," said the wierdo. She was hammering in pitons. "You'd be surprised how often a lame joke works in this situation. I honestly don't find your situation humorous." She added cable to a shockingly invisible harness and reclaimed the bungee. "I go by Aunty Gravity, by the way. What's your name?"

Ellie almost answered her truthfully. "Deadfall."

"You really wanna go by that?"

"All things considered?" The kid across the street was jumping up and down. Mama mama mama come lookit! "Yeah. Matches my fate."

"I'm here to listen. I have all the time you have for me."

The kid's mother finally turned up. And started recording the proceedings on her phone. Why not? It wasn't as if things could get much worse. Ellie adjusted her grip on the rooftop wall. She sighed. Readied herself for an influx of the usual violence and began: "Do you have any idea how hard it is to Transition in Texas?"

"Actually yes. And it's worse when you're not white."

Serious eyes. Serious face. The subtle signs jumped up, now. This was a girl who didn't start off life as a girl. When she drew her first breath, the doctors made a very critical misdiagnosis.

Just like Ellie.

"I fought so hard for so long," Ellie whispered. "I'm tired of it. I'm tired of my cheques being made out to EARL McKean. I'm tired of having to sneak into the disabled bathroom because everyone has guns... and there's laws now that let people shoot people like me..."

"They won't call you a girl until you get The Surgery, right?" said Aunty Gravity.

"...'es."

"Can't afford it, can't get it, don't want to?" she prompted.

"More like... have to find a doctor who will... and have to declare myself insane to get it... and have to spend time in an asylum again[1]."

"Sounds like it'd be saner to move out."

"Except they won't update my ID and they won't let me out of the state without it."

"They'll let you out of the country without it," said Aunty Gravity. "Your passport isn't issued by Texas, it's issued by the US Government. So pack up everything you want to keep. Sell everything you don't, and catch a train to Mexico. Then, any time you want, you can catch a cruise boat to California. Your choice for surgery or self-identity thereafter."

Ellie stared at her in disbelief. "That... works?"

A big, wide grin. "Worked for me. Worked for a dozen or so more. As long as we don't talk about it online, the idiots in the capital are no wiser. And more asinine laws don't get passed."

"Are you going to help me?"

"Of course. I'll even turn up out of costume if you want me to."

Ellie made a decision. "Ellie."

"Joanne."

"Get me back up onto the roof, please?"

"Sure thing."

It was harder than climbing out, climbing back in. Possibly because the threat of an unwanted death was back on the table. And despite the swarming cops and the waving guns and the fact that Auntie Gravity just... bounced her way out of the line of fire... Ellie had never felt lighter.

Nobody could fly. Not yet. But in this minute, in this hour? Ellie felt like she could soar all the way to the sun.

And she felt it again when Joanne O'Malley turned up as her lawyer. In a green power suit with a Superman brooch on her lapel.

[1] Extrapolated from the already boggling anti-trans laws happening in the US right now.

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Challenge #092: Ordinary Super

"They all think they're six foot tall and wearing the Superman suit". Police officer's explanation.

They called it God Complex, and it disconnected the mind from its pain. Like GHB, it caused harm, but it also made its victims think they could do anything. And, worse, people who took it regularly... began to gain strange powers.

Which soon became a problem for the officers.

"FREEZE!"

"Don't shoot! I'm white!"

Officer Klein blinked. It must have been a trick of the light that lead him to believe. Oh my god I almost shot a real person... "Sorry, sir," he said, holstering his weapon. "Mistaken identity. We were alerted to a criminal presence in this area. Have you seen a black man carrying a grocery bag full of stolen goods?"

"No sir. This is my shopping. Here's the receipt." And it was a receipt. Even later, when the spell wore off. Legally purchased with real money.

"Thank you. Have a good evening."

It happened like that, all over the United States. People on God Complex yelling, "Don't shoot! They're white!" And, criminal or innocent, more people survived their encounters with the police.

Courts could not scan or screen for God Complex. As far as chemical make-up was concerned, it was invisible when compared to normal biochemistry. And an amazing amount of court cases and appeals came out in favour of the defendant when anyone on GC shouted "That man/woman is white!"

An astounding amount of racism revealed itself.

Lawyers started taking it in order to get their clients tried as rich white men. The victimised took it to convince their oppressors that they were no longer oppressable. People who thought they were victimised took it and suffered an extreme personality change when they had the epiphany that their lives beforehand were their own fault.

The only real downside was the heroics.

People on it, apparently, thought they were Superman. And in that vein, more people died by attempting to save others than ever before.

But then, there's a downside to everything.

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Challenge #093: Bad Day at the Office

A Punch-Clock Villain and Hero get married.

"Bye honey have a good day at work" "you too!"

"Muahaha I will destroy Blahtropolis!" "Not if I stop you first also here you forgot your lunch dear."

[AN: I keep getting reminded of those old looney tunes cartoons with the punch-clock sheepdog and the wolf who looked astonishingly like Wile E. Coyote...]

"Dear... have you seen my hair thingie?"

"Didn't you put it on the counter, last night?"

"Well if I did, it isn't there now."

"Uuuuuuggghhh..." Marvelonia stepped away from breakfast-making to find her beloved's hair thingie. "I don't know why you need this, darling. It never looked good."

"The fans expect it," sighed Malicia as she put it in. "Its awkward and it scratches and it's responsible for fifty-four percent of my defeats..."

"Nerd," she sighed lovingly. "Come on, or the bacon's going to burn."

"I'll get the coffee."

Everest slumped into her seat at the table.

"Good morning, my greatest creation," chirped Malicia.

"Y' say that 'bout all y'r dumb machines..."

"Your mother's machines are not dumb," chided Marvelonia. "And you're our greatest creation. Unless you'd like a baby sib..."

"O god nooooo..."

"Eggs? Bacon? Toast?" offered Malicia.

"J'st lea'me alone," grumped Everest.

"She's at That Age," whispered Marvelonia. "Just remember, darling. Whichever life path you chose, we'll love you regardless."

"Uuuuuuuuuuugggh..." Everest rolled her eyes and slouched her way towards getting a bowl of milk and cereal.

"Here's your cape. Fresh from the dryer," chirped Malicia.

"Life's been so much easier since we decided on wash-and-go super suits."

"And the no-makeup look is so much faster. Loving the self-stick mini-masks."

Everest moaned in complaint all the way through her share of getting ready for the day.

*

"MWUAH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA... And now! With the aid of my greatest creation, I shall take over Herotropolis, and then the woooooorrrllld!"

"Not on my watch, Malicia!"

"Marvelonia! Didn't you have a runaway train to catch?"

They got to grappling. Super-powered hero against mistress of machines. "That train wasn't on the schedule today. But I did find that bus full of orphans on time."

"Damn," whispered Malicia. "I forgot it was Wednesday. Crap."

"You always mess things up on Wednesday, damnit," Marvelonia whispered back.

She cleared her throat and rallied magnificently. "Curses! You failed to fall into my cunning trap!"

"Maybe your traps need a little more work. I'm not so easily distracted as I seem."

*

"Ooof. Ow. I need three hours in the Healotron and one of your Super Massages."

"Sorry about the eye, babe."

"Yeah. I know. It looks great on the front page."

"You ever think of quitting and living off the proceeds from your patents?"

"Sometimes..." Malicia stretched until her back crackled. "But what would we do for fun?"

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Challenge #094: Living in Interesting Times

The kid of the punch-clock hero and villain couple has an interesting life.

Her parents named her Everest. Possibly out of a desire to fit in with the ridiculous names of their gated, elitist community. She shared a school with three Porsche's, two Kilimanjaro's, and at least five kids with way too many silent Q's in their name.

She was waiting for the very day that she was old enough to change her name to something blandly ordinary. Like Elizabeth. Or Mary. Even Kylie would do. She spent random free moments scouring books and magazines for ordinary names.

Mabel was her current favourite. Old-timey and ready for shortening to May. You could get far with a name like May. It was like Spring. Full of optimism and the hope of new things.

All Everest was full of was rocks, snow, and dead bodies.

Her ride on the bus was less eventful than normal. Only ten pretenders attempted to suck up to her in order to get one or both of her parents' autographs. They vanished quickly enough when they found out she charged the same rates as the fan club.

And the bullies were hardly any better. Calling her 'stuck up' when she turned aside the pretenders. Tripping her up or shoving her around as she trod the halls. Daring her superhero mom to come and rescue her.

It was why she ate lunch on the roof with some of the other social rejects. Her few friends. Most of them were on The Spectrum. Everest didn't mind. The silence was companionable and the sporadic conversations more interesting than hey-can-you-get-me-your-moms-autographs.

And they all had reason to despise the mainstream.

"Aw. Look! It's the nerd central pity party."

O great. Quellijana. The queen of the mean girls. Everest sighed her deepest sigh and said, "Go find someone else to annoy, Kelly-anna."

"It's pronounced Quellijana. I can hear the difference, you ignorant racist."

"Whut?" winced Travois. "How in the name of anything is Everest racist?"

"She keeps mispronouncing my name to fit the white oppressors? I'll have you know I'm part Gaelic, part Viking, and part Inuit on my great-great-grandmother's side."

"White enough for me," said Kilimanjaro. One of the three black kids in the entire school. His skin was so dark that it had a sheen like a peacock's feather. He was also the resident expert on what was racist. His one trump card.

Quellijana sneered at him. "Huh. That's reverse racism. I should report you."

"Sooo..." said Everest. "You're admitting that racism usually comes from you?"

"Oh go jump off the edge, Everest. Nobody really likes you."

That was the last straw. "Fine. I will." One step. Two steps. The third met air.

That'd show her.

She changed her mind halfway down and tensed. She didn't want to die! Quellijana was not worth killing herself over.

The final crunch at the bottom never came. She could hear people rushing over and babbling. But it was awed babbling.

She was hovering an inch above the sculpted gravel pathway.

Oh boy.

Everest thought, Up, and slowly levitated back to where Quellijana was staring, gape-mouthed, at her new relationship with gravity. "Next time you tell someone to jump off something, Kelly-anna, make sure they won't actually do it?"

The girl fainted.

Everest stepped calmly back onto the roof as if getting her flight powers was the most normal thing in the world. "Okay. Spuds out. Let's see who loses and has to drag her to the nurse's office."

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Challenge #095: One Guaranteed Angel

(source)

AN: Love and props to [tkki who does amazing art. Go follow them. Give them moneys. Image shows a humanoid figure in black with a skull for a head. Clinging to one leg of the large, black figure is the tiny white figure of a child]

Halloween.

Ghouls, gosts, and lingerie-themed outfits ruled the streets. Az had put on a cheap rubber skull mask and pulled his hood up to hide the seam. His companion for the evening was too portly for the usual array of one-size-fits-nobody rental costumes and had resigned herself to Santa.

Sort of. There was rather a lot of ill-spirited and out-of-character grumbling coming from underneath the snowy white, fake beard.

At least until they saw the kid.

She was dressed head to toe in white. She had pale skin. So pale you could see the tracery of her veins. White hair, kept short, escaped a white ribbon. Her white dress was made for summers, not October's autumn chill.

She was so tiny.

"Santa!" She smiled.

Az kind of faded into the background as Lyn put on her jolliest "Ho Ho Ho"s for the kid. Say what you like about her vocabulary, but Lyn was an angel in disguise.

Tiny White's name was Claire, and she wanted an angel to take her away so her mother wouldn't put her in the box, any more. Claire went into the box every single time she got her clothes dirty.

"Oh, sweetheart," Lyn sighed. "Santa doesn't make angels with the elves. We're toys only. You only get one guaranteed angel, I'm sorry."

Az carried her home so she wouldn't get dirt on her clothes. Poor kid. She'd been adopted by some super-famous Mommy-Dearest type who skated away from Child Services on a cloud of money, fame and privilege. She wasn't even home.

So Az packed up Claire's favourite things. All her clothes were white... and left a nastygram in the box.

Children are not toys. If you want Claire back, tell the world about what this box is really for.

Az told the staff who were there that he was taking her to some party in the town. They were so used to this nonsense that they just let it happen.

The party of the rest of her life, by sheer comparison.

Mommy-Dearest put on a nice sob for the media. And there was a whole bunch of ruckus, trying to find Claire. You'd think an albino kid would be easy to find, wouldn't you?

Not after Lyn and Az were done with her. They gave her colour. A little spray-tan here. A little hair dye there. A little makeup... And a lot of rough-and-ready clothes.

Claire looks and acts just like any other kid, now. They let her get dirty, and bath her at night. And her health has improved for it.

Lyn and Az got married to solve a lot of questions. Traveling on the road and some shady people producing some less-than-legal documents made certain no-one would link their Claire to the one stolen from the fame-and-fortune Mommy Dearest.

And anyway, all the fuss died down five seconds after she got herself a new accessory. A large and fluffy white rabbit. Which is much quieter and matches her decor.

People look at Az and Lyn as they walk down the streets with Claire eagerly holding their hands. Him, all over in tattoos and piercings. Her, overweight and more artistically inked.

They say, "Some people just shouldn't ever have kids."

They don't know how right they are.

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Challenge #096: Cataclysmic Server Event

Extinction Level Events are just the real worlds way of conducting a server update.

"Okay, so what kind of server reboot are we looking at?"

"Rocks fall, everything dies."

"Seriously? How are the event quests even managed for that?"

"We're removing most, but not all of the Saurians and replacing them with Mammals. Loads of customisation possibilities with the Evolution quests."

"Yahuh. And what are the event quests for the Saurians?"

"Try to save the world. None of them are taking it up though. Looks like everyone's tired of feathers and roaring."

Tapping on the keys. "Dude! This entire species run doesn't have the cogniscence mod."

"Uh. Whoops."

"It's too late to do anything to fix it! They're still at hunt-and-kill and nowhere near rockets."

"Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit..."

"Damnit."

"Well... nothing to be done about that. Start working towards the cogniscence mod on the mammals after the reboot."

"Yessir."

"You're bloody lucky nobody else noticed. One hundred and seventy-five million years and no cogniscence. Crap."

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Challenge #097: Homicidally Annoying

Ethics. Of all the flaws for a crew member to have, why did it have to be ethics?

Do'jii had to wonder why he was carting this human around. Sure, his actions were often in a confounding chain of cause and effect that came out with profit at the other end, but at other times...

Like this time...

It was hard to see the profit at the other end.

"Let me understand the chain of events," began Do'jii.

The adolescent male cringed in his place and bared his teeth. A nervous reaction that made Do'jii bare his more ominously.

"You went into the cargo hold, despite numerous warnings not to..."

"...'esbut," squeaked the human. "It was Ar'jii. 'E said 'e'd bite me head off if I didn't check th' locks."

Ar'jii was going to be reprimanded for that. Later. Much, much later. "And, once in the cargo hold, you opened the door that you were expressly forbidden to open."

"...itwasunlocked..."

"Well..."

"Hwell, sir."

"Why do you keep doing the things you were told not to do?"

"Um. You see. This time..."

O Gods. Not a 'this time'er.

"This time? Sir? I couldn't figure out why the lock wasn't locking? So I turned on the light inside? To see if there was anything in the mechanism? You know how grit gets about? Um. And then I saw what was in there? I mean - who was in there?"

Ethics. Of all the flaws for a crew member to have, why did it have to be ethics? Do'jii scraped his talons down his spine crest in an effort to calm himself down. Must not kill and eat the profitable mammal... "So of course you felt sorry for them and called ahead to the Committee for Cogniscent Rights..."

"Yessir. I knew it wasn't you as put them there, sir. It had to be Ba'jii. He's a real bad sort."

Evidently, the meaning of smuggler vessel had escaped the humans' notice. "Well Barra..."

"It's Hwell Barrow, sir."

"You are fired. Gather your belongings and your cargo and leave this ship forever."

"Yeahbut–"

"UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH!"

The human fled.

When the CCR came around asking about the notice, Do'jii disavowed all knowledge and informed them that the human had the sole responsibility of freeing that particular batch of live cargo.

He didn't know that there was a Four Year's reward for their release and repatriation. And, to add insult to injury, the humans' last, insane purchase also went for a small fortune. Of which, the human frittered most of it on charity.

The next time he got a human? It had to be one with less moral fibre.

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Challenge #098: You Can't Really Go Home

Well, at least the human was excited about the holiday, however ill-advised taking the trip to Earth with them was going to be...

"Thereitis, thereitis! Earth. Aw... it mostly looks the same..."

"I did tell you that it's been five hundred years since your departure. Geographically, little has changed."

"I'm goin' tae stop in at Wales. Go see what's happened tae home."

Rael, a little more prepared, had tried to find Shayde's 'home' on a map. There was no such place as Daffad Gweddyl ar Afon. And no hint that it had ever been. "I haven't been able to find it on any map," he warned.

"Aye, nowt's changed there," she giggled. "NO! They built a fookain space elevator. Ye wee ripper!"

"It's for the tourists. COL-lander shuttles are much faster and more convenient..."

His warning went unheeded. "Aw, I gotta have a go on tha'!"

Rael sighed. At least the food was good. Putting up with Shayde in full tourist mode was going to be an absolute trial.

*

It had been a long hike, over hill and dale and one ford. When Shayde reached the top of the hill, her legs went out from under her. Rael caught up and tried to fathom why water was leaking from her eyes.

It was just an oak grove. And some ancient stone buildings well on their way to complete collapse.

Not knowing what else to do, he sat beside her. "Daffad Gweddyl?"

A faint croak of a voice. "...aye..."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I have no frame of reference. No way to understand..."

Shayde got to her feet and strode towards the grove. Rael hurried to follow her, since it was his job to make sure she didn't happen to anyone or anything.

"You're not about to do anything... rash... are you?"

"Jus' lookain fer a tree," she choked out.

They all seemed alike, in this part of the grove, where the older trees grew in regimented lines. She was counting to herself and pointing at vegetation as she went. Finally, she stopped at one that seemed to be just like all the others, and threw her arms around it and sobbed like a child.

"Shayde?"

"M' babbie brother planted this one. I saw 'im. Tole 'im we'd be old together ere it were grown..."

Oh. It had hit her. The sheer gap of time that she'd lost. Rael let her mourn, loaning her his closeness as the tears and the sobs crumpled her up. And then coaxing stories out of her about her adventures in this place. Which included a tour of the ruins. And a lecture to the local archaeologists about where they might find interesting things.

She was right. Almost to the millimetre. Which loaned further credence to her story.

She did come from here. And she could never go back.

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Challenge #099: Comfort Food

The holiday continues, introducing the friend to things like non-irradiated cheese, actual lemons, and real dumplings

It started small. Well, comparatively small. A steaming curry at a van vendor, swimming in grease and overloaded with turmeric rice.

What followed was a tour of all the places that still sold unsuitable or unexportable food. Haggis, Casu marzu, Lutefisk. Pizza cones. Powdered doughnut pancake surprise. Death By Chocolate cake.

And now it finished here.

If it wasn't the birthplace of Unsuitable Food Eat, it was certainly its shrine. A temple of carbohydrates, sugar, theobromine, and all the toxic, acidic, enzyme and biota-loaded consumables that Earth had to offer.

For Rael, it was the closest thing his atheistic soul could equate to holy ground. And then, only because he needed calories like most other life forms needed air.

Shayde pulled a Five Year note out of her wallet and said, "Me friend, here, is goin' tae try eatin' yer menu."

The Gyik behind the counter sized up Rael's slim build and laughed. "And you, dear lady?"

"Just gi' me a sharin' fork. I'll be fine."

*

On the trip back to Amalgam Station, almost torpid with an overload of calories, he asked her. "Why did you do that?"

"Mudita," she shrugged. "Vicarious glee." A sigh. "It's no' a good holiday 'less someone goes home happy. Good food an' loads of it... pretty much gets you there."

One of the more baffling human phrases crossed his mind. Those who hurt the most, heal the most. He could almost understand it. "So. You gave up on your holiday... and made it mine?"

"Aye." Her smile came back. Cheeky and playing hide-and-seek on her face. "It was worth it."

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Challenge #100: Fun Park a la Deathworld

Holiday prompt the third! Author's choice what the human shows their companion, as long as it goes pear-shaped

[AN: This story precedes yesterday's]

Deathworlder entertainments are not advised for non-Deathworlders, said the Wikipedia Galactica, only the native life forms of a Deathworld can withstand even the most allegedly gentle of their entertainment vehicles. Though the Deathworlders insist that these entertainments are safe, be advised that they are only safe for Deathworlders.

Rael could easily believe, and understand those words, now. Especially ones he looked over the tallest peaks of a ride calling itself The Bone Bruiser. And very much especially you once he saw the look on Shayde's face. It was a decidedly unholy and Deathworlder expression of anticipatory glee.

The same look, he recalled, she got when she saw the Space Elevator.

"No. Absolutely not. No way. I am not riding that with you."

"Come on, yer the toughest thing there is next tae me! There's no way it could hurt you. Yer vacuum-rated, and impact-proof. Ye could take a swim in lava, parkour around asteroids, and finish it up with a dip in liquid nitrogen."

It was times like this, Rael regretted telling her that his species' specs were publicly available. "One: just because I can, doesn't mean I want to. Two: I am alpha-test. I do not want to find out where my factory flaws are the painful way. Three: there's very little that you could offer to convince me."

She took this as a challenge. "They do deep-fried chocolate cake..."

Curse her for knowing exactly how to bribe him. "Slices or whole?"

"How aboot a slice afore, an' a whole one after?"

*

People were staring. He couldn't really blame them, it wasn't every day that a cogniscent turned completely silver in front of their eyes.

The memory of the ride, and their escape haunted him in flashes of vivid detail. The moment he knew that Shayde knew he was in trouble. The way that her face dropped from enthusiastic joy too worried terror as her eyes swirled from cheerful gold to a sickly chartreuse.

Her immediate reaction was to grab him and pull them both through their own shadows.

There was a moment of absolute darkness. Absolute cold. And somehow, terrifying voices demanding that they take his place.

And then, the blistering burst of genuine sunlight. Repeated impacts against the soft, cushioning walls of the bouncy castle. And her arms, tight around him, as she wept tearful apologies into his shoulder.

It took four medtechs just to get her away from him.

He didn't need a visit to the Med Bay, but it was a close thing. Some mis-assigned instinct to regurgitate had battled furiously with his designed desire to hang on to every last calorie he got.

Thankfully, she had calmed down once they announced he would be fine.

And once the medtechs cleared away, he could see that she had fetched him a Double-Dog Dare Platter from Deep-Fried Everything. With spray cream, and spray cheese, and chocolate sprinkles.

Now, he sat quietly, clinging to his reflective blanket and picking gingerly at the feast before him. Shayde sat opposite the bench, primed and ready to dash for anything he desired. And snivelling quietly into handkerchief.

"I thought ye'd be awreet," she repeated intermittently. "I'm sorrah. I'm reet sorrah..."

This felt worse than a trip through a wormhole. At least going through Hyperspace included the need to eat. "How silver was I?"

"Full-blown smooth mirror."

She was right to be terrified for him. As he recalled, the next stage up in hazard signs was complete torpor with flashing, luminous spots at regular intervals. "Next time, assuming I consent to a next time... we work our way up."

"Babbie Funland it is, then," she agreed. "After ye get yer calories in."

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Challenge #101: Picnic in the Park

The final holiday on Earth prompt - Author's choice as to what the human shows their friend again, but this time everything is finally perfect.

[AN: This story happens somewhere in the middle of #099]

What bothered Rael the most about travelling the Earth with Shayde was how easily she switched languages and habits to match her environment.

For instance, as they marched steadily and almost silently through the Australian wilderness, she was singing an ancient song. Thousands of years old before she even left this planet. And she sung it in praise of, and to honour, the people who once lived here[1].

She had lived here when they lived here, and learned it from them. And she sung it as automatically as she breathed.

And there, in the middle of the scrubby bush, was a hidden spring. Like something out of a fantasy book where children discover another plane of reality. And in this sudden and unexpected pocket of lush green in the middle of dingy khaki... Rael could easily believe that he had stepped into a different universe.

Shayde grinned as she spread out a blanket. "I used tae come here wi' all the local kids. Me standin' oot like a sore thumb o' course. One wee white kiddie in t' middle of all the others. We'd go yabbie-ing a coupl'a ponds over. Swimmin' here. The ole tree branch is gone. Long gone..." But it was almost as it was, and that was the point. So much of the cityscapes had changed. None of her former landmarks existed, any more.

But this place, barely touched by the hands of adult humans, remained.

Everything else in her pack was travelling food. "You brought me all the way here for a picnic?"

Her face twisted as she evidently struggled not to blurt out some ancient and crude Australian saying. "Aye," she said eventually. "We can even go swimmin'."

"We don't have our -er- 'togs'."

An even wider grin. "And who's goin' tae see that?"

He wasn't quite sure if she was trying to tempt him or trying to pull his leg.

But the food was excellent, and the quiet noise of nature was restful. And he could almost ignore the way Shayde seemed so comfortable with herself, even without a stitch of clothing on.

He often wondered what it was like to grow up without a constant atmosphere of self-consciousness. Or why, even here and now, he insisted on at least keeping his Skins on as he gingerly explored the water.

Shayde didn't say a word about his choices. Just showed him how to tickle the local fish and named some of the native birds.

They shared an impossible four hours in that little spot. Before time, available light, and the scarcity of food demanded that they hike back. But it had been, all in all, a surprisingly lovely day.

[1] Don't worry. They left voluntarily to found their own planet. Nobody's going to steal their land this time.

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Challenge #102: ...Okay?

This post:

 http://azzandra.tumblr.com/post/116731684146/fleshwater-matt-the-blind-cinnamon-roll

(list of weird things humans do like losing baby teeth to grow a second set, then:

"At some point, the aliens aren't going to know anymore when we're actually trolling them.

Us: Under certain circumstances, humans have been known to spontaneously develop the ability to breathe fire.

Alien: yeah, okay, that fits in with the other wacky bullshit you guys can do.")

The humans walked out of the airlock, male and female. Each carrying two human infants.

Pa'rix looked them over. "Your crew manifest says two."

"These aren't crew, they're passengers. Family," clarified the female. "Remember last time we were here? You commented on my swollen abdomen?"

Oh. Right. Reproduction. "Of course they have galactic passports."

There was a pocket in one of the infant-carrying harnesses. The male dug out four nearly-identical documents. The only difference was the names.

Even the DNA-scan was amazingly similar.

"Someone is deceptive. These are papers for one infant."

"They're identical quadruplets," the parents said in resigned unison.

"We tattooed a letter into their left wrists so everyone could distinguish them," said the male. "I have Amy and Dee. Lynn has Bel and Cordie."

The human named Lynn displayed a tiny wrist with an ornate letter C on the fleshy underside.

"We were lucky we were at Rest Stop when they were due. Bel got stuck and they had to give me an emergency caesarian."

"Birth surgery," clarified the male. His documents declared him to be Sizwe.

"How could anyone– oh. Right. You're Deathworlders."

"We get that a lot," they chorused.

*

The four small humans had been upgraded to crew. One wore a shirt that read, Ask us about our cloning program.

Each filed up to Pa'rix to hand her their documents and have their markings scanned and their DNA files updated.

"I lotht a toof," said Amy, showing Pa'rix the gap in her incisors. She seemed happy about this.

"I got a loose tooth," said Cordie. And proceeded to show her how it wriggled.

"I'm already growing a new one," Dee showed off a ragged line of white in the middle of a blank space of gumline.

Bel just pouted her way through.

"This is normal for you humans?"

"Yes, our children have deciduous teeth. They've just started growing their adult set." Lynn handed across her papers and submitted to the scans.

Pa'rix spent a boggling hour scouring the Wikipedia Galactica for human medical information. What she got was a bizarre list of traits that spoke of millennia's worth of multiple near-extinction events. And baffling mutations.

And it was in the resultant cloud of confusion that Pa'rix sought out the six humans for verification.

The answers to all her questions were, "Yes."

"Some of you can bleed for five days and live?" Yes. "Some of you are born hermaphrodites?" Yes. "Some of you are born with mismatched bodies to identities?" Yes. "Some of you can survive, relatively sane, without ever mating?" Yes. "Some of you are born without limbs?" Yes. "Or organs?" Yes.

And finally, "What else are you bizarre apes capable of?"

"Well," said Sizwe with a straight face, "some of us have been known to spontaneously breathe fire."

"...Okay?" quavered Pa'rix. She swore nothing more would startle her for the rest of her life.

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Challenge #103: Parents Just Don't Understand Adventuring...

"You think because you killed a few dragons that you're some kind of big man? Too big to show your elders respect? I'm your mother, I once wiped your poopy bum with my bare hands, so I'm not impressed by your antics, mister 'vanquisher-of-armies'. Why don't you ever visit, or at least write now and then?"

Hrothgar the Mighty - Conquerer of All, Ruler of the Five Kingdoms, Dragonslayer, Master of the Mighty Voice - took off his skull helmet and hung it up. Wiped his boots, that had trodden on the faces of his enemies, on the mat provided, and placed his mighty sword in the hat-rack with all the umbrellas. "Sorry, mum. I got caught up in stuff."

"Caught up in stuff," his mother echoed. "Caught up in stuff." She emerged from her work with the ever-present tea towel swirling around her hands. "You were hanging out with that gang, weren't you?"

"Army, mother. I have armies now. And... um. I brought you some presents?"

She folded her arms. The tea towel took its perch on her shoulder. "Mm-hm."

Hrothgar the Mighty - Conquerer of All, Ruler of the Five Kingdoms, Dragonslayer, Master of the Mighty Voice - urgently ushered some of his minions forwards. And rather more urgently signed that they should wipe their feet.

"Behold! I bring you the rarest of black pearls, the size of a man's head! Wrenched from the grip of the Kraken at the bottom of the deadly seas. The prized Eye of The Goddess of Light, given as a boon in a battle for her favour. The fabled Sword of Kroesos the Conquerer, won by fighting it from his undead hands! Jewels from the furthest realms! The rarest of cloths! Everything you could dream of. And more!"

The mother of Hrothgar the Mighty - Conquerer of All, Ruler of the Five Kingdoms, Dragonslayer, Master of the Mighty Voice - pursed her lips. "You didn't remember the dish soap at all, did you?"

Hrothgar the Mighty - Conquerer of All, Ruler of the Five Kingdoms, Dragonslayer, Master of the Mighty Voice - smacked his forehead and muttered, "D'oh!"

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Challenge #104: Close Encounters of the Blurred Kind

More encounters between the spider-people and humans, pre- or post-Amity

Ten weeks prior to Amity's re-introduction to the Galactic Alliance...

Salvage spacers tended to have short names. Monosyllabic and easy to pronounce in an emergency. So it was with Mar and Dee. Both women had longer names, but such names were exclusively on their paperwork.

"I've been on this hulk before," said Dee, pointing to a conglomerated wreck in their pathfinder screen. "There's an enormous colony of BFS on there."

"BFS," repeated Mar. Knowing Dee as she did, she easily guessed the first two letters. "Big Flakkin'...?"

"Spiders. Huge. The size of dogs. Saint Bernard or bigger."

Mar side-eyed her companion. "It'd be easier to say 'pony'."

"True." Dee shrugged. "On the upside, there's these crystals that grow in there? Twenty ounces gets us a Year, minimum. They're super-rare in the upper gravity zones."

"Are the spiders dangerous?"

"Uuuuuuuuhhhhhh..." the call sign of impending doom. "Dunno. Never hung around long enough to find out."

Right. Presumed dangerous until proven otherwise. Which meant the extra electrical packs. "Any Oshits?"

"No, I've never seen an Oshit in there."

"Just wondering why this hulk got labelled H'nuf'ruf, is all."

"I looked up to see one of them crawling on me."

"Ah."

*

Precautions taken, they split up to find the rare crystals. Though the place was, as Dee put it, full of big flakkin' spiders, it was astonishingly free of webs. What webs there were seemed to serve a different purpose. Mar noted that some seemed designed to corral a cloud of Fhitts into a room where flies bred on filth stuck to the walls.

Mar stared at it. That's a farm. A low-g farm for Fhitts. Lit with the very crystals that she and Dee were looking for. Though these ones were also attached to webbing.

She turned to leave, and came face-to-palps with the farmer. Mar screamed her way into a defensive posture... only to watch in frightened confusion as the spider mimicked her with four of its legs.

It took her some hours to realise that the spider was wearing clothes. Woven spider-fibres. Made into some kind of socks, and a cloak-like arrangement over the abdomen.

But that was later. After she and a spider had freed Dee.

Mar was bouncing off the walls to get away from the farmer-spider when Dee's call came.

"Uh. I'm experiencing some technical difficulties..."

"How big is your embuggerance?"

"Door-sized. I was going after some crystals and... the spider on the other side closed the door."

"And...?" Mar called up the mini-map on her HUD and began bouncing in Dee's general direction.

"I'm stuck halfway through. Every time I try to make a move, the spider lunges at me."

"Stay still and survival breaths. On my way."

By the time she got there, it was a Scene. Four or more spiders were clustered around the right half of Dee. Aiming to startle them away, Mar bounced towards them, arms flapping, and yelling, "YAAARRRGERRONOUTOVITYARUDDYGREATLUMPS!"

The spiders only sidled a little away. One of their number waved its front legs around in the same manner that Mar used her arms.

"That wasn't effective," said Dee.

"Yeah. These things don't know how to be afraid of humans."

"Wish I knew how to be not afraid of spiders."

"Me too."

Mar would not leave Dee. The spiders would not let Mar take her. There was plenty of time to analyse the situation.

The spiders wore clothes and seemed to communicate by some kind of palp semaphore. With emphasis coming from their two front limbs.

Mar tried to imitate their palp-movements with her hands.

Which got instant notice from the spiders.

It was a combination of pantomime and guesswork and charades, but understanding had a seed. The spiders also valued the delicate crystals and farmed them for light.

Having humans barge in and steal some samples was... upsetting... for the spiders.

Negotiations had to break for Mar and Dee to get more air, but they returned to H'nuf'ruf with Glim lamps and adapters. And fuel.

The old engines still worked enough to run the doors. Dee pantomimed and walked the spiders through how to use the interface to add to their environment. Showed them some basic scavenging techniques. Like, for instance, bleeding just enough air out of a hulk to not set off an alarm; then using that air to fill a nearly-vacated add-on of their own.

Knowledge was worth a fortune, if you knew where to sell it.

The spiders showed them how to farm crystals in a low-g zone. And somehow, without nearly beginning to understand each other, they began to form a trade agreement.

Help us get crystals and we help you get things you need.

It would be years before any real communication was at all possible.

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Challenge #105: Elvis Has Left the Building

It's August 1977, news has spread that Elvis Presley has died. For Amy & Zerachiel this is a problem. Niether can find them. Their department heads are furious, the records show that the King has just dissappeared and if Amy and Zerachiel can't come up with the goods they're fired. Might be that he's not even human, mortal or even subject to either of their departments.

Amy = plain clothes demon

Department = Hell, collection agency

Zerachiel = plain clothes angel

Department = Heaven, new admissions

How would a covert meeting between them to exchange information over coffee at a local 7-Eleven go?

1977.

In a darkened hallway, in-between seconds and invisible to normal mortal eyes, two figures squared off. They were an angel and a demon, and only experts can really tell the difference. They squared off in the same way that cats squared off, namely by staring intensely at each other, followed closely by some intense ignoring of the opposite faction.

Minutes ticked by.

"He's mine," said the demon. Hir name was Amy[1].

"He's mine," said the angel, who answered to Zerachiel. "He has spread more love through the world than hatred."

"Ah, but many believe that his music is the tool of my master," countered Amy. "And belief is everything, no?"

"No," said Zerachiel flatly. "And, because his soul is in the balance, we must wait the Final Adjudicator."

More minutes ticked by. "Where is he?"

"He's late."

"He's never late."

"This is the appointed time and place..." said Zerachiel. "Isn't it?"

"Of course it is. Our masters wouldn't send us, otherwise."

"Then where is Azriel?"

"I AM EVERYWHERE," said the dark shadow of Death. The one angel for everyone, guaranteed. "DO YOU NEED SOMETHING?"

"We're here to collect a soul," said Amy. "Elvis Aaron Presley? So-called King of rock and roll?"

"NOT HERE," said Death. "NOT NOW." And then its presence vanished from perception.

Amy and Zerachiel shared a Look. It said, Oh shit...

*

Now.

One slid the other coffee. They both nursed their disposable cups and glared at each other like cats.

"Da capo?" suggested Zerachiel.

Amy rolled hir eyes. "I'm not in the mood to go over decades of cold trails. News, thank you."

"The tabloids have it wrong. Of course."

"Of course," sighed Amy. "And I was joking about them being right at all."

"I've searched this entire orb. There is no sign or trace of him."

"As have I. The only conclusion is that he no longer lives here."

"If he lives."

"He was supposed to have died decades ago!"

"I DON'T CARE WHAT THEY SAY," said the passing shadow of Death, "I NEVER LAID A FINGER ON HIM."

[1] Angels and demons do not, strictly speaking, have genders.

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Challenge #106: The Telephone Game, Divine Edition

A religious organization (modern or fictional), after following their particular holy text (or at least it's translated editions) for centuries/millenia, if given a drastic and alarming shock one day, when their deity appears to tell the vast majority of them, basically, "Who told you I said all this? I never asked you to act like this at all, most of it is your own ideas! You've got everything completely wrong!"

The day of Festival was in full swing. The Unwanted in the pyres had stopped screaming and the annual Cleansing was well underway. Houses, bodies, and belongings scoured with harsh lye and bleach. This Festival, the ten thousandth of its kind, celebrated the much-heralded re-appearance of Loran, the one true god.

Tolris, skin freshly stinging from her own Cleansing, took down the new list of Unwanted Tomes and set about removing them from her shelves. They would go outside into a small pyre for the public to view.

Her shop had no lock, and it was no surprise to find a customer already inside. She was paging through the ever-popular Holy Writ and muttering to herself.

"I didn't say that... He didn't do that. Honestly... how could that one even work?"

Tolris paused in the act of fetching her tongs. "Are you... quite well, my friend?" She also made certain she had her Heretic's Whistle, just in case one of the Unwanted had somehow escaped the Cleansing.

"This book," sighed the stranger. "Most of it's made up. I thought you would all be fine for ten thousand years, but look! I never, ever said one word about hurting a single living being." Fingers tapped the paper in agitation. "And here's entire chapters devoted to how to prepare children for the sacrifice."

"Yae, though the innocent come to Loran, ere they sin," recited Tolris. "Being Chosen for the sacrifice of innocents is the very highest of honours. I regret missing my chance."

The stranger boggled at her. "YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO WANT TO DIE! And it's Loren. That, I can easily accept as a typo or language drift, but the rest of this? It's appalling..."

Tolris brought the whistle to her lips and blew hard on it. No sound came out.

"Thus should the miracle occur," recited Loren. "The accuser will make no sound, though they truly will it so, and the innocent shall be thus spared." Loren looked up from the book. "I told them before I left that I had other business. I can't keep my awareness in all places and all times. How many thousands were presumed guilty just because I was pre-occupied?"

Tolris blew again. So hard that she almost passed out. Nothing. "You are meant to appear in the holiest of places... and make your will known to the people."

"The wealth of knowledge is my holy ground, and those who share it, my advocates," said Loren.

Tolris shook her head. "The lust for knowledge is avarice and abhorrent," she corrected. "Those who keep knowledge must guard it, lest the unworthy become corrupted." Reminded, she urgently rushed to seize the newly corrupted tomes and remove them from existence.

Loren sighed. "Well, that explains why your tech level is still at the hand-tool stage... Why are you taking away books with those tongs?"

"I'm freshly Cleansed. I cannot touch that which is unclean, lest I become unclean in your sight..."

*

Thusly, the corporeal manifestation of Loran came unto the steps of the Holiest Sepulcher. And the holy men knew him not, and barred his way. And Loran clapped his hands together and lo, the men of the Sepulcher found themselves in the midden-piles and the pig sties, outside the mighty walls of the holiest city.

The corporeal manifestation of Loran raised his sandalled foot unto the doors that protected the High Administrate. And kicked them with one mighty blow that sent them spinning off their hinges. The High Administrate beheld Loran, and the High Administrate knew him not.

The corporeal manifestation of Loran held high the Book of Holy Writ and spake thusly: "WHAT THE HELL KIND OF NONSENSE DO YOU CALL THIS, THEN?"

"How did you get in here alive? How dare you talk to me in that tone of voice," blustered the High Administrate.

The Book of Holy Writ burned in bright flames before him. "The name is Loren, and I am your god," she said. "And all of you have been wilfully ignorant for ten thousand years! That's beyond sinful! What the heck do you have to say for yourselves?"

"We followed the Holy Writ," offered the High Administrate.

"You followed bull crap," spake Loren, the corporeal manifestation of the Divine. "And you called it holy. I never should have let men write things down... You always manage to tilt it so that you wind up in charge."

"If you had not wished men to lead," said the High Administrate in an exhibition of what not to say to a Divine Being, "you would have made them into women!"

The corporeal manifestation of Loren snapped her fingers, and lo, all of the men of the church were women. And more, the sins of their lives were written clear upon their flesh, for all to read.

"You were saying?" spake Loren. And the corporeal manifestation of the Divine went out unto the Great Terrace, and made herself known to the people. And she brought back from the fires, all who had succumbed to the flames.

And lo, the people were confused.

And Loren spake unto them, saying, "Look. I know last time was a bit of a mess. Let's try and get it right, this time around. Okay?"

And the people knew not what to think.

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Challenge #107: Prêt à Porter

Creating accommodating clothing and furnishing and such for the possibility that the wearer/user is taller or shorter or fatter or thinner than the average human being seems difficult enough for most modern manufacturers...

...what if they suddenly had to accommodate customers possessing other outside-the-average features... like additional pairs of arms, a snake's tail instead of legs, an extra head or two, wings of various types, centauric forms, or other formerly-just-mythic anatomy?

The familiar complaint, "Oh, they never have anything in my size," drifted through the cloth-lined labyrinth.

Tracy headed towards the potential commission only to find a horse. Well. Eighty percent of a horse. The head of the horse had somehow been replaced by the torso of a human.

She was huge.

Not fat. Hardly fat at all. But she was gargantuan.

"Can I help you?" Tracy risked. Am I still sane?

"These maxi dresses are the right length, but none of them are the right width. Do you have anything like this in a triple-X L? Or larger?"

"Sorry," said Tracy. Possibly on automatic. "We only stock the smaller sizes. There's one specialty store closer to the food court... you could try there."

"Thanks anyway." The centaur, and delicately picked her way out of the shop.

Tracy had no time to think, That was weird... because her next customer had batlike wings sprouting from her back.

"Hi, excuse me. Where are the hip-huggers and halter tops?"

"Those are out of season," apologised Tracy, trying not to stare. "They're for summer only."

The bat-winged woman sighed and sashayed out of there. She had a spaded tail and hooves.

"excuse me," said a tiny voice by her ankle. "do you anything in a super-petite?"

That was a Gnome. And she was staring. "...try Toys R Us," she managed.

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Challenge #108: Infodump

You know you've over explained something when you make a robot's eyes go glassy.

"...and when he looks out the window, there's this long shot that doesn't make any sense? 'Cause they're in a left hand? But it's a right hand? And that's how you know that it's another ship?"

T0B0r blinked. Dazed. "...this does not answer my question..." ze managed.

"And then when she escaped? You can clearly see she's headed right for Canada?"

"...this does not answer my question..." T0B0r fought against an information-overload-related shutdown.

"Wait, was I talking too much?"

"Yes," sighed T0B0r. "Shutdown recommended... System overload in twenty more information points..."

"What was your question again?"

"Who... is... Steven... Universe?"

"OH! Yeah he's a character in a cartoon show."

"Shutdown initiated. Please wait."

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Challenge #109: Penfold... Hush.

If we never meddled in powers we did not comprehend, how would we gain comprehension?

"Uh... by examining them with science? Preferably by non-invasive, passive means first?" suggested Penfold.

Blenkinsop glared at her. "Honestly. You're such a wet blanket."

"Wet blankets survive fires, Blenkinsop. All I'm asking is that you pay attention."

She sighed and folded her arms. "Really."

"Yes. There is a reason why you found these tools and instruments in the middle of a ruined temple. In the middle of a ruined city. In the middle of a ruined civilisation with a document-able trail of destruction... Which originated in the aforementioned temple!"

"But my translations–"

"Your translations may well be off. It's not as if a cataclysmic destruction preserves ink very well. Did you even notice that the last pages of the book were burned? Or that the writer wrote down their own screams?"

"Well I did think it a bit odd. What if it was some kind of narrative device?"

"Blenkinsop..." sighed Penfold. "What earthy variant of narrative device involves bloodstains and traces of acid?"

Blenkinsop pouted. "It's times like this that you take the fun out of everything, did you know that?"

"And you're secretly glad, aren't you?"

"Oh, hush, Penfold," Blenkinsop blushed.

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Challenge #110: When Clint Met Natasha

Some men get so nervous if a lady shows up at the restaurant with a box of explosives.

Budapest. Some years ago.

He thought he had been discretely following her, right up until the moment she sat down opposite him at the cafe. She gave him a winning smile and a, "Sorry I'm late, darling. Caught up in shopping."

Quick handsigns. Three bogies. Armed. Target you. No look.

"That's okay, sweetie," he said, making sure the nearby shrubbery blocked him from any sniper. "You're worth the wait."

She leaned forward. Held his hand. "Whatever I'm going to say is hilarious. Then we're going to go inside for cake," she murmured. "Hydra's targeting you just like they're targeting me. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, yes?"

Clint laughed on cue. "That's exactly right. They've got some lovely miniature Kuglóf, here. Let's go get some."

Arm in arm, he walked with his target into a crowded, public area. "This isn't going to stop them for long. Hydra's not known for its discretion."

"Don't worry. I know a guy." She signalled a man behind the counter and showed Clint the contents of her gift bag. There was enough C4 in there to blow up the entire cafe and its immediate neighbours.

It took every atom of his training to avoid going weak at the knees. "You brought a bomb to a cafe?"

"It's one of the few places anonymous enough to meet with allies." She handed the bag over and neatly switched to Russian. "Here's the parcel. Make sure my friends across the street are distracted. You never saw me, you don't know who I am."

"This will get to your friend," said the guy who worked there.

She lead Clint after him, and through a maze of alleyways and finally, down into a network of tunnels. She didn't even flinch when the sound of the bomb reached them.

"That takes care of those three. Now, we need to sweep up the rest of the cell."

"And what makes you think that I won't just drag you in for questioning?"

"Because Hydra has to be stopped. Because I know this town better than you. Because although you're good with a bow and arrow, you're lousy at close combat. And because I poisoned your coffee and I know where the antidote is."

Nick Fury had been right. Clint really was a trouble magnet. "Just so you know, I'd have agreed to take down hydra without the poison."

"I call it insurance. Let's go."

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Challenge #111: Complaints Department

Person who brought the bomb: 'You're genuinely offended by the fact that we didn't bring big enough bombs?'

Person they were trying to blow up: 'I'm offended by any job poorly done, but that's not the prime issue.'

"You call that an explosion," griped the target. Lord Bottomsbury. "You call that an explosion?"

"Er," said Kieth, would-be assassin. "I thought it'd work?"

"Honestly. This is not the death I paid for."

"I'm sorry, it's my first day. I didn't realise– wait. What?"

Lord Bottomsbury sighed. "It's like this. I'm sick. I'm dying. And I'd very much like to do so whilst still leaving something to my favourite grandchild."

"Er," said Kieth. One half-hearted arm gesture indicated the estate, the gardens, the free-range peafowl, and a small flock of luxury cars.

"Do you have any idea how much it costs to die slowly in this country? It'd all be in hock. I wanted a quick, clean, painless death with a minimum of fuss and bother and you blew up the butler!"

"...sorryaboutthat."

"I'll write his family into the will. I ask you, what's wrong with a little poison? I hear Antifreeze is rather sweet. You could dope my sherry with a lethal dose."

"I didn't know you liked sherry..."

Lord Bottomsbury glared at Keith. "Did I or did I not send you an information packet containing the numerous ways you could kill me?"

"Er," said Keith. "Too long. Didn't read."

Moral: Never hire the cheapest contractor. No matter what the job.

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Challenge #112: Relics of a Previous Age.

I think that I've never seen anything so stupid and so practical in all my life.

They called it The Archive of Earth. A massive tomb devoted to the Twentieth Century. And Shayde had, through adventure and misadventure, inherited the lot.

"How much of this stuff is plastic?" wondered Rael.

"Uh. After the Twenties? Loads." Shayde was particularly uninformative, unpacking the vaults and sorting random objects. The swarming Archivaas had left her to deal with everything they didn't recognise. Which was most of it.

It was a bizarre assortment. Unsorted and filed away wherever it would fit. People of the Twentieth Century had made an inordinate amount of junk.

"Aw. Would ye cop this..." She held up a box.

It declared itself to contain something called 'Flowbee' and it had been seen on television. Probably late at night, when the tired thought anything was a good idea[1]. And it was seemingly used for hygiene.

"People used these?"

"They tried to encourage it," said Shayde. "Always wondered what kind of nutter would use it regularly."

"The actors in the advertising, is my first guess."

"Someone wi' short hair, no time, and bad taste?" suggested Shayde.

"And sleep deprivation," added Rael. "These advertisements, they happened late at night?"

"Oh aye. Always."

"Q.E.D."

[1] It's been proven that a lack of sleep leads to extremely bad decisions. Which is why infomercials happen late at night and why late-night comedy is never funny in the sober light of day.

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Challenge #113: In Vino, Vastitas

Now, I'm not a philosopher, but I AM drunk at this moment, so I'll attempt to discuss philosophy within my own limited eckshp- expewir-...Stuff.

"Na, na, na, na, na, na. Y' can't do that," said his drunken mate. "There's a rule, right? Anything you attempt drunk, right? Anything... you try t' do drunk... 'S gonna end in d'saster."

"She'll be right, mate," said Kevin. "Ph'los'phy's jus' words, innit? Can't hurt anybody wif just words. It's like... noise... duzn' hurt."

"I'm tellin' ya, Kev. I'm tellin' ya. I'm tellin'... I'm tellin'... What w's I tellin' ya?"

"Neveryoumindit, Bazza. We're golden. See, thing 'bout ph'los'phy is..."

*

It was later. They both had splitting headaches. And, apparently, an attending crowd of rapt followers.

"The hell's going on?" said Bazza.

"Who or what must we eliminate next, Master?" said a follower. They had a weird and unblinking stare.

Kevin peeked up from the pillows. Took one look at the assembled cult and muttered, "Oh fuck me. You were right."

There were fifty volunteers.

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Challenge #114: Hearts Wild

The adventures of an Australian in the Everfree Forest.

[AN: The pony in this story has almost nothing to do with Steve Irwin and is a parody of several nature presenters and possibly Bush Tucker Man]

The Everfree Forest. A peculiar patch of land that has never needed a pony's help to operate. The plants grow by themselves. The clouds have seeming autonomy. It's whispered that the animals, there, eat each other.

It's a dangerous place. Unsafe for the incautious.

Few ponies venture into it. Fewer still enjoy their travels there.

And then there's Heart's Wild.

Applejack met him first. She was on her way to Zecora's to see about some sheep medicine when an excited yellow pony burst through the underbrush. He was holding something... wriggling.

"What in the hay?" blurted Applejack.

"Have ya seen anything like this little beauty?" the colt grinned. "Such a wonderful example of nature in action."

The... thing... in his hoofgrip was snarling and snapping.

"Uh, if'n ya say so," allowed Applejack. "I'm more amenable to leavin' things like that alone."

"Wise choice," the pony did not stop grinning. "This little blighter's the most venomous critter I've ever seen! Isn't he lovely?"

"Uh... nope."

"Poor little mite's got a gimpy leg, so I'm takin' 'im to my reserve, up Chaos Falls way. Name's Hearts Wild."

"Applejack," said Applejack.

"Aw ripper! You lot make that Zap Apple Jam. My critters go ga-ga for it."

"Awright," said Applejack. "Reckon ya aren't talkin' much proper English, right now. You get out enough?"

Hearts Wild found this uproariously funny. "Yeah, I get that a lot. I'm originally from Horsetrailya. We tend to have our own gabble."

"Wish ya luck," Applejack edged around him and trotted onwards towards Zecora's. "Im a might busy, you understand."

"Right-o," cheered Hearts Wild. He vanished into the foliage, with the snarling of his beast as the only hint he had been there.

And since his realm of experience was wild animals, it was only a matter of time before Fluttershy found out about him.

...that pony could make the most alarming friends, bless her heart.

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Challenge #115: Vortex Realm

"Help! I'm trapped in a Craft Show."

How many aisles must a man walk down? How many different booths could stock yarn? And what the hell was tatting?

Maisy stopped at yet another booth that sold merchandise almost identical to the last booth.

"...uuuuuuuuuuuugh..." groaned Paul, designated human packhorse. "My feet hurt. How big is this show floor? Can I please put this crap in our room and go for a coffee?"

"Hmm?" Maisy looked up from an array of beaded... somethings. "Let me guess. Your amuse-by date expired."

"I'm hungry and I'm tired and I need caffeine," Paul whined. "I wanna go..."

"Why would anyone want to leave?" smiled the person in the booth. "We have everything you want."

Euw. Creepy.

Maisy smiled. "Fine. Go put that lot up and get caffeinated. Ping me if you need to find me. I'll put up a flag."

"All the crap, here, you could make a flag."

"Don't tempt me."

Paul laughed as he strode through the crowds at FiddleCon. There were doors near the corners that lead to the elevators that would take him either up to the rooms or out to the streets. As he recalled, there was a nice little bistro across the road that sold all things sugar-dusted and sinful.

As long as he walked towards a corner, he'd be fine.

Five turns later, he almost walked straight into Maisy. "How'd you get ahead of me?"

"I thought you were going to our room?"

"I'm trying. I'll see you again." This time, he walked faster. Kept his eye on the corner that should have been his destination. And walked into Maisy's arms.

"I stood exactly still," she said. "You have a lousy sense of direction."

"Fine. I'll head straight for a wall. Can't miss one of them."

Ten 'streets' later, he was facing a very confused Maisy. "But... I was watching you. How–?"

"The better question is 'how do we get out of here?'"

The stall-keepers all turned towards them. Each with an identical, plastic smile. "Why would anyone want to leave?" they asked in creepy unison. "We have everything you want."

...the feast was about to begin...

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Challenge #116: The Diving War

This battle would be much more intense if both sides weren't trying to lose.

"If we do not win for the glory of the emperor, we will be executed as criminals."

"But we can't win! The odds are stacked against us."

"Have no fear! I have bribed the other general to lose to us. All we have to do is make sure that we don't hurt his men."

Meanwhile, in the other camp...

"The emperor told us to conquer his own army. That's insane!"

"I know. I have secured assurances that if we don't hurt his men, the general will appear to fight and fail."

The next day...

The emperor watched in confusion from the hilltop. Both armies, supposedly fighting for his honour and his birthday, were doing a lot of shouting and swinging. But not an awful lot of killing.

"I'd heard that pitched battles such as this had the rivers flowing red with human blood," complained the emperor.

"A poetic exaggeration," said his advisor. He was sweating.

There were men falling. The emperor could see that. What was lacking was any kind of injury.

"Is it normally like this?" said the fourteen-year-old emperor.

"I couldn't say," hedged the advisor. "There's no such thing as a 'normal' battle, sire."

"Are they not sufficiently motivated? One had thought that the threat of death would inspire any man."

The advisor smiled a nervous smile. "Most other renowned holders of the crown offered... much more generous rewards."

The emperor stood. Cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "TEN YEARS' SALARY FOR THE FIRST MAN TO REALLY DIE!"

"Sire... you don't pay them," said the advisor, a little too loudly.

And that was how the revolution started.

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Challenge #117: It Just Goes

About the EM Drive, a possible new space drive that no-one has a coherent theory on HOW it works, but as long as no mistakes have been made in the experiments, it seems that it does....Somehow.

"Well, the future space programs will no longer need propellants. However, they should probably investigate this thoroughly, this looks like an accidental discovery of summoning...things. While using Cthulhu as a propellant sounds hilarious no one wants to know what happens after that."

AN: The EM drive looks like a [fascinating piece of technology even though it is the physics equivalent of a beneficial glitch in the matrix. The part about Cthulu is pretty much spot on, too. Note, though, that China has also previously claimed to have found live unicorns and injured dragons. A side-effect of using the device?]

All space propulsion is dangerous. The propellant used in the original NASA missions to the moon was renowned for eating the engine that used it. The liquid hydrogen used for decades to wrench human and vessel from terra firma has exploded mid-launch. More than once.

Numerous memorials remain in dedication to those who lost their lives to the Plasma Drive and the attempts at building a Warp Core.

And, once the Artificial Gravity Drive was invented, the tetchyness of the engines were renowned. More than once, a ship has succumbed to the forces of the virtual gravity well that was supposed to pull their ship towards its ultimate destination.

And then there's the EM Drive. Nobody can explain it because it violates the laws of physics. Physicists have gone mad trying to explain why it works. One, who came closer than any other before her, filled her journal with the words, "It just goes!" before committing suicide.

The biggest downside of the EM Drive is, of course, the Unreality Field. It works because it shouldn't work, and the resultant catastrophe to the fabric of reality - though undetectable by the instruments of science - is soon noted by the locals.

Put it this way - Earth didn't used to have a continent called Mu.

There, you will find dragons of all varieties. And unicorns. And lizard people. And the EM Drive factory - now abandoned and the residence of vampires and ghouls.

Nobody goes to Mu. Not twice, anyway.

And there's also the disturbing fact that Australian archeologists have unearthed evidence that the EM Drive had been previously attempted by the natives. Which would explain a hell of a lot about Australia.

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Challenge #118: Tough Crowd

A species that has a language where musical vocables (La, de, dum, da etc.) are all either swearwords or very rude.

"I d-d-d-d-don't know what happ-p-p-ened," complained Rabbit.

"We were going so well," said The Spine. "It doesn't compute... it doesn't compute..."

"...i don't want to be mus-ic-ians an-y-more..." sulked Hatchworth.

Pete 17, urgently directing repair teams of Walter Workers, took a deep breath. "What the heck happened? Everybody loves your music..."

"I dunno," said Rabbit. "W-w-w-one minute, I was all, 'Attune your ears to the g-grinding gears', and the n-n-n-next, it was a rrrr-rrr-riot."

"They don't like Brass Gog-gles," said Hatchworth, huddled in a corner.

Realisation hit like a truck. "I told you not to put that in the set list," complained Pete 17. "I told you for a very good reason. Do any of you remember what that was?"

Hatchworth put up his hand. "I know, Mis-ter Wal-ter! Pick me!"

Sigh. "Yes, Hatchy."

"The cul-ture and lan-guage of this plan-et puts our lyr-ics in the naugh-ty box."

"What?" said Rabbit.

"We were sing-ing rude words."

There was a moment of relative silence. Filled by the noise of tools and urgent repairs.

Finally, there was a single summary of realisation from The Spine. "Oops."

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Challenge #119: One Fine Bar Fight at a Galactic Crossroads

Between two cultures, the body language and customs for aggression/anger in one are very similar to the flirting/courtship of the other.

In this scenario: An aggressive display is mistaken for flirting.

She got into the human's personal space. Closed her off from any escape. Rumbled in a low threat, "I like your face."

The human bared her teeth and uttered a barking call. Then she pressed her rubbery mouth to Hoq'a'lu'gi's face. "I think you're cute, too."

Her ship-companions were correct. It was very hard to start a fight with a human.

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Challenge #120: One Fine Evening at a Galactic Mixer Party

Between two cultures, the body language and customs for aggression/anger in one are very similar to the flirting/courtship of the other.

In this scenario: A series of attempts to get an individual to agree to a date are taken entirely the wrong way.

She shouldn't have gone amongst the Deathworlders. She could already feel her mortality creeping up on her. Havenworlders and Deathworlders never mixed well.

"Pretty," said one of the Deathworlders. A tall beast with entirely too much hair and sharp, efficient-looking teeth. It looked... hungry.

"I am not edible," she lied.

"Dunno. You look pretty delicious to me." More bared teeth. "I won't bite. Unless you want me to."

Ryll shrieked and ran away.

When she offered up the complaint at her districts' security kiosk, they carefully and repeatedly explained that the human in question was trying to flirt with her.

Deathworlders... they were so baffling.

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Challenge #121: Catching Up

Ok If I've timed this right it ought to be just after eurovision.

Your prompt today is whatever act won.

[AN: You got it right. I'm willing to bet you were expecting something like Gay Disco Dracula though]

Shayde called it 'degaussing' when she didn't call it "Catching up wi' five hundred years o' Tivo" and it usually involved a bucket of popcorn. Buttered, of course.

"So what are you binging on, tonight?"

"Eurovision."

Her answers always surprised him. Humans displaced in time generally caught up with soap operas or teledramas. Shayde was, as always, different. "Enlighten me. This is an Earth custom?"

"Oh aye. Europe get together to see who sings the best and then gets in a snip aboot who really does. England loses. Always."

"Ah." Terrans. They found endless ways to pick a fight with each other. He sat by her on the couch. "What are you up to?"

"Twenty-fifteen." She offered some popcorn. "The year - fer no reason, ye ken - they let Australia play."

"Australia. Great southern land. Opposite end of the globe. Not Europe at all?"

"Aye," Shayde munched on her handful. "I think they did it tae piss off the States."

"Probably," allowed Rael. He watched in confusion. "I thought this contest was a celebration of costume and spectacle."

"They toned it down for the noobs, I reckon."

"That's it? Laser projection and flashy lights?"

"And a catchy song that's ninety percent chorus, aye."

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Challenge #122: Summons in Trouble

"...'and thus do we condem the acts of the malevolent...'? Wait... MALEVOLENT? How dare they call me 'malevolent'!"

"Yeah, if anything, you're just incompetent."

"...Of course, I – hey, who's side are you on, anyway?!"

"Yours, of course, Master... but even you must admit that your experiments are... a little lacking."

"Of course they are - they're experiments. They exist so that I know what to do better next time."

"But the cogniscent cheese, sir..."

"What? I thought Horace was rather cute."

"The villagers didn't."

"Pfah. Peasants. What do they know?"

"Apparently," Igor peered at the paperwork, "the summoning of Tril'bii Mi'so and sundry other legal entities."

At last, the master grew pale. "You mean..."

"Yes. A class action lawsuit."

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Challenge #123: Ahead by a Nose

Child: Mummy! Mummy! I found a head! Can I keep it?

Mum: No, you can't keep it. Now go and give it back to the gentlebot who lost it.

Child: They didn't say "thank you", Mommy.

Mum: Don't worry about it, dear. Some people don't know how to be polite after they've been decapitated.

AN: We all know the gentlebots of [steampoweredgiraffe are well-mannered enough thank peeps who help when they've lost their heads, so...]

5PY-80T knew hir assignment. All ze had to do was arrange to get hir head into the enemy labs. Which required help from the mole.

They were supposed to meet at an anonymous park and exchange heads. 5PY-80T's facial plates were common enough with M0L3′s that the scanners wouldn't tell the difference. The problem was... the contact was late.

Maybe it was the abundance of people with cameras. Maybe it was the increase in the local police force. Someone, somewhere, had stirred up trouble.

Desperate, 5PY-80T his hir head in the designated place and sent hir body over to a decent hiding place to await M0L3′s signal. And it should have gone well.

If it wasn't for the small child.

Small children and animals had a knack for messing up plans. And this one found 5PY-80T's head and dutifully returned it to hir.

Maybe that was what had happened to M0L3...

5PY-80T lurked in the shadows, checking the wifi for messages or hints of what had gone wrong.

All this trouble, so hir mother-company could keep ahead in the game...

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Challenge #124: One Dark and Stormy Evening in an Abandoned Subterranean Clank Lab

"Listen carefully," they said. "This is absolutely true and not at all a desperate lie."

Click-clack-clunk. "Previous data indicates that the organic will now lie. Subject... asks... that you do not."

The human invader paused. "All right. Fine. I don't want to be trapped in here."

"Neither do I," said Subject. "Subject wants... I need... my creator."

Now the human narrowed their eyes. "You're not the average clank... are you?"

Subject looked down at the floor. "Mama could not make children the organic way. So she made me." At this point, she took out a locket and opened it to the faded image. "She went upstairs and has not come back."

The human spent a long time looking at the image and humming to themselves. It was almost like Mama used to hum. Subject knew that sound, she knew that look. And that was why she gathered all the tools and parts she could.

"Can... you help?" asked Subject.

"Your... 'mama'... may not return. But I can help you," said the human. "I'm Agatha Heterodyne... and I'm sure you can help me when I'm done helping you."

Oh goodie. Repairs at last!

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Challenge #125: Just... Don't Ask

I'd ask what else could go wrong, but I think I've got quite enough happening as it is, thank you.

"Awright... awright..." the entity calling herself Shayde seemed to be having difficulty with the sugar-coated and softened information they had just told her. "I can deal wi' this. I can... I can deal wi' this. Wee bitty bits. Aye. Deal wi' it in wee bitty bits."

The attending medtechs were watching her vital signs like hawks. As was Rael. Her heart rate was safely within panic realms, as was her adrenaline.

"I'm no' on Earth, aye..."

Rael bit his tongue to stop himself echoing her 'aye'. "Correct," he said.

"I'm no' in me own time..."

"Correct again."

"It's been five hundred years."

"To our best estimates. Give or take a few decades."

Redline panic. "How many is a few?" she wailed. And she wailed it in ancient Welsh.

"No more than three." He elected not to tell her that the error was more likely to be on the 'give' side, and that the Galactic Standard Calendar had a really bizarre definition of 'year'.

The entity known as Shayde got up and paced. "Plus or minus thirty years, what the fook..." She flipped back to pre-shattering English. "I'm miles from Earth, aye?"

"Aye." Damn it. "I mean, yes. You are."

There was a soft sound and a flash of light, and the other entity of trouble incarnate was suddenly sharing the room. "I'm growing impatient."

"Aw fook off, Loki!" Shayde threw something at him. The entity known as Loki vanished before her missile had a chance to connect. "Great. Jus' fookain great. I'd ask what else can go wrong, but I reckon I got more'n enough on me plate."

"Correct again," said Rael. "And for the record, probability analysts have determined that the Universe really hates the people who ask that kind of question."

This instantly derailed her panic. "...oooh, can I look at the math?"

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #126: Wake up and Smell the Progress

'We had a perfectly good slow rolling apocalypse going on before you decided to get involved, you know.' they said, after a long pause.

'Now you have a fast apocalypse. Rejoice; progress has come to you.'

She didn't struggle very hard when they dragged her down into the catacombs. And she really shouldn't have been surprised that all the members of the Secret Cabal were all chairmembers of various Big Corporate Entities.

"Lord Monsando. Does this belong to you?"

"Whatever are you Insinuating, Lord Dau? That's not one of mine."

All eyes turned towards Bee Pi. Who said, "Who? Me?"

"Explain yourself," menaced Lord Disley.

"I knew I wouldn't get your attention by trying to stop you," said Agness. She let the cold fires of fury keep her calm. She was exactly where she wanted to be. "Everyone's already doing that. So I decided to help."

"Your 'help' was unnecessary," iced Lord Eckson. "We had a lovely Frog Soup Apocalypse going on. Very profitable."

"And now it's headed away in the handbasket so much faster," Agness grinned, and activated the little device on her belt. On its own, it wouldn't attract the notice of any of the goons who checked her for weapons. But now that it was active? It turned her entire, significant body mass into a fission bomb. "And now the entire world will be able to stop it because they will notice."

They stared at her as the machine warmed up. "How are you going to make money off of that?"

"Who said I wanted to make money?" said Agness. She had just enough time to savour the looks on their piggy faces before the entire Cabal died in white fire.

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Challenge #127: Come Up to the Lab, See What's on the Slab...

A Frankenstein-esque mad scientist (re)creates life from parts of the dead, and one of the first responses from his new (female) creation is an exploratory grope and a frustrated...

"Dammit, you could've at least tried to get a matching pair..."

"What? They aren't the same size? But the clothing label on your donor said D cup..."

"This one is a thirty-five D," explained the monster, juggling a bosom. "This one is a thirty D. The cup size changes depending on the chest circumference."

"Um," said VanQuiche. "Oops?"

"Um. Oops. Um, oops? That's all you have for me? You are marching right back to that donor pool and finding me a matching set of boobs this instant, mister!"

There was nothing else to say, but, "Yes'm."

"And did you even try to do neat needlework? This is my face! People have to look at it!"

"I'llgetrightonthat, Iswear."

"And how the hell did you give me such a narrow waist? Did you scrimp on the internal organs?"

"Uuuuuuuuummmmm..." VanQuiche retreated for the door. "I'll make sure you have a complete set... shall I?"

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Challenge #128: Abominations of Nurture

I need to show [Person] how to repair things properly. Their first instinct is still to reach for a roll of [duct tape]. I just hope I'm not too late. Power corrupts, but the power of duct tape corrupts absolutely.

"Trigellis is a Spark. And Sparks should never be raised in the Holy order of JOATs. Things go... very wrong."

"For example," Pletherly drew the curtains to reveal a contained lab. Where a Spark, presumably Trigellis, was busy piloting a machine apparently made of duct tape and paperclips... and nothing else.

"Yes. I'm going to try and show him the advantages of gears and pistons... but he may be too far gone." Aukney produced the one key to the lab. "Do prepare the -ah- advanced C-gas?"

"Of course," Pleatherly bowed.

Therapy time had begun.

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Challenge #129: Cue Maniacal Laugh

"Oh no, he's won! Now the mad genius is going to destroy the world!"

"What? No. Why would I destroy the world? I like the world. It is where I keep all my stuff."

"But– You're going to destroy the infrastructure. The economy. The Pax Consumerist!"

"Nonsense," sad Mad Doctor Valerie. "I'm just destroying the part of it that keeps people down. Translation, I'm unseating you and all your upper-class ilk by distributing all wealth evenly."

It was such a small button, but the evidence was plain on the screens. All money, everywhere, went briefly into a centralised account, and then went spinning off into even portions into every single back account in the world. Even Mad Doctor Valerie's.

"And just so the stock market doesn't go do-lally, it's now owned by nobody. Any profits get shared out evenly too. Any company with enough shares has them doled out evenly... but there's no company with that many shares, yet. Call it a contingency plan."

"You're insane!"

"Probably," Valerie grinned. "But now everyone starts of with a truly even footing. The people with the real work ethic will rise. Those without will fall. A real meritocracy. Nobody is handed anything on a platter."

"...no..." Andrew Hilton whispered. "...my empire..."

"Not yours. Not anyone's. Earth belongs to those who want to work for it." Valerie grinned like a shark. "Ready to flip some burgers... sweetie?"

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Challenge #130: The Inadvisability of Truth

The greatest truth in the universe is that the truth exists. The hard part is admitting we have no idea what it is or even where to begin finding it. I am sure we will eventually invest something that will let us invent something so we can discover something that will let us invent something that will give us a clue as to what we might need to invent to figure out what direction we should start looking for advancements in order to find a hint of where the truth is.

This was it. The machine was complete. Sally stood back in awe at her creation. This machine would be the one to tear away all the lies.

Anyone inside, once the machine was on, would know the truth.

And there was only one way to test it.

She stepped inside...

Turned it on...

*

They found her, later. Much later. Blood had finally stopped pouring from her nose, though she would never stop soiling herself for the rest of her life.

She would never talk again. Sally met the world with either hysterical giggling or baby-like sobs.

She had forgotten the very important thing about the truth.

It's only as good as one's ability to face it.

The machine worked. They had no doubt. It tore away all of the lies.

Even the ones we tell ourselves so that we can get through the day.

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Challenge #131: Escape

Masquerading as a normal person day after day is exhausting.

Our Glorious Leader, Membrixel Spite, has decreed that he shall make ours a perfect nation. And to that end, he is correcting and eliminating the Anomalies.

If you find this after I am gone, you will know. Not only did I fail, but I have also been found Anomalous and taken for correction. Or execution.

Did you notice? Are you reading my words any more? Does it even matter that I put down this record? I think I may have stopped caring. I will be made to vanish, soon. All that matters is that I have done this.

I am an Anomaly. And no matter what Our Glorious Leader says, I matter. I think. I feel. I laugh and cry. I may not Fit In, but I matter. And with that much treason in my heart, I shall give you the history as it is not written in the authorised books.

It began with concern, of course. Concern that we, the citizens of our great nation, were not healthy. And who could blame Our Glorious Leader? Many of us were fat. Many of us were lazy. But the lazy people were not fat. And the fat people were not lazy.

Convenience and cheap food was plentiful for those who had no time to cook.

It began with good intentions. Mandatory salads. Caloric control. And a slow but steady reduction in portion sizes. And finally, when nothing worked, the fat poor were sent to work camps. Where they sweated all day and ate thin gruel.

And the people were happy.

Next was the concern for the mentally ill and the physically incapable. What help the government deigned to afford was never enough. And they were, in the end, rounded up too.

The people never saw them again. But they were still happy.

Our Glorious Leader needed perfect soldiers, after all. And if you could not be a perfect soldier, you had to be a perfect service worker. Making sure our brave soldiers could continue the good fight.

Then came concern for the infertile. Making them have babies. Making people who could not afford infants to have infants. And then taking them away into the state orphanages when inspectors found their accommodations lacking.

And the people were not very happy, any more. Not all of them. But by then, it was too late.

Our Glorious Leader is Concerned for you. You should not be doing the things you do. They are Anomalous. You don't want to be an Anomaly. Anomalies get rounded up, for the good of our great nation.

In way, I'm lucky I'm a girl. As long as I keep my head down and stay quiet, they don't pay me much heed. All I need is to keep making babies and hope that they don't catch my genes.

But that isn't enough.

Something must be done.

There are people found Anomalous now, who used to be Normal. The definition of Normal is shrinking. Soon... our glorious nation will be in a genetic bottleneck. Our Glorious Leader has gone too far,

Which is why I'm going to try killing him tonight.

Whoever you are, wish me luck. We all need it.

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Challenge #132: Shattered Fables

It turns out that some species' mythical creatures are almost identical to real creatures found on the home planet of another species.

K'karik almost forgot to breathe. There, sitting in the enclosure of the Terran zoo, was clearly Skybear. It was grey like a storm cloud, and sitting up against a tree. Its ears were the white puffs of high stratus clouds.

Just like in the stories.

Legend said the song of the Skybear was a marvel to behold.

Legend didn't say anything about them eating noxiously pungent leaves. And their gaze didn't instantly bring down the lightning. If anything, it regarded K'karik with an almost insolent apathy.

"Are they tame?" she asked a human guide. She asked it in a reverential whisper.

"Yeah. Well, tame enough. Sort of. You can't really tame a Koala." Her nametag declared her to be Sandy. "Would you like a photo with one?"

A picture? With a Skybear? "They allow people to hold them?"

"They're noncogniscent mammals," soothed Sandy. "And they're socialised, so they won't kick up. Too much."

Of course, the Terran version of 'kick up' was many other cogniscents' version of 'fatally maim'. Therefore, K'karik followed the Terran Guide's instructions to the letter.

The Skybear clung to her as it had clung to the tree. Its fur was soft. And it had two thumbs.

"Peace of the land for peace of the air," K'karik whispered in awed reverence.

Sandy managed to take the photograph mere seconds before the Koala urinated. All. Over. K'karik.

Legends were not meant to become reality.

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Challenge #133: Versatility

string, 1001 uses.

"Um," said Rael.

"What?" said Pix.

"It's more than a thousand and one," he said, reaching slowly for a handbook datachip and slotting it into his reader. "The uses for string pile into the billions, if not quintillions. Of course, some of it is dependant on the originating fibre and the definition of 'string'."

Pix glared at him. "I might not have enough funds for an infodump, sir."

Ah. Right. People paid to hear information. He was still very much used to being tested. "Does it show that I'm fresh out of tutoring?" he readied a few Seconds, just in case.

"Very blatantly. You'll get over it." She waved off the offer and got back to her own entertainments.

For Rael, fresh out of Hippo Mining Station and so figuratively green that he could sprout new leaves and become a hedge... the strangeness of being a fully autonomous individual was just beginning.

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Challenge #134: One Blood-Soaked Evening in a Norse Battlefield

Valkire. They were the choosers of the slain in Norse mythology, see what you can do with it.

"OI!" Thagr the Unbelievable waved down a passing Valkyrie. "What's the matter with you lot? I've been waiting for ages!"

The battle maiden sneered down at him and declared, "You are not worthy," before attempting to move away.

"OI! OI! You can't do this to me! I died in battle, I did. I'm entitled to entrance to Valhalla! It's the rules."

She sighed the long sigh of someone who'd been through this argument too many times. "It's not just that you died in battle, Thagr... It's how you died in battle that counts."

"What?"

"You died in an arrow volley."

"Yeah. So?"

"All the arrows are in your back."

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Challenge #135: When You Have a Hammer...

Person #1: Great! You just gave an engineer a problem that can't be solved with duct tape. Now we're going to be stuck here all day.

Person #2: There are problems that can't be solved with duct tape?

"Maybe if I recalibrate the spline actuator frigit..."

"What's the first rule?" demanded Captain Dalia.

Sub-lieutenant Branley sighed and toed at the metal plate floor. "Never give a stop-over mechanic a problem that can't be solved with ductape," she droned.

"And why do we avoid doing that?"

Another sigh. Another drone, "Because they get excited and try to fix every problem there is on the ship whether we want it fixed or not."

"Exactly," cooed Captain Dalia. "And to make sure you learn this, you're helping him."

Branley groaned in anticipatory agony.

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Challenge #136: Manuals Exist for a Reason

Two people are standing in front of [Large, technical, dangerous-but-necessary item]. They are discussing how to do something highly dangerous with it that is their best hope at this point.

Person #1: [Name], walk us through this.

Person #2: First, you'll want to [BAD IDEA]. Then [ANOTHER BAD IDEA]. After that, [NO]. Then [DON'T DO THIS] and [SERIOUSLY, DON'T].

Person #3: So...basically everything written here, in order, right after 'WARNING: DO NOT'...

Person #2: Essentially.

The night before the Big Day.

Kevin could tell that this was bad news. Hackmeyer had promised him, Dave-o and Steve some extra credit if they helped the Professor with his 'little adjustments' to Katie's "dimensional pinhole" instrument array.

"Okay," said Steve. "What are we doing to this thing?"

Hackmeyer cracked his knuckles. "First, we disengage the safety alarm. Then we increase all the inputs in the first array three marks past the red line. After that, we move on to the secondary and tertiary arrays, moving them comfortably into the red zones. If not further."

Kev picked up the very detailed operations manual that he had helped Katie put together. "So... just about everything in this manual, under the title, 'This Will Kill You and Most of California if You Try It', right sir?"

Hackmeyer glared at him. "Need I remind you, mister Polson, that you have extra credit and I have significant grant money riding on this display being one that the military can appreciate? The last thing any of us need is some little girl playing it safe so that her dollies can have a tea party in the reactor!"

Dave-o and Steve agreed with Hackmeyer. None of those three men had read the explicit details of exactly what could go wrong with Katie's dimensional pinhole. And, after all, this was America. Bigger was better. Why have a pinhole when one could have a sinkhole?

Therefore, he tried desperately to covertly unfuck everything that the others fucked up. And he left Katie's dummy 'safety switch' in the covert 'alert' position.

He just had to hope that Katie could fix everything in time.

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Challenge #137: Mistakes Were Made

After  http://internutter.tumblr.com/post/119809238784/challenge-00851-b120-one-fine-evening-at-a

The deathworlder's attempts to apologise for the earlier incident and continue to express interest in the little havenworlder

This negotiation booth had a clear barrier between the Human called Bear and the Agamid called Ryll.

Both parties had a security detail and a negotiations counsellor.

"I'm very sorry," said Bear. "I didn't mean to scare you. Usually those lines get a big laugh."

"Cogniphagia is humorous?" meeped Ryll in alarm.

"Uhhh..." said Bear.

"The human named Bear is referring to some recreational procreation activities native to his species," informed the negotiations counsellor on Ryll's side.

This earned the counsellor a slow and incredulous boggle.

"It's true," said Bear. "Females of my kind are amenable to friendly nibbling in sensitive areas."

"Your teeth are sharp," said Ryll. "My skin is not as strong as yours."

"Yeah I wasn't thinking it through," admitted Bear. "I thought that since you were in the area, you'd already got the resistance to us."

"You're... aware?"

"I might be a bit slow, but I'm not ignorant," Bear smiled, carefully keeping his sharp teeth out of view. "If you like, I can escort you through a series of cleared experiences."

Ryll meeped again. So alarming. "I must... acclimate myself... to the concept," she allowed.

Bear offered his contact details and a promise that he would not pursue her company.

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Challenge #138: One Mildly Hazardous Evening in the Commercial Concourse

After many stumbles and a lot of explaining and apologising, how does the first date between little havenworlder and big scary deathworlder go?

It had taken some significant time in negotiations and a lot of education on both sides. Ground rules established. Diets planned, they now sat awkwardly across from each other at Unsuitable Food Eat.

Bear cleared his throat three times before he said, "I understand you're insectivorous? Do you mind sharing a Hakuna Platter?"

"That is..." Ryll scrolled down the menu screens. "Ah. The abundance of carbohydrates and flesh with a few lost vegetables lost in the middle?"

"I'll make sure we get it without pineapple. Or chilli. Or. Um. Anything aggressive." Bear consulted his personal reader. "Yikes. Your lot aren't cleared for much, are they?"

Ryll nervously groomed her head-spikes. "We are still working our way up to class-four Deathworlders like yourself. Your... flavour... would kill us."

"I'm already feeling guilty about that." Bear reddened. "Um. I usually like to eat the aggressive stuff."

"I didn't know you could change colour." Ryll relaxed out of her huddle. "Is it a display of interest?"

"Sometimes, it can be. In this case, I'm just embarrassed," Bear scratched his chin fur. "Loads of the stuff I enjoy? I can't share."

"Yes. I looked up your Deathworlder entertainments under supervision." A smile. "I only fainted twice."

"Cheev," Bear grinned.

"...pardon?"

"Uhm. That was an achievement. Yes?"

It was a very awkward evening.

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Challenge #139: Never Hitchhike Drunk

"And that is how I accidentally fostered peace between two species and became mayor of Broccolopolis"

Let me tell you, there are some cargo haulers out there who can make Space Lightning out of anything that can ferment.

And freeze-distilling that stuff in Kelvin-scale temperatures gives it one hell of a kick.

And my brewer in chief decided to drop me off somewhere light years away from my destination.

A planet in the middle of a generations-long war.

By the time I got there, they'd been killing each other for millennia and just about the entire planet was an immense graveyard. I say 'graveyard' but it was more along the lines of 'garden'.

See, both sides elected to honour their dead with sort of... tree things. If you can imagine a hybrid of a carrot, pumpkin, broccoli and Yggdrasil as a 'tree'. They looked like trees and that was good enough for me.

There was only one town left and it had a thick wall in the middle that passed for the spaceport. And administrations building. It was there that I discovered, in my hangover haze, that both sides were no longer fighting over any kind of moral issue. They were fighting over land in which to live.

All those trees left zero territory for housing or farming.

I went for an escorted tour and someone informed me that they were edible from root to leaf.

"Well," I said, "Why don't people eat the insides and live in them, then?"

You could hear a pin drop.

I wasn't quite sober, yet, so I assumed the tour was over and ambled back to the hostel room that was literally a hole in the wall.

And when I woke up... I was not only saviour of the planet, but also the mayor of the now-expanding Broccolopolis.

I have my very own Ygdrassil-manor with an indoor pool, though. It's not all bad. And they make a killer tree-sap brew here. Want to try some? No strings attached...

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Challenge #140: A Call Home From College...

((Inspired by this rather strange image: http://i.imgur.com/wq1qvY4.jpg ))

"...um... and one more thing. Daddy, I'm dating... a black man."

"Well, that's no problem. I'm no racist; I'm not gonna be upset if my baby girl thinks her old man should have a future son-in-law with brown skin."

"Daddy, we're not even thinking about marriage yet! But anyway... no, Daddy, I didn't mean a colored person. I said black. He's literally black. My boyfriend absorbs light. I'm dating a living void from beyond the edge of space."

"... well... that kinda distance's gonna make travel for holiday visits tricky."

[AN: I think I might know what happened with that pic. Once upon a dime, before digital imagery, I took a photo with my best friend at the time, pre-prom. The people at the photo processing place "corrected" my deathly pallor into a healthy tan and my friend, who was already a healthy tan, into really dark. Even if this pic is digital in origin.... The image is further proof that engineers really need a wider scope when photographing brown people.]

He arrived in a perpetual shadow and a subtle chorus from an eldritch origin. His otherwise normal street clothes delineating his form.

"Thank you for inviting me into your home," he said in a voice that sounded like honey at midnight where the jar had been wrapped in black velvet.

"Yeah, I hear it's quite a haul from where you live."

"I am an exchange student. And I am seeking to immigrate. You have an interesting civilisation."

"Thank you, we do work at it."

"You are at a crux point. I wish to observe the conflict at a much closer range."

"Oh... kay..." Steve cleared his throat. "And -ah- your intentions with my Donna?"

"I was not aware that you owned her."

"Uh...." he cleared his throat again. "Well... Um..." the awkwardness of this Thanksgiving was only going to get worse.

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Challenge #141: Children of the Monitor Light

 http://chokingonfeelings.tumblr.com/post/120109659651/zzdigital-what-if-someone-got-bitten-by-a

(Transcription:

What if someone got bitten by a vampire, but didn't realize it. So then they go around and keep misidentifying all the symptoms, like

"Dude, you haven't gone outside in a while."

"Yeah, last time I went out I got this wicked sunburn."

"Are you still up?"

"Yeah, I started bing watching this show on Netflix."

"Dude, I'm seriously craving something right now."

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Pizza rolls?")

Hey there. Andy Carter. Freelance programmer. Nerd blogger. But you knew that. That is, if you're one of the few who actually reads these ramblings.

I'm still looking for that asshole who slipped me something at Juliana's kegger/barbecue. Would you believe nobody got photographs? Like, a million people glued to their phones and doing Snapchats and that kind of fuckshit... and not one of them caught the asshole who figured out a way to get past my guard.

He was a slick sunofabitch, I can tell you that. It's bastards like him that make me put on the ole cockblocker 9000. And you all told me that it was stupid to make my own chastity belt.

Ha! Joke's on you. It worked, so ner.

Anyway, ever since then I've had some weird kinda bug. Bastard managed to give me something.

It's been four weeks since I woke up on Juliana's porch swing with a massive pain in my neck. Weird stuff has been happening.

I get this bizarre craving for rare meat. Like super-rare. You ever heard of Blue Steak? Where they bless a hunk of dead cow with a kiss to the grille and serve it like that?

Yeah. THAT rare.

I am sorry. This is like an overwhelming craving. Spinach doesn't cut it. I can't be vegan any more.

At least it's still raw food, right? It's gotta be some kind of healthy.

And on that note - to the 'just get some sun' team: I literally can't. Last time I stepped out into daylight? I went out to fetch my mail. Came back inside with the kind of sunburns that make people sick. I think I might be allergic to sunshine, now.

Yeah. It's a thing.

Moonlight is okay. It's diffuse. It doesn't hurt. And taking midnight strolls is not exactly safe for a gal unless I have the sense of mind to don the cockblocker 9000 and carry my best friend - the Louisville Slugger with extra barbed wire wrapped around it.

It's amazing how few people fuck with me when I have Louis by my side.

I have to avoid the cops, though. They tend to frown on Louis.

I've been getting a little more... aggressive, lately. Like I want someone to fuck with me. The idea of smashing Louis into some douchebag's face is... well... it's a kind of fantasy that rarely leaves my thoughts.

And I swear I'm hallucinating. I can't see my face in mirrors, any more. I thought that was something that only happened in dreams. Bernie, the nice lady who delivers my shopping, came by and confirmed that I wasn't dreaming. She also said she couldn't see my reflection, either. She helped me with that video I put up on Youtube.

That one won me five hundred off of Real Or Fake. Yay.

And - I used to love anything garlic. Now even the faintest whiff of Aoli makes me want to run and puke. I've been torn from my favourite condiment.

Bernie keeps telling me it's for the best. That I smell nicer, now.

I have no idea how to tell her, but... she's started to smell delicious. Like I want to bite her neck... Actually bite it.

Something weird is going on. It's that asshole's fault, I know it.

Can anyone help with this? Every time I google the symptoms, I get a billion links to Twilight fanfic. Gross.

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Challenge #142: Distracting Objects

Keets and a laser pointer.

Problem one: Keets are super-delicate babies and must be protected.

Problem two: Keets are as hyper as all get out in rainy weather.

Problem three: Keets can climb, but they're not that great at getting down safely.

Problem four: they're suicidally curious and have worked out how to open the playroom door.

Keri had to keep them under constant supervision and off the shelving and occupied until the grownups came back.

And, as further trouble, the usual array of kidvids didn't seem to capture their gnatlike attentions. Neither did any of the approved toys. They were bored out of their little gourds and had cabin fever to boot.

Then she remembered how she kept the kittens away from Mom and Ms Ri'ki. In a fit of half-crazed, sleep-deprived genius, Keri got the trinkets jar down and unearthed the laser pointer.

*

"We're ho-ome!"

Silence. Ominous, heart-stopping silence. Anne rushed to the playroom door and sneaked it open.

One pre-teen child, deep in slumberland and the pillows of the hammock. Leg dangling awkwardly at an uncomfortable angle.

And in the nest-bed opposite, one, two, three... all four of Ri'ki's keets. All snuggled up together under the warming blanket.

All alive, whole, and -yes- breathing.

"...mom...?"

Anne nearly jumped out of her skin. "Hi, darling. How was keet-sitting?"

"Hectic until I busted out the laser pointer."

"Oh... kay?"

"Ran 'em around until they ran out of puff," Keri grinned. Then yawned. "And I'm still on ten percent battery. Can I go to my bed?"

"Yeah, go for it. The grownups can keep an eye on the keets, now."

Keri sighed and lurched towards her room like a half-conscious zombie.

Laser pointers. They really did work on any creature with a small attention span.

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Challenge #143: Sufficiently Advanced Technology

Today's challenge is to write anything you like based on the animated video for Mystery Skulls: Ghost

If you need to know, Blue = Vivi, Yellow = Arthur, Purple = Lewis and Dog = Mystery

[AN: This takes place sometime after a re-union of ghost and mystery team. Also I love the fuck out of MSA :D]

Mystery had his nine tails out as he slept. And one eye open. Lewis glared at the kitsune, and at the target beyond.

Arthur. Snoring gently into a cushion of electrical parts and crystals. The remains of an entire case of Caf-Pow Superbullet cans scattered around the vicinity of a trash can.

Like so many other nights. Many of them while Lewis still had flesh.

The way it used to be... they never let Arthur tinker alone. Strange things happened when he was hepped up on too much caffeine and sarsaparilla. And, yes, there was a scattering of root beer bottles underneath his desk.

Memories battled with each other. Lewis knew, as team mom, that Arthur was going to wake up with an atrocious back, a crick in his neck and one hell of a headache. Why hadn't Vivi...?

Vivi couldn't carry Arthur to bed. That had always been Lewis' job.

But also, he remembered the push. One green hand and a lunge. One expression of demented glee battling with the other - utter, pitch-black terror. And his own, illogical concern that Arthur had once again become possessed. He'd forgotten his stupid amulet in the stupid car again. Even though they put the stupid thing on the stupid rear-view so he could stupid see it and remember to put it stupid on...

And he remembered the feel of the stalagmite. And the struggle for air. And begging Vivi not to look. And he remembered the hate. He always remembered the hate.

It was easy to hate Arthur. It was easy to enjoy scaring the kid. So easy... to forget that he had once been Arthur's mentor. That he'd taken the nervous, twitchy, bullied and browbeaten mechanical genius under his wing. How Arthur had resurrected the Skullmobile from a burned out chassis and a veritable plethora of junk parts.

...how Arthur had invented most of the machines that had saved them all too many times from the otherworldly menaces...

...how scared and shivering Arthur had kept coming back to face his fears...

And he had to keep reminding himself. Why he should not hate Arthur.

Vivi told him, often, about the year and a day since the fall. She called it 'the fall'. During their time apart, she called it 'the bad thing' and did not remember. And once she did... She literally cried for a week. Once she was done, she told him how Arthur had gone through a rapid succession of replacement limbs before inventing his own. It had half the tech they used on their adventures, inside it. And an improved Amulet. He'd never get possessed again.

Some days, it felt like too little, too late. Tonight... it made the rage go away. Because Arthur never took the arm off. Not even for a second.

Lewis tidied up, using his postmortem telekinesis to silently remove the remains of Arthur's indulgences. And in doing so, he uncovered the plans. Like always, the contents of the plans were incomprehensible to Lewis, but there was a title and a paragraph. Added by habit to stop Lewis derailing Arthur's train of thought with questions.

He still did that. Even after a year of Lewis' death.

The words on the sheet read: Corporeal Recombobulator. Return flesh to Earthbound Spirits over the passage of nine months. The rest of it was the usual incomprehensible mixture of math, science, and magic.

And the finished product resembled a bright yellow companion cube.

"...'m s'rry, lew... didn' mean it..." Arthur mumbled, turning his head. There were transistors and resistors and a crystal stuck to his face.

Lewis sighed and carried Arthur to bed. Things may never be as they were... but they could at least mend the bridges.

When he looked back at Mystery, he seemed like an ordinary dog, once more.

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Challenge #144: Things To Do...

W.I.P. (work in progress, U.F.O. (unfinished object). See what you can do with it.

AN: You don't really need to say "see what you can do with it" at the end of a prompt. I will see. And so will you. Required reading: [Ballad of Bitzer]

July 13 1923

Bitzer had been waiting. Hiding silently under the dropcloth and listening. One of the children had a nasty cough. It sounded like the poor infant's throat was about to be coughed up.

She knew from conversation that Maman was working on anything that would help. Ivy tea. Barley soup. Steam... always hard in the middle of winter.

The children were not allowed to see Bitzer. Not how she was. With only one arm and half a face and no legs... it would scare the poor babies to death.

...and speaking of steam...

Bitzer waited until Maman turned on a tap before she reached backwards to turn on the tap behind her head. Water poured into a pail and re-filled it. Just enough so that Bitzer could sip and refill her boiler with the help of a long piece of rubber hose.

Maman would not be coming downstairs, tonight. Of course not. She was so busy with her flesh children that she had no time for her metal one. And that was all right. Bitzer could wait. She was patient.

*

1925

Waiting was getting a little dull. Nobody hardly ever came down into the cellar, any more. Especially not Maman. Bitzer read things. Books within the reach of her left arm. The plans on the wall for Colonel Peter A. Walter Singing Musical Automaton Zero Zero One.

And then she had an idea.

What if Maman was testing Bitzer's capabilities? What if she wanted to see what Bitzer could do on her own?

And why not? The tools were right there. Most of the parts were right there. Right within easy reach. And the plans were certainly legible.

*

1938

Her right arm was suspiciously unlike her left, but -oh!- how useful it was. And with the help of the wire-frame spectacles... and a coat-hook screwed in to the left side of her facial chassis... she could see and do so much more.

Legs were infinitely more trouble than arms. She was certain she hadn't got her right hip quite correct. And with the beginnings of metal femurs, she could sit up and reach the oil on the high shelf.

And an envelope of pictures.

They were funny pictures, with black where the white should be and vice versa. All but one went back into the envelope from whence they came. This one was special. This one was Maman.

Bitzer took a moment to read the careful writing on the back. Plaesir Gloria "Play" Arist nee Aris. Shown here in Walter Worker Uniform C. 1894. Negative. Do not expose to light. Bitzer hugged it to her opal heart before sliding it under the headrest.

*

1942

The people who came down into the cellar did not even bother to look for Bitzer. They put things in boxes and shoved the boxes together until there was no room to shove them into.

On the plus side, it meant that there were plenty of things to build her legs out of.

Maman was going to make such a fuss when she came back and saw all this mess.

Bitzer decided that she might be better off finishing herself so she could at least clear a path.

*

1946

Sorting was fun. She got to see new things and find new books and there were lots of things to read. And there were toys, too. Toys the children had had before Maman sent them down.

Maman was being so mysterious... Maybe Bitzer should ask her if this was the right idea.

She waited until night-time, of course. Maman liked to stay up after dark and do all the things she couldn't do with the children in her elbows. And again, she contemplated the stairs. They were just a series of little floors. All the way up to the big door.

She could lift a foot and place it on a step. She could hold the bannister and brace against the wall...

But the instant she tried to pull herself up, her damage sensors screamed that something was very, very, very wrong with her knees.

Maman was not coming down, yet. And Bitzer could not go up.

Perhaps there was a hint in one of the boxes...

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Challenge #145: DO NOT ASK

Murphy's Law, and ensuing resulting chaos thereof.

AN: You can get some really interesting ones over here: [http://www.scottrainey.com/jokes/murphys_laws.htm]

There are rules to space travel. Primary amongst them is: Shut the flakking door. And many of them are cycled upwards or downwards depending on the frequency of use.

But always, somewhere in the top ten is: Never ask questions with an inherently obvious answer.

The examples of the lawbreakers are numerous. Blex T'iiv once said, "They're only level three Deathworlders. What can they do to us?" and quickly found out.

R'ixxo the Mighty asked, "How can those squishy things conquer a solar system?" and got a very practical demonstration.

And many humans have had, "It can't get much worse, can it?" as their epitaph.

And, in retrospect, Trader Ax'and'l should really learn to stop asking, "What else can this human do to make my life more complicated?"

The human had a nervous rictus and both hands cupping his genitals. "Hi," was the only greeting he had.

"I take it your 'date' didn't go that well."

"Ah. No. Water-soluble clothing. Water sluice ride. Do I need to spell it out?"

Ax'and'l sighed. "Has a complaint been registered against Ambassador Shayde?"

Sherlock maintained his usual unreadable facade. "Mister Barrow refuses to press charges. He said he deserved it."

"What did he do to–" Ax'and'l cut himself off. He was learning. "No. No. Never mind. I'm sure I'll read about it in the news feeds."

Hwell belched an anxious titter. "Yeah. She kind of made certain there was a lot of press..."

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Challenge #146: Walk This Way

The ministry of silly walks.

"Absolutely not. That walk is the wholly-owned property of the Consortium of Steam."

Ribuffo sighed and stood still. "Fine. It was just an experiment. What about this one?" Once again, she paraded in front of the motion capture cameras.

And once again, the alarm blatted.

"Don't tell me. I accidentally did Wilgro. I knew it. One more. One more." This time, Ribuffo added the little fillip with the half-skip left step.

"That's Wilgro with a half-skip left fillip," said the clerk. "And it's owned by Dedtrii, you know? The–"

"–one who does all the Wilgro parody pieces. I know." Ribuffo fell into the interview chair. "Dale... I want to be funny. Are there any -Idunno- public domain walks?"

Dale raised her eyebrow. "Uh... I could get into trouble for looking." Then she lowered her voice to a whisper, "And I can't tell you to go looking for Archivaas Blaiiz in the Fiftieth district, subsection forty-eight. I can't tell you to go meet at the Undisclosed Coffee Shop because it doesn't exist. There's no such thing as a cafe with no surveillance on Ghiisham. And I definitely can not tell you to get Archivaas Blaiiz's help with form WWITGI-84529G. Got that?"

Ribuffo winked and tapped her squeaker-nose. "Absolutely not," she said. "I won't do any of those things at all."

Comedy was serious business on Ghiishem.

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Challenge #147: Educational Aside

Since this year was a bust, eurovision prompt 2: Lasha Tumbai

AN: I looked her up on Youtube... [wow]

"So... if that's 'Eurovision Lite'..." Rael couldn't help himself. Perhaps curiosity was yet another Alpha-draft flaw. "What is -ah- 'Eurovision Heavy' like?"

"Nearest words I can get is - the video answer tae crack." Shayde queued up another video segment and fetched more popcorn.

"I'm not going to see anything... awful... am I?"

"Na, na, na... It's all good. This lot're very good. It's just... techno dance accordion."

"That was word salad."

"That was an accurate description."

They were wearing mirrors in what could easily be mistaken for a third-dan Insulter's uniform. The lead singer had a gigantic star on her mirrored skullcap.

It was techno. It did make him think about dancing. And there was definitely an accordion in there.

And it was catchy as hell.

"That," he announced, when silence once again reigned, "was almost a level three weaponizable ear-worm"

"Glad ye like," teased Shayde.

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Challenge #148: Tokens of Adulthood

multitool,

They threw him a Going Away Party. Just like they threw him an Adoption Day party on the anniversary of his arrival on Hippo Mining Station. And, like all the things the mining crew did for him, it involved available materials.

So far, he'd been given a pair of The Drongo's old work-boots - refurbished and 'gussied up' with a layer of gleaming black ductape. This parcel contained fabric scraps from Dode's stash. Every colour of the rainbow, and then some.

"These are your fat quarters," he said. "I can't–"

"Every JOAT must make their own coat, kiddo," said Dode the JOAT. "And for that, you need cloth. I'm not about to send you out through five jumps with a bare back."

"I'll make good use of every thread," he whispered.

The last gift came from all the miners. Meaning that they'd cumulatively gleaned, scraped, and fabricated it. Hard work, for such a little parcel.

It was, indeed, small. The red of two sides of the oblong was a kind of ochre. It had a H instead of the white cross.

The blades had a knife, two screwdrivers, a saw, and a pair of pliers. As well as scissors and a really big blade. And a spoon.

They'd hand-forged a swissarmynyff[1]. Rael wished he could weep for the joy of it. "Thank you," he said. "I know how much this cost you. This is my first and best treasure."

Dave was the last. "You'll need this to go with Dode's. Bon voyage, eh?"

It was a sewing kit. And a cheat sheet of basic patterns.

Work boots. A coat in potentia. And a First Multitool.

"Today," he said, "I am a JOAT. And an independent citizen of the Galactic Alliance. Wherever I go... whatever I do... I'll always treasure my time here. Thank you for everything."

Then it was tears and crushing hugs from all the miners. And a couple of bawdy songs before they all but carried him to the departing shuttle like a victor of some horrible war.

He had the things he needed to live. His tank. His kibble supply. The clothes on his back and the warm memories of the first place where he was loved.

He had the things he needed to work. Good boots, a coat, and his first toolkit.

And he had the entire universe to find a place where he would belong.

All in all, Rael found it... terrifying.

[1] It's natural for some phrases to become words.

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Challenge #149: Feelers

"'The flowers that bloom in the Spring, Tra, La!' Have everything to do with the case."

Prison cells on Amalgam were, for assorted humanoid species, a Ten Distance Unit Cube that accommodated the bare minimum necessary for existence. And monitors for all activity.

Shayde had chosen a rubber ball for diversionary occupational therapy and sat with her back pressed against one wall. She was currently engaged in throwing it against the floor so it would ricochet off the wall and return to her non-dominant hand.

Ta-bomp, catch.

And judging by the twitch in the cell guard's door, she'd been at it since early shift-change.

Ta-bomp, catch.

She'd drawn her long, pale hair into a braid that went from her forelock to her nape, and then wound on to finally end in a knot of hair that rested on her chest.

"Ey up," she said by way of greeting. Ta-bomp, catch. "Ye here tae keep me sane, aye?"

Rael personally believed that was a lost cause. "I'm here to escort you to your work assignment. Even pre-assessment, you can be valuable."

Ta-bomp, catch. She put the ball down. "Physical, unskilled labour is it then? Doubt ye got many rocks fer me tae crack..."

"No, it's recycling."

"Trash-pickin'. Lovely." She picked herself up and dusted imaginary dust off her unflattering grey jumpsuit. Then offered her wrists to the shield wall. "Ye like tae cuff me in t' front or the back?"

What?

"You already have your DR locator bracelets. Escape attempts are futile." He entered the code that opened the wall a door's width. "Follow me, please."

"Jus' like that?"

"Yes."

"I could be violent," she said, falling into step beside him.

"We know you aren't. You've been elevated from the status of study animal to that of a small child. In order to be trusted with yourself, you must exhibit civil behaviours."

"Aye, and then I pay me debt back, I understand it... but I dinnae ken what ye do wi' the violent ones."

"Therapy." Rael escorted her into a Veet. Dialled up their destination and watched her breathing exercises. "Society is geared towards ensuring that violent outbursts rarely, if ever, become necessary."

"...at fookain last..." Shayde murmured.

Rael decided to ignore that. The veet piped a tinny version of Jennifer Juniper through the speakers. Just atonally enough to be irritating, but no more than that. He would have to have another little conversation with Eliza about being her experimental subject.

Shayde was jiggling. "So. Ye got a girlfriend?"

He glared at her. "No."

"Boyfriend?"

"No."

"Intimate partner?"

She picked up things fast, it seemed. "No."

"Snuggle-buddy?"

"No."

A pause. Her gaze was taking in his entire form as a smile began to form. "Want one?"

Ugh. What was it with everyone who crossed his path coming on to him? "I don't understand why all you biologicals are obsessed with coupling."

"Basic instinct, isn't it? The flowers tha' bloom in the spring, trala... all that nonse."

"Huh." He folded his arms in a defensive barrier between himself and this twist in their conversation. "My biological particulars are a company secret."

Shayde's bio-luminescent eyes were built for boggling. They opened wide and flared like a distant star in a startled white before fading back to a sort of purplish gold. "Ye don't want closeness? No' even a hug?"

"Hugs lead to other things. I prefer not to begin."

"An' yer no' lonely?"

It was a precipitous moment that could either lead to hostility or closeness. And Rael was uncertain of which he desired. Fortunately, he was saved by the saccharine song of the arrival alert. The doors opened into the massive Station Recycling Centre and Shayde breathed in like she'd been underwater.

"Time for work," said Rael, glad of the escape.

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Challenge #150: One Missed Point on the Commercial Concourse

A time machine has to have flashing lights. It's not a proper Time machine unless it has flashing lights!

It was a tiny little nookery of surprising inside dimensions. It only seemed small on the outside. The shelves were full of interesting things that looked very impressive. There were a myriad of blinking lights.

"Welcome, welcome," beamed the proprietor. Their nametag declared them to be Thiite. "Do you like my time machines?"

Blez Jenkins looked again at the items on the shelves. "These are machines that make travel in time?"

"Oh. No. These are machines that measure time," said Thiite, beaming proudly. "I made them myself!"

Ah. Okay. Thiite's species must have just discovered clocks. "They're very pretty," she allowed. "How do I read them?"

"Read... them?"

"Yes. Which pieces indicate how much time is passing?"

Thiite's face was an expression of sudden realisation mixed with sinking, mortal dread. "...i have made a grievous error..." she squeaked. "This shop is temporarily closed while I perform some basic tweaks on my merchandise. We apologise for the inconvenience."

"I can help," offered Blez. "I feel partially responsible..."

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Challenge #151: Stifled Rude Noises

Prompt: That "GNK" noise a person makes when they manage to sneeze with their mouth shut.

Brexx didn't know what was wrong. The human ambassador spasmed suddenly and made a sort of Skngx! noise. Then she gasped for breath and went, Skngx! Skngx! Skngx! in rapid succession.

Brexx hit the panic button. "Human ambassador non-communicative. Making abbreviated noises of unknown meaning."

"...th' flowers," gasped Ambassador Harry. Skngx! Skngx! Skngx! Skngx! Skngx! "I'b allergig..." Skngx! Skngx! "To th' flowers..." Skngx!

Brexx flushed them unceremoniously down the recycling chute and cycled fresher air rapidly into the environment. At least until Ambassador Harry's breathing regulated itself.

There was still an alarming production of mucous and liquid leaking from her eyes.

"What was that?" asked Brexx, just as the ERT's arrived to add to the chaos of the scene. Brexx gave them footage of the last five minuted.

"Stifli'g sdeezes," Ambassador Harry Blew her nose on a tissue. "If I don'd id's very loud and sdardli'g..." HASCHOO!

The next thing Brexx knew, she was staring at the ceiling of an Intensive Care Closet Drawer. The infoscreen above her eyes told her that the Ambassador was very sorry about the noise and did not intend harm. Brexx's hazard pay had been tripled.

Maybe admitting these Deathworlders to the Galactic Alliance wasn't that great an idea, after all...

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Challenge #152: Stress Indicators

Hiccups.

"But... I can't be an ambassador," Lalama protested. "I'd be the worst. HIC! There's a reason -hic- there's a reason -hoik- a reason I -hic- I went for -hiku- for Oort mining."

"Well understood," said Ruraha. She was a saurian. "Galactic law is not on your side. Friend Yayama... is breathing problem medical-dangerous?"

"No, I -hic- I just get -hyurk- get hiccups when -hroooip- when I'm nerv– HIC! Nervous."

"But... you are Deathworlder. None of any may harm you..."

"Tell -hic- that -hic- to my -hic- anxiety."

Ambassador Lalama of Beach was the first known Deathworlder to come to the Meet with a security object. She was not the first ambassador to need a hiding-cover.

Her co-ambassador for Beach, a bottlenose dolphin called Ii'ii'a, was also not the first to need a pool.

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Challenge #153: Thievery Can Net You the Most Interesting Trinkets Sometimes...

"What, this li'l thing? Oh, you know how pickpocketing goes; a bit of clothing lint or spare change here, a rare jewel or costly necklace there, the pulsing locus of an esoteric magical ritual over there. Luck of the draw, really."

Still dunno everything this one does... I twiddled with the locket around my neck. When it's open, it glows enough and shows up all the genuine tosh. Gives it that little extra sparkle. Gives me an edge.

Don't really want to take it off. Even though I can't.

Most o' them nobs, they have fakes for wear and tear. The special stuff, the real stuff? That, they hide away. This little light of mine has them shining through the hidies. Just for me.

Gave me a leg-up it did. You'd be shocked how much tosh turns out to be tarnies under it's lovely little glow. Flog the rubbish to the less discerning and sell the real tosh to the right people... hire the right people with the Glim... Built me an empire.

Could do without the dreams, though.

This locket. It's the only thing I killed for. Turns out the last touch who held it had to kill to own it, too. Gotta shed blood for the right to wear it.

And every night... every damn night... I dream their deaths. Starting with the moment it was made.

You got any idea what it's like to dream thousands and thousands of deaths?

There's this one bloke who died of natural causes. Got buried with it. At least it's a few hours' darkness until the next touch robs that poor bastards' grave.

There's some other power, too. Another right bastard. Longevity.

Yeah, I know. You're young. You reckon living forever with a magic locket's gotta be a doddle.

Say that after you've watched your grandchildren grow old and die.

And you don't keep your youth, either. You age. Just... slower.

Imagine being sixty for twenty years. That ain't anybody's idea of fun.

Well, I'm dying. It's taking ages, of course. Worse than painful. I've had enough.

You? You still have your youth. Reckon you'd have a century or so to enjoy it.

You can have the bloody thing. Pass me that bottle off the top shelf. Yeah. The one with the skull on the label. Cheers.

It tastes sweet. I knew it would. One last series of death dreams before I sigh into my own.

And then I meet all the others who died for possession of this little gem. And discover yet another downside to wearing it. No eternal rest.

I want to tell you to chuck it into a volcano. Sear it with dragon fire. Anything... anything but wear it. But all I can show you is my own death. Among all the many others.

For centuries to come...

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Challenge #154: Dawn Technology

"Like many other things, if you know what you're doing, an open fire isn't particularly dangerous." Says the person wearing no safety gear, having lit a campfire with flint and steel and currently rearranging the burning sticks barehanded.

"You're... burning raw cellulose," said the alien, through its translator. "There is no safety equipment."

"Got a shovel," soothed Tanja. "Got loads of sand. We're good."

"You are not knowing if this cellulose is loaded with toxins."

"I live here. Okay, not here-here. But I live on an island a lot like this one. These plants make a good fire. And we need a good fire."

"You has stating previously," said the alien. It kept its distance from the flames. Flinched at every pop and snap. "You is not stating why."

"Survival. A light at night and smoke by day. That gets us noticed and rescued. Two: heat and light keep predators away."

"False. You are predator."

"Omnivorous and I have objections to eating anyone with a personality." Tanja tried to sound as gentle as possible despite this being the fifth time she'd told the creature. She sighed. "Look. You're a predator and you don't eat me. Right?"

"Superior predator. Deathworlder. I posit I being tasty."

Tanja cleared her throat and said, "Three: we want to make sure any unseen parasite is definitely killed, yes?"

"YES! Killing deathworlder parasite! Not wanting invisible bug eating intestines!"

Tanja couldn't help but chuckle. "I know. My entire biota is dangerous and you're lucky you landed in this..." island chain? Um. No. "General vicinity. Heck, you're lucky my boat held out long enough to get here. And you're really lucky that I know enough xenocookery to make sure that I don't poison you."

Case in point: tonight's meal. Fish stew. Tanja had caught the fish earlier that day. One of the few breeds that multiple meat-eaters could consume. She'd marinated them in pineapples and pineapple juice to soften the meat, and then added fresh coconut to help eliminate the enzymes in the pineapple. The other vegetation, gleaned from both her stores and the island, promised to be harmless to her carnivorous guest.

"Self making bargain with invisible gods. Self never taking ride-for-joy again. Self never doing Deathworld stunt dive. Self practice safe tourism. Forever."

Tanja dished it up. It was going to be bland as all hell for her, but probably borderline painful for her guest. She handed over its bowl with a pre-opened can of coconut milk, just in case. Then added Siracha to the contents of her bowl.

"What is flavouring?" asked the alien.

"Deathworlder flavouring. Many toxins. It might kill you, so I'll stay downwind."

The alien scooted even further away. Politely, so it wasn't inherently obvious that it was scooting away. "...many thank..." it warbled.

Poor kid.

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Challenge #155: Unexpected Bastion of Safety

"Deportment and propriety in High Society 101" at Lady Favisham's, a mandatory course for young ladies.

(AKA "How to break a man's wrist without letting go of your fan")

"Men," began Mistress Carlysle. She said the word as though it were an epithet. "They own the world. They run the world. The spend their lives believing that whatever they see... they own. They believe they have the right to help themselves. And it is up to us... It is left to us... to relieve them of that ridiculous notion."

Tracy raised her eyebrows. This was not what she expected.

Mistress Carlysle raised a cloth over a box. It was a glass case containing a pair of kitten heels, a fan, a clutch purse, a handkerchief, and a very pretty brooch. "These are our weapons. They seem like foolish frippery. I will teach you otherwise."

So it began. Men likened themselves to hungering animals, and it were those beasts that all these young girls now trained to defend themselves against in a ladylike manner.

Tracy was rather proud that she could gracefully suplex a human four times her weight without staining or tearing a delicate chiffon gown. He could disable a man with a fan. Breaking not only his fingers, but also his hands and, in rapid succession, his forearms.

Men could not imply consent when they had both his arms broken.

Kitten heels and the more spiky varieties of ladies' shoes could either pierce a foot or pierce a skull, though killing a gentleman was viewed in the utmost of bad taste.

And there was also the Favisham's Slap. Done right, it could deafen a man or break his jaw. Even with a half-hearted effort, it could knock an 'ungentlemanly gentleman' off his feet.

And, if the action resulted in a scene, Lady Favisham's taught the most disarming tactic of ladylike defence: hysterical crying.

Lady Favisham knew her stuff. The semblance of delicacy was the most important weapon of all. It used toxic gender roles to their advantage.

And Tracy made certain she learned every trick in the book.

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Challenge #156: Can't Eat, Won't Eat

A cooking show for all of us with allergies, medical conditions and on medication which won't let us eat common items. Grapefruit, garlic and members of the cabbage family come to mind.

"Welcome to the cooking show that we all love, but chefs love to hate! It's Can't Eat, Won't Eat!"

Applause and hoots.

"Our judges tonight include somebody on bloodthinners, he's also allergic to the entire cabbage family and won't eat onion!"

The judge waved.

"As you see, he has the three magic buttons. I don't like that..."

The judge pressed the relevant button. A cartoonish vomiting sound carried over the audio and a green Mr Yuck face lit up on the screen.

"I'm allergic to that..."

This time, it was an ambulance siren and a medical sigil.

"And this stuff will kill me."

A brief serenade of the death march and a skull and crossbones.

"And we also have our regular judges, someone who's allergic to alcohol of any kind," whistles and cheers, "and The Baby Tongue." This regular judge had an extra button that made a 'waa waa' sound and added a dummy to the screen. "As always, our celebrity chefs have a fully stocked kitchen with everything they could possibly need. And we only tell the chefs once! They have to–"

The audience joined in, "Pay attention or pay the penalty!"

"That's right! Get it very wrong, and our celebrity winds up in the sin bin."

People watched to see if any chefs actually made it all the way towards making a complete meal. So far, nobody had.

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Challenge #157: Station of Babel

Everybody panics in their own language.

This was where JOATs came into the fore. Electronic translators had their limits, and one of the most prevalent of those limits was breaching the Understanding Barrier.

Grammar is important. Especially in a panic situation.

Thus, in an emergency, the most level heads of the JOAT community come to the fore.

Shayde stood on one of the plinths, using her own passive magic to make herself understood to all listeners. "Please proceed in an orderly fashion to the emergency transport. Keep all children with you at all times. Unattended children will be cared for and may be adopted by needful nurturers." She waved people through, careful not to touch anyone.

She couldn't tell, in an emergency, which citizens were more fragile than others.

On the next plinth, just a few Standard Distance Units over, Rael was repeating her message in every language he knew. He'd been at it for twenty minutes and had yet to come back to GalStand.

And once the emergency was deal with, she'd have to report to Sherlock that she might have been responsible for some idiot opening the door to The Glunk.

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Challenge #158: Nonse

With the amount of sense the last few hours have not made, I'm tempted to believe that this is all a simulation someone or something built into the universe for people foolish enough to have attempted what I did...

The trees were gathering water and farming people.

This... this was wrong. The sky was the colour of earth and the earth itself was blue. And... slightly marshy? But it was dry. A dry and supple sponge that nevertheless conspired to squelch.

A triffid on its leash was hissing at her. It looked exactly like the ridiculous rubber monsters of the movie. She guarded her eyes, just in case, and stumbled onwards down the soggy road.

One tree-child, naked as a jay, ran screaming from her. Yelling what sounded like, "Groot! Groot!" to the others.

She was out of range of the hissing triffid, at least. Shayde looked the lead tree squarely in its... face? and carefully, slowly, assumed a position of surrender.

Fingers interlaced and hands on top of her head. Kneeling in the squishy ground with her ankles crossed. And, because she was two heartbeats away from messing what was left of her clothes, Shayde did the one thing that always helped her calm down.

She sang.

"Picture yourself on a boat on a river... with tangerine trees and marmalade skies... Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly. A girl with kaleidoscope eyes..."

She peeked. Okay. This was good. They weren't exactly aiming their weapons at her. But they were approaching with caution.

This was not the time to grin and show her sharp teeth. This was a time for staying very still and not doing anything at all threatening.

"Fimbalism finger fink," the leader demanded. "Krelborn groot lalama!"

"Rapacious radishes," she replied, and almost kicked herself. "Look. You cannae understand me. I cannae understand you. Mebbe a wee bit o' pantomime?"

"Sconculous! Erid flelow carnarvon?"

Shayde sighed. This was going to be a long day. "Would ye believe, I'm mostly harmless?"

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Challenge #159: Absolute Power...

Nam et ipsa scientia potestas est - Knowledge itself is power

Knowledge is power. The knowledge of physics allows many species access to space travel.

Power corrupts. Those with the power to conquer worlds will do so.

Those with the knowledge of how to fight back... sometimes fail to apply it. They have better ways.

"This system is now ours," boomed the bird before them. "You will serve us in all things you do."

"As you will," said the Chief Librarian. She wore a simple, tweed robe and a cotton wimple. "Do you wish to read, view, or experience?"

And at that point, Ju'riix the Conquerer verbally signed his own death warrant. "I wish to burn that which is heretical to the teachings of Bo'bobo'bo!"

"That," said Chief Librarian Volx, in the same quiet and level tones, "is forbidden."

"HA! You are weak and puny squishy things! You are soft! You have no power over me!"

"On the contrary. You came into this system with what looks to be a plasma propulsion drive. Those are rather vulnerable to EMP attacks. We've had one of the more sophisticated EMP cannons aimed at your vessels since you passed the asteroid belt. Surrender your outrageous notion or suffer the consequences."

"You have not the power!"

"On this planet, no. But a station in the belt has had a lock on you for hours." She tapped idly at a display. A flash of light carried through the large windows. "That was one of your minor attack vessels. Do you want us to aim at your flagship?"

"Lies! Trickery!"

Volx sighed and brought up a screen. On it, showed multiple views of the explosion. And the rest of Ju'riix the Conquerer's fleet. "You have underestimated the balance of power in this encounter. Please don't embarrass yourself further."

Ju'riix the Conqueror seized the Chief Librarian in what he thought was a threatening grip. Volx did not resist.

"All I have to do is snap your wing-bones," snarled Ju'riix, despite clear evidence that Volx did not have wings. "Your people will be without a leader!"

"All I have to do is nod," murmured Volx, and did so.

Flashes of light in the sky soon paired with explosions on the screen, and it became very hard for Ju'riix the Conquerer to breathe... Light dimmed... The power in his muscles faded.

The next thing he knew, he was in a comfortable environment with three solid walls and one clear one.

There was food. There were ablution facilities adapted for his body. There were comfortable furnishings and a console through which he could access information.

There was also a bracelet around each wrist and ankle.

And the Chief Librarian on the other side of the clear wall.

And no visible means of egress.

"You are now being studied for the education of others," murmured Volx. "You will be provided food, comfort, cleanliness, clothing, and company until the end of your days. Please don't try to escape. It will only result in further embarrassment."

His immediate response was to try and destroy his environment from the inside.

Volx sighed and shook her head. Invading captains never made good subjects. At least, not during the initial Standard Year.

The Acolyte Glin'yss was busy taking notes. "This is an excellent display of the use of power. May I ask a question, ma'am?"

"Questions are always welcome, though answers may not exist."

"Um. They say knowledge is power," she began. "And power corrupts. Are we not being corrupt in our use of knowledge?"

"We are sworn to share knowledge with those who seek it in peace. Those who wish to destroy knowledge are our enemy. You may rest assured, Acolyte Glin'yss, that while absolute power corrupts absolutely... there is no such thing as absolute knowledge."

"That's.... not an answer..."

"Corruption disadvantages the powerless by making them more so. We only render those powerless who would threaten us and our vows." Volx watched Ju'riix discover that there was nothing solid that he could bash his walls with. "We seek knowledge to share knowledge. We ask, and we never take. We give without demand. I do not believe that we are corrupt. And I am willing to learn otherwise and amend my behaviour accordingly. This... individual," she waved at the cell that contained Ju'riix, "mistook calm control for weakness. He thought he could obliterate that which stood against his beliefs. And it is your job, Acolyte, to find out why they were that important in the first place. For our records."

"For the records," Glin'yss bobbed and took her station.

It was a learning opportunity. For very obvious reasons, it was incredibly rare that anyone would ever attack the Archivaas.

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Challenge #160: Nil Mortifi Sans Lucre?

FAQ Assassins

\- Business hours are 9:00 to 5:30

\- Please deposit last will and testament in box below

\- Knock and remove shoes before entering

They say that life is cheap on Ghiisham, and they are correct. Life is cheap. You get one for free. Living can be expensive and death, though inevitable, is much more expensive than taxes.

Especially if you want it tailored.

Junior assassin Mykoss looked up at the client. They were all over sores and dressed in the bare minimum of charity clothing.

"Beggar's Guild is across the road," she said.

"Already in there," said the misshapen wreck of a human. "I want t' hire..." A wretched, wet, array of wracking coughs. "Someone t' deal..." gasp wheeze.

Mykoss took pity on them. "The Charity applications are down the hall."

"I'm already dying," said the beggar. "Wanna kill th' bastard as caused this."

Oh. Mykoss brought up the short list of assassins who would work pro bono. It was a very short list.

"All the assassins willing to do the job are... booked... for six months."

The shaking hand of the beggar slid across a single, printed image. "This was me... before the accident."

A beautiful and vivacious lady smiled out of the paper. Youth and vigor turned into a corrupted monster about to die.

The transformation had taken, according to the date on the photograph, three months.

Mykoss scanned and filed the photo, as well as an image from the kiosk. "I can put you on the Extra Credit and Free Time roll. That means that every assassin on the planet who wants to buff up their resume will be going after your target."

A shaky and weak nod. "Good. Good. That will have to do, won't it?"

"For the records, I need your name and the name of the target."

Wheeze. Cough cough. "My name," she said, trying to remember it. "I used to be... Lilandry. Pessimer. Yes. That's who I was. And your target is... Fortune Pessimer. My father." A shaky smile, showing that she only had three teeth left and all of them were bad. "He never liked what I was doing with my life. Never wanted a daughter." Cough cough cough cough. "Got all that?"

"Yes," said Mykoss. Pessimer. That family was one of the high-rollers who paid assassins to not assassinate them. "I'm going to need a fee."

Lilandry dug into her filthy clothes and produced a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. "My life savings. Thank you." And without any further fuss at all, she died.

Mykoss unwrapped the bundle, expecting weathered and worn single Snifter notes[1]. Instead was a thick wodge of Ten-Thousand Keg notes. The highest denomination on the planet.

It was almost enough to buy the services of the Head Assassin himself.

Mykoss added it to the bounty notice, properly counted and added to the Assassins' Guild funds. And added the fact that the client was recently deceased. Then she published it.

She was due to knock off in an hour... She could probably have a go at earning those Kegs, herself.

[1] Ghiisham was originally a penal colony with no guards. Therefore the economy is based on alcohol.

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Challenge #161: Malevolent Dictatorship

Person #1: Y'know, despite the fact that we've been conquered by a mad scientist, you've got to admit at least they make the trains run on time.

Person #2: So the train /won't/ be late?

Person #1: Might be a bit early. And on fire. With electricity flying off it. And a dark cloud of doom preceding it. And a strange, shrill laugh.

Person #3: You know, like the 11:25 one.

Say what you like about Mad Doctor Snapcase... in fact, he rather insists you say what you like about him. Preferably in a really loud voice with clear enunciation. That way, the secret spy devices installed for free in every home can pick it up. And then the secret police can pick you up in short order.

It's more efficient, that way.

But for those who survive the obvious intelligence test, things are not so bad in the newly-renamed Snapcasedonia. The trains and the buses all run on time. He had to re-order time especially for that, you know.

And while we're enjoying the benefits of the resultant temporal freedom, let's give thanks for those. Loudly. In a nice, clear voice. For instance - life is an all-day breakfast. And an all-day lunch. And an all-day dinner. Whatever your food fancy, you can have it, all day long.

You can pick and choose your birthdays. Eternal youth is just around the corner. Literally. No, not that corner, the other corner. Run! You can still catch it!

Faster! Faster! Left, left, right, left left right, leftleftright...

Oops. Looks like the cost of eternal youth is eternally chasing it in an infinite temporal loop.

The management does not have to apologise for that inconvenience. After all, you got exactly what you wanted.

You don't even have to go to work. Some alternate, temporally-inconvenienced echo of yourself is enjoying the benefits of a perpetual workday! You, gorging yourself on your all-day feast, get paid for their hard and, indeed, eternal labour.

And if you're listening in the office, don't despise your boss. It's not worth your energy. Despise, instead, the temporally-advantaged echo of yourself who is growing fat on that luxury ice-cream you purchased last week. And won't share. That bastard.

We can't choose which temporal echoes we experience. We must enjoy the ones we have. We must enjoy them. Mad Doctor Snapcase insists that we do.

Loudly.

And in a nice, clear voice...

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Challenge #162: Perish the Thought

(Was trying to find the post that inspired this, but couldn't)

Considering that literature professors, English teachers, and mandatory readings have managed to make Shakespeare boring, even with the subject material, jokes, innuendo, memorable insults everywhere, and masterful handling of it all, imagine the travesty that will be lessons on Discworld in a few centuries.

Time's winged chariot... renders all things boring.

They were doing the Pratchett section of English Lit, which was only slightly less dull than the Victorian Romance section of English lit. Which included one of the more snore-worthy stories of Sherlock Holmes. But that was sunshine and daisies compared to Shakespeare.

At least most of Pratchett was still understandable.

Most of it.

Language is plastic. You only had to look at Shakespeare for that. Before Shakespeare invented half of it, English was nigh-incomprehensible. And Lora had checked by looking up the Canturbury Tales by Chaucer.

Uuuuuuuuuuggghhh...

That was extra credit that felt like a punishment detail.

And speaking of punishment...

It was Lora's turn to read. She cleared her throat and droned, "Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder. Elves are marvellous. They cause marvels. Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies. Elves are glamorous. They project glamour. Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment. Elves are terrific. They beget terror. The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning. No one ever said elves are nice. Elves are bad."

Her gran had the entire set. Lora knew because during summers and sick visits, Gran would read some of the more kid-friendly stories to her. They sounded infinitely more interesting than this perpetual grind as Boris struggled with his reading. Making it sound like every individual word was a sentence as he dragged his finger across the page.

Every sentence was a prison sentence. Lora swore the seconds were ticking backwards.

And then the class nerd had her turn. Briefly, sunnily, happily turning the words to life and putting colour into the lesson. She even did voices.

Lora turned to stare. How could Vernia read like that? Like she enjoyed it? She was like Gran. Excited to hear that there was a Pratchett section in their English Lit classes.

Of course Mr Blakely had to interrupt the good reading with a lesson on what Pratchett had meant. Explaining the joke until it died a lonely death in the pits of dullness.

There had to be a better way to learn this stuff.

Maybe she could ask Gran.

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Challenge #163: The Unexpectables!

Beauty, brains and brawn. The traditional makeup for any team. Have fun.

There's hundreds of ways to be a hero. And more than one way to be a heroic team...

Munashe finished the delivery forms for her auction winnings. An entire library of children's books from a now-defunct school. Purchased for a dollar from a government auction because nobody was interested in buying things from a school.

The story books were going to a children's hospital. The educational stuff was going straight to an indie school in the same area that was doing weekend tutoring for donations.

"Excuse me, miss Castell?" said the clerk. She was a rangy teenager type, still growing into her full dimensions. Gangly, awkward, and probably feeling out of place wherever she went. "How do you do it?"

"How do I do what?" she asked.

"Um. Well. You look so... amazing. But you got everything wrong. I mean. According to all the beauty tips? You've gotta straighten, dye, bleach, pluck and lose weight? And you're not even close to fashionable? But you look... adorable..." She was lost, and terrified, and she knew what she was saying was coming out wrong, and the blush that dominated her face and neck was now threatening to set her ears on fire. "How do you do it?"

"Beauty is more than what the magazines tell us it is." Munashe tucked a stray Egyptian Twist behind her ear. "Most of it is confidence. Some of it is doing what's right and the determination to do so. And you need a healthy dollop of 'fuck the magazines, I do what I want'."

The "Oh," that came out of the kid was laden with relief. "But... I don't even know where to start..."

"Start by finding what makes you feel good. Then move on to what suits you. And if you're like me and you like clothes that both fit and last? Learn to sew." She brought out one of the many contact cards in her purse. "Here's a local place that does lessons for cheap."

The kid was re-ordering the world inside her head as she took the card. Her narrow world was opening. Good.

Munashe loaded up her minivan with the extras she currently didn't have a place for and headed for her U-Store shed.

It was looking like a beautiful morning.

*

Corinna was holding Mimi's hand as they walked through the shadier side of town. Constantly on guard, even though her wariness was hidden.

"Somewhere here," murmured Mimi. She had her eyes riveted on her tablet, and only let go of Corinna to tap an interface.

The tinny, find-me jingle of Guy's phone sounded from an alleyway.

"Hey, ladies," smoothed one of the local menacers. He was the athletic type who could do no wrong because he had a promising sporting career. "I could convince you to give up the lesbo life if you just give me some of your time."

And of course Mimi had to open her mouth. "I'm not a lesbian, I'm asexual and I'm autistic. I'm trying to find my friend, leave me alone."

Corinna winced. "Look. You probably have a busy day of yelling at women ahead of you. How about you pretend that you didn't see us and then nobody gets hurt."

"You threatening me, pocket rocket? I could make four of you."

"You'd better listen to her," monotoned Mimi, walking into the alley to find the jingling phone. "She can bench-press you."

"...god damnit, mimi," Corinna muttered.

The menace laughed, "Shyeah right," and threw the world's sloppiest punch.

It probably worked to 'show' hundreds of women 'their place', but it didn't work on Corinna. She used her low centre of gravity and knowledge of the collected defensive arts to toss him casually towards the nearest trash pile.

"Listen," she said. "I'd really hate to give you a broken limb, but if you insist on fighting me, I'm gonna have to do that. Tell you what. You leave now, and I won't bench you for three months, how's that?"

He picked himself up from the trash in a roaring rage.

"Try to be nice," she sighed. She was in a good mood, so the breaks she gave him would not impede his 'promising career' for longer than it took to heal. Then she called him an ambulance.

He was still cursing when she ended the call.

"We did warn you," said Corinna. "You go ahead and tell your friends that you fell down the stairs. It'll be our little secret."

Mimi was down the alley. Rocking herself where angels would fear to tread.

"Jemima Wirth... what now?"

"Phone," she said, busily oscillating. She was crying.

"Guy's phone?"

Nod. "Promised."

"I know he promised to keep it with him. Maybe he didn't have a choice."

"Phone. Promised."

Corinna Dalca dialled up Munashe. "Yeah hi. We got a problem. Some asshole's kidnapped Guy again."

"That's it. I'm getting him tagged," said Munashe. "Okay. Get Mimi to play Sherlock until I get there. You're gonna have to play Dolly and Watson."

Right. Mimi liked alliterative adventure titles. Got it. Corinna worked her way into Mimi's iron grip. Let the taller girl rock with her until their breathing matched.

"Okay. Sherlock... This is the case of the Purloined Pal. All Sherlock has is this mobile phone and the surroundings it was found in. Extrapolate as much as you can."

One of the EMT's came to investigate just as Mimi went into vacant, staring Static Mode.

"She's okay," said Corinna. "She's autistic. This is a meltdown. I've got her. She's going to come back out in five... four... three..."

Mimi snapped aware again. She wasn't quite Mimi, any more. She was Sherlock. "The trash surrounding this phone has been here for several days, as evidenced by the mould growths. Therefore the phone was tossed down this alley at a vector indicating that our perpetrator was standing in or near the mouth of the alley. If I were to hazard a guess, there were many assailants who took the victim into a van and fled eastwards."

Mimi stood, Corinna still absently under one arm as she brought up a map on her tablet. "Felons tend to flee in a diagonal pattern, and given the plethora of one-way streets in this neighbourhood, combined with the need for relative privacy and isolation, I would hazard that our best options are here, here, and here."

The ambulance left, revealing Munashe and the mini van. "I got Vincent, just in case."

Vincent was the ridiculously purple plush lion that Corinna had won at a carnival some subjective eons ago. Mimi almost literally dropped Corinna and dived into the sanctuary of Munashe's minivan. In the absence of Guy, Vincent was the next-best security prop.

Corinna took the next seat in the back. At 4′10″, she was frequently cause for pull-overs because officers thought she was too young to ride shotgun. Not that Munashe didn't get enough trouble for Driving While Black.

It was the most careful chase in the history of crime fighting. Munashe took deliberate pains to obey every single traffic rule, just in case. And even then, there were still three pull-overs because her minivan or herself managed to 'match a description' on their blotters.

Yeah. Like many perps used rainbow-painted vans with "FAIRY GODMOTHER FOR HIRE" blaring across the sides.

But it was okay. Munashe always carried a small stash of carrot cake muffins and diet-buster brownies to ensure the good feeling of every policeman she met. The resultant nostalgia was usually enough to allow them on their way.

Mimi, in Sherlock Mode, could pick out signs of use on any abandoned building in short order. Thus accelerating the locating of Guy.

Then they had to get her to be Miles Vorkosigan to come up with a genius strategy for trashing the bad guys.

The local criminal element was eventually going to learn that capturing Guy on the eve of their cunning plans was not going to cripple their team. They had hundreds of work-arounds for Mimi. And thousands of ways to use the city to their advantage.

It was why Mimi kept calling them The Unexpectables. Nobody ever did what the bad guys expected of them.

In short order, the meth ring was foiled and Guy was temporarily freed so that Mimi quickly wrapped around him.

"Now will you say okay to the locator jewellery?" Mimi pleaded into his chest. Listening to his heartbeat and feeling his chest fuzz always grounded her. "I made it look and act like a sports watch. It's pretty and everything."

"I'm sorry," Guy soothed. Petting her hair. "I thought I had a lead on those gum pops you like."

"Not important," said Mimi. "Next time, no surprises. We go together. Rule one: stay close. You promised."

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Challenge #164: The Old Heart-Stopper

There is coffee, there is turkish coffee, there is paper-due-in-six-hours was-coffee-once, and then there is whatever you just made and drank.

Grace watched Sara cautiously as more and more ingredients kept coming out of random storage places. Turkish Coffee steeped in its special apparatus. Espresso poured out of the little budget coffee maker that pushed hot water through little capsules, and it did so on a near steady stream. The finished cups of steaming liquid went into a cooking pot that already contained a boiling mess of Caf-Pow, Monster, and SupaPowaDynamo - the only energy drink with a warning label.

Grace's mouth fell open as Sara added Trucker's Friend Pep Pills to the highly-caffeinated pot.

"What. The. Hell?"

Sara poured the filtered Turkish Coffee into the pot. "You said you need to stay up for seventy-two hours in order for you to do over that project, right? This stuff? Has been known to keep people awake for a week. I advise you sip when you're feeling blinky."

"...i thought you were going to do some juju on my laptop..."

"Sorry, my friend. Your laptop has gone to silicone heaven. Data and all." The last of the espresso joined the mess in the pot. And then two dozen sugar cubes. And then a handful of cocoa nibs 'for flavour'.

"You have emergency services on speed-dial, right?"

"Please, I already have a medical degree," said Sara. "I am emergency services." She tested the goop for consistency and turned the heat up. "Or at least, I can keep you stable until the EMT's turn up. And you know they don't like this neighbourhood."

"...maybe I can take the fail...?"

"Grace." Sara crossed the room to embrace her hands. "You're in good hands. I promise I won't let you OD or pass out before your project's re-done. I've got you. And I'm kind of used to this stuff."

"That explains the week when you were talking to the potplant in complete gibberish."

"Okay. So my Core Language research was a little dodgy..." the pot didn't so much boil over as boil up. The bubbles had their own support structure. "Whoops! It's done!" Sara raced over to take it off the heat and render the stove safe. Then she convinced two servings of the resulting goo into some ceramic candleholders that could easily double as shot glasses.

It was the consistency of molasses.

It smelled like Satan's asshole.

Do or die time... Grace nibbled a piping hot droplet away from the rest, and almost flipped when Sara knocked hers back with grace and poise.

And then it hit her like a semi truck strapped to a jet bomber. "HolyshitIcanseethecoloursofsoundandIcanheartastes, isthisnormal?"

"Prettymuchaverage," said Sara. "IonlytookminesoIcankeepupwithyou. I'musedtoit."

*

Grace woke up four days later to a steaming, hearty breakfast platter of all her favourite foods, some painkillers, and a large, economy-sized bottle of Gatorade. Her head hurt. Her stomach growled hard enough for her to wince at the noise.

"...i'm alive..." she croaked.

"Sit up slowly," whispered Sara. Take the pills, then eat."

Good advice. Bless the person who invented fast-acting pain blockers. Grace drank half the gatorade before she came up for air. "Th' project?"

"Completed, checked," Sara waved at herself, "and submitted in time. Your grades are safe."

Grace dived into the scrambled eggs. And the mushrooms. And the fried tomatoes. "Thank you I'm starving."

"Well you were asleep close to twenty-four hours."

"Ow. How many of those Mess-pressos did I take?"

"Two. That was plenty. Karen on the other hand..."

Wait. "Karen? That bitch who always eats our food and challenges us to prove it was her? The girl who takes 'do not eat' as a challenge?"

"She's... currently running naked through the campus trying to get the bees out of her skin," Sara said. "And speaking in tongues. That's what she gets for watering it down with Jack Daniels and pouring it over an entire box of Coocoo Bombs."

Yeah. That sounded exactly like Karen. "Please tell me you have footage?"

"Loads," Sara grinned. "Once you're stable, you can watch the Highlights Reel I've put together."

Grace cackled. This was going to be a good day.

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Challenge #165: Instruments of War

The gentle breeze softly ruffled the hair of the Spine as he lay in the field

[AN: This fic is inspired by Photographic Memories and may contain The Feels]

He reached over and picked it up. The fastening clips were still intact. Good. He didn't like being bare-headed. It made people stare and treat him like a thing.

The downside to always wearing hair was that he was not used to putting it on, so it took him three tries to get it properly aligned. Next, taking stock. His hands were working. Obviously. His legs were functioning and an internal diagnostic revealed all systems green. His clothing was... well... holding together. That last round of mortars hadn't harmed his titanium alloy plating, but his GI outfit had taken a beating.

The distant sounds of battle filtered over the sound of wind in the grass. Not gunfire. Metal clashing against metal? Had he fallen through another portal?

He stood. No. This was still where he started. The gun battle had moved on without him. Now there was another one.

The Spine headed towards it, not bothering to affect his more amenable human-like walk. There was half a chance that none of these fighters wanted to be his friend, anyway.

It was a swordfight. One set of uniformed Samurai types against a lone figure in cheaper clothing and very little armour. The lone figure was holding their own. Barely. He could tell they were flagging.

Therefore, he did the only thing he knew he was good at, any more. He rushed in to defend the outnumbered and relatively helpless. He could use his body as a shield. So many others had.

It was always weird how bullies stopped being bullies when somebody stronger showed up to help defend their victim. All that The Spine had to do was toss a few of them at the rest and they all ran away.

"You idiot," she screamed in Japanese. "I want one for questioning."

Oh. Well, what a lady wants, a lady gets. His left arm tore the remains of his sleeve as he unfurled his Tesla cannon and took aim at the lead mook.

Zakow. Down like a sack of soggy potatoes. The rest scattered in all directions, but it wasn't important. He had the leader. Or someone who dressed snappily enough to be a leader.

He wished he had a hat to tip for her, but settled on fetching the mook and laying his twitching, moaning form at her feet.

"Ma'am..." he said, also in Japanese. "I do apologise for my surprising entrance. I'm called The Spine. I'm one of Walter Robotics' fine automaton products. Will you be needing any further assistance?"

She stared, gape-mouthed at him. "Does that mean you'll do anything I tell you?"

"Within reason," he allowed. "If you try to order me to attack a troop of GI's, I'd have to politely refuse."

"I don't care about the GI's," she said, cleaning and sheathing her sword. "I care about ending Wakahisa."

Her name was Takenaka Yasu, and she was fighting to reclaim a treasure that Wakahisa had stolen from her family. A treasure that could very well devastate Japan... and then the world. And from what Yasu had to say about Wakahisa, he was the exact sort who would mishandle an artifact that had equal potential for good or evil.

He wasn't just a threat to the Allies. He was a threat to all life. "I'll help you," he said.

It's amazing how small words can start something beautiful.

*

They'd won. Wakahisa the Immortal was dead.

And Yasu was dying.

He cradled her gently, pressing her ancestral treasure into her lax hands. "Use it," he urged. "Heal yourself. Please?"

"And become... soulless? Like him?" she shook her head. "No, love. Life must end. That's why... it's precious."

Her breaths slowed. Her heart stopped. And there was nothing he could do.

He was made for war. He was built to kill.

All he was left with were memories. Precise and clear, like photographs.

His troop found him, three days later. Still wearing the traditional Japanese garb she had made for him. Sitting under the cherry tree where he buried her. Staring at the simple symbols he had etched deep into the marker stone.

Takenaka Yasu. May my memories of love outlast all war.

They didn't understand. They couldn't understand. For them the 'japs' and the 'gooks' were the enemy. All to be universally hated. They couldn't fathom how love was literally in his core. About how he could only pretend to hate.

So he kept quiet. Pretended he had a glitch. Just for a little peace.

It was what they were supposed to be fighting for.

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Challenge #166: Adult Onset Responsibility

So if the first person to contact another world is automatically ambassador, what happens if an accident involves first contact being between the alien civilisation and Bigot McAssface, who would fit right in on that Greater Deregulation. Specifically, the rest of BMA's civilisation, especially the ones interested in galactic alliance, would usually say the complete opposite of anything he does, but now he's their galactic spokesperson.

[AN: This story will contain slurs because my main character is an arsehole]

"Keeping the channel open and waiting for a rescue that will never come. Goddamn slopes and reee-tards running everything take all the good jobs away from a hardworking man. None of 'em can do a decent job for the right price. Like hell was I paying two weeks' wages for a substandard repair job that I could do for myself for less than a meal! I did just as good a job as any of them stoopid fucks. Probably better. It did last three days longer than the usual patch."

What Andrew Kysely did not reveal was how fifteen separate techs told him to stop his bad habit of over-gunning his engines or doing fast-reverse braking. That sort of thing was bound to burn out an engine ahead of its time.

"Gonna put on some music. If you idjits out there hate what I play, then how about you boost a little faster and get here sooner. The longer you take, the longer I've got, on the record, putting my opinions into the comms."

He put on one of his favourites, They Took My Job So They're Gonna Die. An underground Country classic.

When he got back from the toilets, he would wax lyrical about the censorship inherent in Purgatory politics. His people were so oppressed. The darkies in power kept going on about equality and levelling the playing field, and then never giving the hard-working white people any kind of help they would appreciate.

Something about skill levels and willingness to work.

Idiots.

He was still in the can when something went strange with physics. He could never afford a grav drive - those damn slopes overcharged for the things and refused to give him one because he would 'kill' it - so the first thing he noticed was how random droplets of piss tended to slow and stop in the air unless he vacuumed them up. They were supposed to spiral towards the walls and join the general patina that the idiots at locks and docks refused to clean.

The next thing he noticed was, after he flushed and cleaned up, how the regular kick-off didn't work, and how he had to swim to his cockpit.

The view out of the window was purple smoke and... some kind of eye-dazzling haze.

And coasting through the mess was some... weird thing. Like a giant brain with whiskers and... peacock feathers? Undulating along like a jellyfish.

They gently shoved his ship along with feather-tendrils the size of an arterial highway. And then they were gone.

Normalicy resumed like waking from a dream.

It took him a full minute to realise that he was broadcasting dead air.

Andrew took up the mike. "Don't mind me, guys. Take your time. I'm only hallucinating from some kind of deprivation. Or the chemicals you keep sticking in my ration packs have finally caused a reaction. I told you. I keep telling you. A man. Needs. Meat. Maybe a few vegetables, but mostly meat. Chemicals ain't food. I'm reacting to something in there that you idiots use to substitute for REAL FOOD."

And then the aliens came. It was a bulky, blocky ship. Andrew kept on the air, describing the vessel and tripping over his words. All the way until they dragged his ship inside.

*

Koop'xand'l had the bad luck to be assigned the new ambassador. The human communicated by yelling, yelling louder, and baffling attempts at mime. It was not a clean creature, and seemed to expect others to look after its messes.

Therefore, it was either some variety of elite... or a candidate for Diminished Responsibility.

The jaunt through the new wormhole was quick A short hop with no internal nexus points. The Mark-Maker hovered in a position clear of the wormhole and mined data from the inhabited planets' broadcasts. Some of which filtered into Koop'xand'l's dataplat.

Most useful were words that the human could understand. "Many calm. Ambassador staying many calm."

The human gaped. Then slowly enunciated. "How. Did. You. Learn. To. Talk?"

Evidently, the new ambassador believed the Coelophita to be less than intelligent. Reducing things down to that level was almost insulting. "We are scan planet transmissions. We are hunt information. We bring. We use."

"Are you telling me that you're learning from the media broadcasts?"

Ah. So he wasn't that slow, after all. "Correct."

"Those'll give you the wrong picture. Let me tell you what's really going on..."

Koop'xand'l recorded it, of course. For later translation. And she was able to confirm some things as true. The planet was called purgatory. He was from a group of people called Cawkids, a thin slice of the population that, according to the media, felt entitled to a larger slice of the metaphorical pie. And, according to Ambassador An'dru... deserved it for existing.

Later examination would prove that there were no Cogniscent Rights violations in the Purgatory System. The Cawkids were isolationists who believed in their past victories (on another planet) and refused to admit that their absent privilege was cheating.

And, a matter of some minor interest, all the Cawkids resided on one smallish continent called Nutexus. It bristled with prejudice, bullets and beer.

Purgatory proved to be mostly full of decent humans who honoured and respected the List of Cogniscent Rights without ever seeing it beforehand. They had developed it independently. A notation of some merit for the humans therein.

Unfortunately...

The Purgatory delegate had at least tried to pick up both GalStand and Coelophita and mixed them both in her confusion.

"Citizen Kysely is number outlier. Should not being counted. He is number anomaly. Worst example of planet."

"We are aware," said Koop'xand'l in the little Ingliss he knew. "Law remains. First encounter being most experience. Experience gaining position."

Secretary Esoghene winced. "He is not representing planet. He is representing minority only. Is much bad."

"There may being solution," offered Koop'xand'l. "I am hear words 'killing with kindness?"

*

"...so I got me a fancy gold jumpsuit," Andrew rubbed his greasy hands down its front. He doubted that any of the weirdos in the arena could understand him, so it didn't matter what he said. Just that it went on for a good long while. "And this matchin' bracelet and anklet set. And all the meat I could ever want. Eggs, bacon, gravy. Y'all know how to feed a man. 'Course I put on a li'l muscle," he patted his now-ample belly. "But that's a sign of prosperity, ain't it? I'm doing good. I am doing good."

Pretending to be his assistant, Rong looked up from her tablet monitors to see if Andrew was done preening. Considering how his core food group was Deep Fried, and his addiction to foodstuffs that were bad for him... she estimated he had about a week left.

A month, if he discontinued his habit of ignoring the medtechs.

She, and three other 'assistants' were all poised and ready to take his duties over on the instant of the inevitable heart attack.

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Challenge #167: Rule of Cute

Observation: The more fragile a species is, the less danger it is in (physically) from the humans. The ones that can withstand them are treated aggressively and with much suspicion, and the dainty little ones are coddled and cooed over. And petted if the humans can get away with it.

[AN: Just FYI, not all Havenworlders are tiny. But loads of them are]

It should have been an ordinary shortcut. Just a quick dash home to pick up her LifeAlert bracelet. She needed it to avoid danger and because of her idiot roommate, she'd forgotten it in their rush to catch the next tram.

Didn't have the time to do things properly. Now I have to do them twice.

Alas, the quiet lounge that was always empty had humans in it.

Crap!

None of her people were cleared to encounter humans yet. The most dangerous of all known Deathworlders. The ones with the most potential to create great havok or great miracles.

Tyr'ip shrank down, hunkering close to the ground and trying to be stealthy. No sudden moves. No sound. She was almost halfway there.

"Aaaaaawww..." cooed a human.

O Powers. They were all watching her!

"It's oh-kay," cooed a second one. A big, muscular sort with multiple scars. "We won't hurt you."

"Are you lost, sweetie?" singsonged a third.

Several of them were putting on Phin gloves[1] and some were looking up their Curtedex[2] for matches.

Tyr'ip found herself trying to burrow backwards into a wall. They were planning to handle her! She breathlessly attempted GalStand. "Self being class two Havenworld... Please no be squeeze."

"Aaaawwww..."

"Dat's so cyoooot..."

"She smol."

"Aw adorbs diddle cinnabon..."

What was happening? Several of the humans were getting on their knees. Trying to reach her reduced eye-height.

"It's gonna be okay," cooed the leader. The female with the scars and the muscles. "I'm Tambry. We want to make sure you get safe, okay?"

It took her a moment to work it out. "Self has initiating... nurturing?"

Coos and squeaks from the humans.

"Take that as a 'yes'," whispered Tambry.

Ko'rii, her idiot roommate, almost soiled herself when Tyr'ip returned with not only her LifeAlert, but a volunteer honour guard of six burly mercenary humans.

"Lesson," said Tyr'ip, who was starting to grow used to them. "Do not allow forgetfulness. You never know what else might turn up in retrieval."

[1] Humans rarely give up a chance to let an acronym go unmolested. Thus Ph-N, standing for Ph-Neutral, became Phin. Such gloves are a vital courtesy when handling some Havenworlders.

[2] Rather like a wiki for species. Contains important information such as what class of world they come from, how to be polite, and emergency medical treatment.

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Challenge #168: Rule of Innocence

Murphy's law of Babies: When you look away for two seconds and your child has absconded, it will invariably be found in whatever situation would cause the quickest messy death or most political upheaval if an adult were in the same situation.

Luckily children can get away with anything by virtue of being children, and will not be immediately vaporised for hiding behind Graknor, Conqueror of Galaxies' legs.

Sahra let her toddler go so she could tuck herself back in. Poor little Amba was having trouble with her solids and the perpetual search for something she could chew - besides Sahra's nipples - was ongoing and arduous.

It was the other reason she brought Amba with her, this Meet. So she could see the best of the Galactic doctors and finally, finally, figure out what was going wrong.

Nobody had commented about her temporary exposure. But then, she wasn't the only ambassador nurturing their young.

Unfortunately, her young was the only one going straight up to a Level Six Deathworlder's spiked-armour boots.

Klacid the Conqueror of H'radiss, ruler of worlds, devastator of enemies.... did not notice Amba until the tiny girl threw up on his shiny shoes.

He stopped, mid-speech, and picked up the child. Sahra, already halfway towards the scene, inadvertently blurted her baby's name. It was bad form to interrupt an Ambassador's Introduction, but she wasn't thinking clearly by then.

No mother at the Meet would blame her.

"What do you do, little scrap?" said Klacid the Conquerer. "This is the origin of the mighty humans?"

And then Amba grabbed hold of and bit his poking finger. Using all four of her sharp, new teeth.

Worlds could have died.

Sahra disengaged Amba with profuse apologies.

"Num num num," said Amba. "Bas'da Numnum."

O God... no. Sahra managed a pained rictus as she tried to retreat in a dignified manner to her appointed seat. Simy, one minute too late from running messages to the Mythos table, fielded Amba to place her in her playpen.

"She is a warrior," crowed Klacid the Conqueror. "She has drawn blood before she has picked up her first weapon!" He roared with laughter. "These humans are admirable. I like them."

It was only later that science would discover that H'radiss blood had an enzyme that Amba could not produce herself. Klacid merrily volunteered to bleed for her, and was very disappointed that the medtechs could not only synthesise the enzyme for Amba, but infect her with retrogenes that would fix the problem.

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Challenge #169: Mama Bear

Murphy's law of Babies 2: Toddler gone? It's with the humans.

Nita almost didn't notice the curious little Numidid until she nearly stepped on the poor child. She was big for a human, and this little scrap of pinfeathers barely cleared her boot.

"Whoops," she said. "Hello, little peep. Where did you come from?"

Alas, the tiny child was still talking Scribble. Multilingual Scribble, but still Scribble. It varied between Numidid, Amity English, and Galstand. She sounded irritated, and paused occasionally to peck at one of Nita's trailing aglets.

Ah. The chase-and-find-out stage. She must be driving her mothers to moulting. "That's not nutritious or delicious, little peep." Nita bent to scoop the keet into her hands. Both to elevate the child out of danger and bring her into Nita's range of focus.

No locator bracelets... but a fine shower of dust indicated that this baby had been cleaned recently. Either she hadn't been fitted, yet, or was part of the transient population. Or, using a combination of Occam's Razor and the soft flannel onesie, mother had taken the locator off for bathing.

Some cheaper models had trouble with bathing materials.

On one hand, mother was probably fretting herself into a quick trip to Medical. On the other hand, forcing Security to deal with an unfed baby was worse than unfair. And there was an Unsuitable Food kiosk nearby.

"We don't cook baby cogniscents," said the Gyiik at the counter.

"I was going to ask for some baby food," growled Nita. "I know she's a child." She put the keet into a handily empty bowl and used the Gyiik's towel as an impromptu cover.

The keet was definitely trying to Scribble an enquiring "Mama?" or "Nomnom?" in three languages. Unfortunately for Nita's detective work, the name on the kid's clothing was written in Numidid chicken-scratch. And it was so blurred from multiple washings, that her translator apps couldn't fathom it.

And while she was online... Nita sent a quick text and some footage to Security. Heavens forfend that she be found irresponsible.

*

Security turned up with an anxiously piebald mama Numidid riding her shoulder.

Nita heard "BABY!" and then an incomprehensible gabble of Numidid chirping and squawking. She wisely backed off, because even a Havenworlder mama would take on a Level Six Deathworlder to protect her child.

"It's okay," said Nita. "The instant I realised she was following me, I picked her up and took her to get fed. Then I sent a message to Security."

"And..." Officer Marken consulted her eyepiece. "Threatened a Gorgonite with his own fork?"

"Ze was planning to eat little peep, here."

Marken gave her the understanding, Fair Enough nod.

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Challenge #170: Strange Creatures

Alternate universe prompt: The X - Mares

[AN: Of course I instantly thought of MLP:FiM]

Things went very quickly bad when the entirety of Ponyville discovered that Fluttershy's strange friend was stranger than they had believed possible.

His glowing eyes almost bugged out of his head. He smiled with sharp, sharp teeth. He vanished in a puff of sulphur. He didn't have hooves. He had paws. And his tail... was more like a dragon's than a pony's.

And everywhere he ran, he caused panic. Running and screaming. Most of it away from him. He bounced off things like Pinkie Pie. But he was not as fast as Rainbow Dash.

Not... all the time.

He was half-concussed when Applejack finally lassoed him. And... crying?

Fluttershy couldn't be heard about the many voices raised in fear and anger. Things were looking very bad for the monster in their midst.

Stop!

It was a command obeyed by muscle more than mind. Nightcrawler squirmed in his rope prison like his insect namesake before the pony responsible appeared. He was a unicorn, and his hindquarters were supported by a wheeled device. "There's no need for violence," soothed the bald stranger. "Nightcrawler is more scared of you than you are of him."

"Thank you," breathed Fluttershy. The only one besides Nightcrawler who still had the power to move. "That's exactly what I've been trying to tell everyone since this mess started."

Nightcrawler, meanwhile, struggled free of his bonds. "Dankeschoen..." he tried to hide where he was standing and failed immensely. "If I may ask... who are you?"

"My students," he nodded towards the ponies on either side of him, "Call me Professor X. Phoenix, Cyclops, Icemare, Beast and Wolverine... all call themselves the X-mares." A quirk of a smile. "I find it a little ridiculous, but they do have a snappy turn of phrase."

Nightcrawler couldn't help but notice that almost all of these ponies looked... normal.

"I can teach you how to use your gifts, Nightcrawler. How to make them your own."

"Would you teach me... to be normal?"

"That's... a little beyond my abilities."

"Good," said Nightcrawler. "I've seen what normal can do in bad circumstances. I'd much rather be all me."

That earned him big grins from the X-mares.

"Will he be safe?" asked Fluttershy.

"I can't promise safety, either," said Professor X. "I can promise that he will be well-prepared for danger."

"It... seems to find us," allowed Cyclops.

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Challenge #171: In a Shared Domicile on Amity...

Random number prompt - use a random number generator and redo a prompt from the first year of instants - do NOT read the first story before writing the new one.

[AN: The random number was 133: Anywhere in the story: "The element of surprise didn't so much rest upon someone hearing you but registering the significance of your approach." (I hope altering one word counts)]

There was an important lesson in here, somewhere. Living with Deathworlders taught them well. Continuing to remain alive around Deathworlders taught them fast.

It was the oddest thing. Humans would sleep soundly with K'kerik in the domicile, making small domestic noises and generally behaving as if all was normal. But the instant she consciously registered that there were sleeping predators in the vicinity, and acted accordingly... the humans would startle awake and zero in on her presence in seconds.

They could always detect her when she made an effort to move silently. And when she made no effort to disguise her footfalls, the humans startled and worried when they nearly stood on her.

In the end, she talked it over with her human friend Lu.

"Oh, that," said the human. "Yeah. The element of surprise doesn't so much rest upon someone hearing you but registering the significance of your approach. We evolved on a planet with some really stealthy predators. Being able to detect something being quiet is something of a survival instinct."

"I must be utterly quiet or make significant noise to be detected?"

"That's the bunny," said Lu.

"You humans are very strange."

"Thank you."

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Challenge #172: One Thing in Common

Francoeur and Sweetie Belle

Her big sister had a really big visitor. He was immense enough to make a full-grown dragon wary. All black and sharp spikes and luminous red eyes...

...and a gentle, almost foal-like way of investigating the world with all four hands.

Sweetie Belle thought she was well-hidden until he offered her a rose and cooed, "...joli petit poney..."

"Oh, don't be frightened, Sweetie Belle," Rarity singsonged. "Francoeur is as gentle as a lamb. More gentle than a lamb, really... um. More like... gentler than Fluttershy."

Sweetie came out of hiding. "That's possible?"

Three hands started playing with her mane. Francoeur cooed and chittered, but he seemed happy.

Sweetie started humming a little tune that seemed to go with his melody. Which made the monster-sized creature sing along with her.

Words came out of him that she couldn't understand, but it didn't matter. They had the music between them. It was all that they needed.

Francoeur never spoke much. He preferred melody. And when he got his hands on a guitar... she could see why. Or rather, hear why.

The guitar spoke more eloquently than he ever could.

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Challenge #173: Cat Day

Steven Universe - Lion's adventure

Lion finished his patrol of the city and curled up near the house of the Scion. Soon, very soon, it would be warm in just this spot. Warm was always good. The Scion would need Lion today. Lion couldn't tell exactly when, but he knew. He was going to be Needed.

And in the meantime, there was sleep.

"Is it safe to just... lie on him like that?"

Lion peeked. The human friend of Scion Steven was here again. Lion didn't mind her. She was lighter than some of his previous burdens.

"Why not? said Steven. "This is the best spot for... lion around and reading."

Lion tipped him off for that one. Trouble. Trouble was on the breeze. This way? That way?

"What is it? A gem attack? A monster? A monster fusion?"

The human friend dove under the decking for her sword. Good. Humans were starting to approach life with a little more sense.

There it was. One of the hidden places. Lion bowed to allow the children on his back. Then leaped. Far enough in the right direction and... roar-warp to the nearest soft place to the Trouble.

Kindergarten. Lion hated this place as much as some of the Gems. It was dead earth. Ruined for any kind of life.

Except... that kind of life.

"Oh no!"

They were screaming.

"Euw," winced the human. "What are they?"

"I call 'em Mooshups," said Steven. "They're... y'know Frankenstein?"

They were screaming and only he could hear them.

"Yeah..."

"Dead gems are shattered crystals. These are... mooshed together like the monster."

They didn't want to be like this any more than he wanted to face them.

Whispered, "O my God..."

"We gotta poof them before Garnet finds out."

Lion tried his roar. The smaller Mooshups poofed instantly, but the bigger ones. Especially the biggest one... didn't seem phased.

Fortunately, there are always claws and swords.

Lion didn't question why they didn't fight. Why they seemed to surrender to claw and blade. That wasn't important. Not in comparison to protecting the Scion.

Steven bubbled all the force-fused shards. Paused on the brink of sending them to the table.

"Wait! Won't the others see these?"

"Oh. I... I can't let Garnet see these. She was so upset by the last batch..."

Once again, Steven stored something in Lion's other realm. He would keep these relics safe.

He was, after all, created to serve. Either the will of his former mistress, or that of his new master.

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Challenge #174: Easter Egg

The best kept secret of the jaegermonsters

Jaegermonsters hunt in packs. That much is self-evident. Jaegermonsters are not the brightest candles in the window. That, too, is self-evident.

Lord Palinquest thought he was being clever by separating the invading Jaeger pack in disparate cells in the middle of unique booby-traps in the labyrinth under his castle. He'd even tune in when he was bored to see how they were doing.

What he didn't know, what none but the most observant of Sparks knew... was that a Jaeger alone eventually becomes... smart.

Only one made it out of the labyrinth to kill him. And by that time, the assembled torments of the maze had honed it into something... else.

The world's first JaegerSpark.

Fortunately for the world, Lord Gruesh the First was soon overthrown by his own rabid hunting mimmoths.

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Challenge #175: Change of Afterlife-style

The Horned God is fed up with all these blood sacrifices. It is making such a mess in the nether realms and he has too many goat familiars now. The Horned God demands some claw maintenance and a horn buffing, and then he will listen to your petition. Puny mortal.

"Look," said the manifestation of the Horned One, Devourer of Flesh, Imbiber of Blood, Craftsman of Nightmares. "Blood's all well and good, but sometimes... a god craves a little something different, you know?"

The sacrifice bleated on the altar. "You... don't want the goat?" said the hooded figure. The knife held uncertainly above their head.

"Sweetie... I have ten million goats with me in the nether-realms. Even for a goat person, that's a lot of goats. All I'm saying is - what's wrong with a little chat? Some chamomile tea, some chocolate cake..."

"Chocolate cake?" winced the acolytes.

"Come on, who doesn't love chocolate cake?"

One by one, the assembled coven had to admit that The Dark One, Terror of Shadows, Torturer of the Unworthy, had a point.

The knife slowly descended into its ritual case. "Er. But. We're supposed to sacrifice? Something?"

"Keep the damned goat. Look after her. You get milk, and maybe you can make some cheese. Or soap. I hear goats milk soap is wonderful for your skin."

One of the acolytes raised a hand. "I think I know a place that'll sell a decent gateau at this hour?"

"Brilliant. Let's do this." The physical manifestation of Evil on Earth, the Dread Lord, the Bane of Righteousness, clapped his hands. "Who's got their mani-pedi kits?"

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Challenge #176: SUO's - Small Useful Objects

A lot of us have a "kit" stuff we cart/tote everywhere, stuff we need. Mothers carry stuff to feed,amuse and cope with the Sprogs. Crafts people carry weird stuff(well I do). So what does a Joat carry? Or pick another character/profession and add kit.

Rael could tell a newbie JOAT. It was the way their limbs trembled under the weight of the gear in their coats. And the gentle 'ping' of stitching giving way under the stress. He decided to take mercy on this kid.

"I have a clear bench and an Hour's pro bono credit. I can help you."

"I think..." grunt, "I might need it..."

He took the young saurian over to the aforementioned bench. "Let's see what you have in there."

It was typical noob stuff. A hammer that was only a hammer. A separate folio of screwdrivers and spanners. A multitool that could stun a pickpocket, and would prove useful only as a cosh, in the long run. Ze actually had baggies of sorted nuts, bolts and screws for any occasion.

No wonder they were struggling under the weight.

"Did any JOATs teach you, before you began?" he asked.

"Uuuuuuuh," said the kid. "I thought I could... um... wing it?"

"First lesson: SUO's. Small. Useful. Objects." Habit made him line up the kid's collection on one side of the bench before emptying his own pockets. His collections of nuts, bolts and screws were sorted by width only. His hammer concealed an array of ever-decreasing screwdrivers, stored matryoshka style.

The small roll of screwdrivers he did have were for tiny work.

There was a stiff, flat card. A squashed roll of ductape. A set of hex keys. An array of paperclips, and the really efficient kind of multitool that had been made by people who wanted to work with them.

"These are the essentials. Everything else gets added on a most-needed basis."

"But... how can anyone work with that stuff?" winced the kid.

"It's not about make well," said Rael. "It's about make do."

They spent the rest of the hour discussing the Zen of JOAT.

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Challenge #177: True Love's Kiss

 http://thentheresthisspazz.tumblr.com/post/123284811011/mythological-creature-aus

Pick one!

[AN: I picked "my best friend got turned into a frog and now i'm being the best wingman/woman/person ever by carrying them around to bars and getting hot people to kiss them in hopes of hooking them up with their true love" AU. I also want to do all of these so send in five more ;)]

"So... what's with the frog?"

"Ah," Carol sighed. "Um. Her name is Patricia, and she's my BFF. I mean. She used to be human? And then we went trick-or-treating for a joke around the Bayou and she was wearing this Slutty Witch costume -andum- long story short? She's been cursed and I'm helping her find true love."

Laughter.

"No, it's legit," said Patricia. "True as trombones."

The girl Carol had been talking to shrieked and vanished into the crowd of fellow lesbians.

"Damnit, Trish..." Carol smacked her own forehead. "I told you talking freaked people out."

"She was giving you the hairy eyeball. I had to weigh in."

"I've had enough. It's late. Try again tomorrow?"

Trish sighed. "Yeah. Tomorrow. Maybe that coffee shop with those girls with the piercings..."

Carol made sure she had her things and began the long trudge home. "You're lucky I love you enough to do this for you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," muttered Trish. "If it wasn't for you, I'd have been squashed a million times by now."

"Next time you're human? Please say 'yes' to cosplay? You can't offend magical people with cosplay."

"Yeah I never heard of a dudebro wizard."

They finally reached the little flat they shared. Most of Trish's stuff had been boxed up for safekeeping. Her bed was in storage. The room it cleared was now taken over by Carol's own researches into magic. An effort that had many rewards, so far, but nothing in relation to a counter-spell or cure.

But there was a cosy terrarium for Trish, and all the feeder crickets she could eat. And a bed for Carol to flop in once she scoured her face free of makeup.

"It's okay," soothed Trish. "I'm getting used to being a frog."

"I still want to hug you and not worry about squashing you," Carol kissed her 'goodnight' and parked Trish into the Terrarium. "So I'm doing this for you until I die."

Trish watched her clean up and flop into bed. She whispered, "I love you, too."

The magic hit like an asteroid. And just like an asteroid, there was a lot of noise and light. And an impact crater with Trish's terrarium at ground zero.

There were scorched feeder crickets everywhere. Scattered papers and shattered glass and Patricia, wet and naked in the middle of it all.

Carol didn't care. She got to hug her best friend in the entire world, again.

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Challenge #178: Howling Mad

 http://thentheresthisspazz.tumblr.com/post/123284811011/mythological-creature-aus

Pick a different one!

[AN: Today's pick is: "i'm a newly-turned werewolf without a pack and i can't really control myself well on full moon nights yet and you keep finding me passed out naked on your lawn" AU]

The first month, she called an ambulance for me. I was grateful for it. I had no idea what was happening, either. I still didn't know what was going on in the second month, when she also called the police.

I found out in the third month, because of the mandatory psych evaluation. And so did my doctors. And so did she. I remember watching a recording of the transformation with tears in my eyes and terror in my heart.

I never wanted to be a monster.

You'd think that the moonlight is what does it. That's wrong. It's the sunlight that cures it. For five nights out of twenty-eight... I transform. And I wind up in Belladonna's yard, the next morning.

Yeah. Belladonna. She had Metal Goth parents, go figure.

There was a time when I tried living a few counties away? But I just woke up in her yard with more wounds. Bloody hands and feet. Among many, many others.

I think it was the time with the broken leg that tipped the scales. I wanted to move further away. She told me to rent the attic.

She tells me that I'm not a monster. And I'm starting to believe her, at last.

It's been a year. And in all that time, all I do is go to her. I howl at the moon out of some instinctive obligation and then the rest of the night is spent in her shadow.

She makes sure I have a dressing-gown and a pair of underpants in easy reach for the next morning and it's... stable, I guess.

And I know I'm not allowed on the bed when I wolf out, because I keep waking up on the rug by her bed.

I think Belladonna likes me more when I'm a wolf. When I'm human... especially the morning after... she's way more guarded around me. Paranoid. And I don't blame her. She's been through enough.

I want to control it. Not so that I become human all the time. I'd much rather be her dog. I don't know why? But I think she's happier when I have fur and fangs.

And I would do anything to help her be happy.

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Challenge #179: Origin Story

More of the Unexpectables please.

Find a need, the expression went, fill a need. And there were people, Munashe well knew, who needed a fairy godmother. She and Corinna came up with the idea over wine and badly-colourised old movies and so far... things had been going well.

Munashe's first job had been making a power outfit for Corinna so that taller people would take her seriously. Corinna wore it, now, with a polished selection of makeup and refined jewellery that practically blared that she was an adult.

Munashe's own outfit was her work, too. It said, I can afford to have clothing tailored to my ample frame. And since she practically glowed with health, she hoped that few would comment on her weight.

The Wirths were too polite to comment, at least. An old-money family who managed to stay discrete in a field where money was meant to provide excess. They stayed under the radar. Very, very quiet and restrained. The Wirths had sense.

What baffled Munashe was why they were hiring Corinna and herself. Especially when their resume was so... very, very light.

"We've heard that you work miracles," said Mrs Wirth.

"We need a miracle," added Mr Wirth.

"It's our Jemima," sighed Mrs Wirth. "We've almost lost all hope." And between the two of them, they spun a tale. A brilliant child with amazing scholastic capability gradually became increasingly shut off from the world until all she ever did was mess around on her computers or hide from everyone or everything in her 'little nook'.

It was where she was hiding now, in the depths of her suite.

Jemima's suite was twice Munashe's and Corinna's separate apartments put together. There was a 'salon' and a bedroom and an ensuite. All palatial.

The bedroom had a four-poster with an overhead canopy. But it was the bright colours that gave it away for Munashe. Jemima was allowed to buy what she liked for her own comfort. And what she liked were bright, unnatural colours, shiny, glittery things and huge amounts of soft and fluffy things.

A veritable mountain of plushies almost buried Jemima's bedclothes.

Corinna found the 'little nook' in a walk-in wardrobe. Someone had taken a large, tent-like storage tube and lined the inside with cushions and at least one beanbag. The inside was strung with softly-changing Christmas lights. A dangling, rainbow-clothed sock betrayed the presence of Jemima.

As did the rocking of the tube and a low, monotonous hum.

Munashe felt more than heard Mrs Wirth's inhale of doom and politely turned with a smile. "We'd like to begin working with Jemima, now," she said diplomatically. "And that commences in a place of her comfort. It's going to be all right. We don't judge."

Mr Wirth said, "I trust we're also paying for your discretion in this matter."

"Of course."

The wardrobe was bigger than Munashe's first flat. Corinna made herself comfortable while Munashe examined the books. Conan Arthur Doyle. Louis McMaster Bujold. Terry Pratchett. Ursula K. LeGuin. Douglas Adams. These were books that had been read and read again. They were not like the ones on the public bookshelves, there for display purposes only. These were books that Jemima liked.

Corinna found a rain stick in the book pile and turned it up, making a stream of tiny ball-bearings rattle through the tube.

"Autistic?"

"Definitely," murmured Munashe. "Either Mr and Mrs Wirth are in denial, or they think Jemima can be cured and turn 'normal'. Impossible, even if we could do miracles."

Corinna turned the tube upside-down, making it 'rain' again. "They expect something. We can't tell them there's nothing we can do."

The rainbow sock, and the foot inside it, withdrew into the tent.

"Most parents expect socialisation. Making new friends. It's difficult, isn't it, Jemima?"

There was a face, staring at them through the vertical slit of the tent. Dark, owlish eyes framed by dark and wavy hair. A vague ghost of a voice, just on the edge of hearing, "...'es."

"Hello," cooed Munashe. "I'm Munashe. Some of the kids I work with call me Aunty Moon. And my friend is Corinna."

"You can call me anything, really," Corinna joined in with the gentle voice. She tipped the rain stick again. "Cora, Rinny. Or Corinna."

"...i like mimi," murmured Jemima. "...are you gonna take me to an assylum, now?"

What? Were her parents really threatening to do that? Munashe continued to pretend calm. "No. We want to help you out, Mimi. We want to help you feel safe."

Mimi had a taste for bright colours and shiny things, and the almost typical deep-ASD difficulty with concepts like 'inside out' and 'right way around'. She loved rainbows and soft things and making things on her computer.

And, as it turned out, she was a technological genius.

Who could roleplay when she needed to cope.

"Moon," murmured Corinna. "Remember that cyberstalking case we're stalled on?"

Munashe began to grin. "Oh yes. Mimi? How would you like to help us help someone else?"

Mimi, though she had emerged from her safety cave, was still hugging herself and rocking. "...i didn't think i could help anyone until i'm normal..."

"First, I have some really good news - normal doesn't exist. And second - we can all help other people. All we have to do is figure out how."

Mimi, in front of her computer array, was almost a completely different person. Gone was the slouch. Gone was the mumbling murmur. The rocking remained, but it was more in the rhythm of her work and kept her focussed.

"It's not one person, it's three. That's why the IP is all over the map," Mimi said. "They have three places in common. A cybercafe, a library, and the school where your client works. All areas with free wifi. If I take away the wifi origins from the activity map..."

Three houses. With a list of occupants. "All the teenage girls of those houses go to the school. I'd ask them about it." Mimi turned away from her keyboards. "Is that it? I like being a detective."

In the end, they sold the job as occupational therapy for Mimi. She got out of the house, spent time working in the office, and got to help people. In turn, Munashe and Corinna allegedly helped with her social skills between cases.

It would be two weeks before they discovered that Mimi functioned better with a human teddy-bear in tow.

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Challenge #180: In the Slightly-Paraphrased Words of Robert Heinlein...

If need be, a human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, and die gallantly. Specialization of role is for insects, not people.

"Was he serious?" said Rael. "What happened to the people that didn't fit these qualifications?"

"It's amazin' how many o' these ye qualify for wi'out knowin' it," said Shayde. "Butcherin's no' that hard, ye ken."

"Tube meat exists for a reason."

"Aye, but if yer stuck somewhere wi' nowt but yer wits? Anyway. It all boils down tae th' Cogniscent Rights qualifications f' cogniscence."

Rael put down his fork, trying to think. "I'm sorry, I missed that leap of illogic..."

"Care fer young, fight fer home, obtain nutrition, navigate home, plan a home, communicate, perform basic math, exhibit knowledge of construction, exhibit knowledge of elementary medical care, exhibit compassion, show understanding, show willingness tae communicate, show independence, exhibit knowledge of higher math, exhibit adaptability, exhibit knowledge of hygiene, exhibit understanding of technology, treat nutrition, fight for self, and understand mortality."

Rael ran it through, counting on his fingers. "All right, but that sample is admittedly mixed. Some of those are qualifiers for children, and some are relative intelligence testers."

"Echo 'hello world', EOF," said Shayde. "Th' program doesnae have t' be complicated."

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Challenge #181: Mama Hen-Bear

The adventures of Tyr'ip and her big scary bodyguard mother hens.

(does this make her technically the species ambassador? Not a galactic ambassador I guess since her people are already part of the community and if there was one for every species encounter there'd be billions of them but still)

[Galactic ambassadors generally stand for their native planet and, in the case of low-gravvers and nomadic ship-tribes, habitation construct.]

It had been quite the journey. The humans formed a walking wall, linking arms to keep it intact, to guard Tyr'ip from accidental jostling. The Curtedex had said her species was 'comparatively fragile' and the humans took this seriously.

The walking wall stopped, but this time they did not bristle. This time, they parted.

"You take your time," said Tambry. "Get everything you need. We'll wait."

And they did. In a perfect semicircle. Arms interlocked and, she had to presume, faces grim against any stray passers-by.

The admittedly light foot traffic in the area veered around them. Tambry checked that Tyr'ip had everything and they closed the walking wall around them again.

Compared to her trip towards the central commercial area, this one was shockingly free of incidents, near incidents, and things that could have been an incident if they'd been allowed anywhere near her.

And the humans felt compelled to show off, in their own way. They showed her where to find the best buskers, where to obtain the best little treats, and took her along the scenic route through several Nae'hyn meditative temple-gardens.

By the time she re-joined Ko'rii, she was in a much better mood.

The humans remained their honour-guard throughout the evening.

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Challenge #182: The Challenge of Challenging

So capsaicin is dangerous, and even the species that can eat it recreationally recognise the effects as painful. Mint, on the other hand, even in high doses, causes no such thing. (L-Carvone (spearmint) at least appears totally harmless). Safe fun food for everyone?

Humans are insane. No other species makes a game out of painful ingredients in otherwise harmless things. No other species combines schadenfreude and friendship, and expects the friendship to continue.

And no other species can convince otherwise sane cogniscents that this is fun.

However, some things had to change...

"All right, so they made a safe version of a game about suicide."

"Correct," said the ambassador.

"Involving chocolate. And capsaicin."

"Correct again."

"And when they were introduced to Galactic Society, they made it safer for other species by swapping to mint."

"Almost criminally strong levels of mint," corrected the ambassador.

"Which, although not deadly, is still enough to cause pain."

"And they have supplied varying antidotes for the frail of tongue."

"And they think this is fun?"

"Yes."

"Remind me again why they're classed as mostly harmless?"

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Challenge #183: Cautious Eaters

Some species evolved without certain chemicals in their background, or with them causing no effect. Therefore they never evolved a receptor for it. Meanwhile others had to identify toxins or marker chemicals immediately and are highly sensitive even if it's unnecessary -ie bitter vegetables -. This leads to nonplussed galactic citizens wondering why the deathworlder took a bite of that boring stuff and immediately gagged or refused it entirely because it smelled like pure evil.

Food unites. Meals shared tend to lessen tensions amongst the participants. Excluding, of course, the occasional tension caused by differing definitions of 'table manners'[1].

The Aphemii had put on a feast of their own native foods. They had been extremely careful in selecting the dishes that would cause the least amount of trouble to the most amount of visitors. Everything in the buffet was entirely digestable by every visitor.

And yet...

Gauz couldn't help but notice how the humans gave the Helgoq-leaf wraps a wide berth. She could see each and every one of them shy away from the display as if it burned them.

As host, it was her duty to find out what offended. She sidled up to an Ambassador known for her honesty and murmured, "My pardon, Ambassador Shayde... what is the error in our menu? I have witnessed all humans avoiding the Helgoq-leaf..."

Caught in a huddle of fellow plus-one's, her nigh-perpetual companion Rael urgently made no-no motions at Shayde.

"Th' green sausage things?" she pointed. "Aye. Yeah. Uh... To be real honest... they smell like satan's arsehole after a bad curry night."

Rael smacked his own forehead.

Gauz took that to mean that the scent was highly offensive and resulted in instinctual revulsion. Interesting.

[1] Manners in the Galactic Scene are so wide and varied that, in a multicultural arena, they have to be ignored. So long as another cogniscent is not getting their nutrient content on anyone or anything else, then you have no real reason to complain.

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Challenge #184: Wheeeeeeeeee!

Rolling down a hill is a valid use of your time.

Rael reached the top of the hill. There were not enough sweet treats in the human lexicon to pay for this much 'just wanderin' to his mind.

"Fine," he grumbled. "We've reached the top of the hill. Now what?"

"We lie down," said Shayde.

"For the last time, I am not engaging in extreme haptic communication with you."

"I'm no' askin' ye to," she said. "We lie down. Then we roll down."

"...for what reason?" he prompted.

She was already down and propped herself back up on an elbow. "It's fun, o' course. Why else would ye do anythin'?"

"No," he said. "This sounds too much like one of the old training tortures."

"Ye can skid down on a carpet if that's what's botherin' ye. I don't mind. But I'm rollin'."

"This is not a productive or valid use of time."

"Pft. Says you. Ye need tae learn how tae have fun, ye ken. All work an' no play leads tae Jack's early grave an' all."

He sat, just to be on an eye-line with her. "I'm sure you're mixing your metaphors."

"I'm tryin' tae make a point. You need fun in yer life. I'm startin' wi' th' simple ones."

"Fun," he said, "doesn't feed me."

"There's a greasy spoon down th' lane at t' bottom of the hill. They'll deep fry anything ye got."

Curse these humans and their capacity for unsuitable food. "Give me the powers-damned carpet."

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Challenge #185: Hoarders Unimaginable

I couldn't resist.

A Dragon (note capital) being told her hoard is worthless.

"Avaunt, foul beast!"

The Dragon Shashannash groaned as she opened an eye. "I was trying to sleep," she yawned. "I don't have any princesses... What do you want?"

The knight seemed a little nonplussed. "I have come to fight for the vast wealth you are draining from my lands... er... foul beast."

"Enough with the 'foul beast' I keep very clean, thank you." She had to stretch. And yawn again. "And since you're after my hoard, you can have all you can carry. I don't really care to fight."

"Really?"

"Really." She vacated her bed. "And try to hurry up. I want to get back to sleep as soon as I can."

The knight began digging out what he thought were the biggest gemstones. At least until he dropped on and it shattered.

"This is... glass?"

"Beach glass. I like it. It's very pretty."

"I quested all this way for beach glass? This is worthless dross! Dragons are supposed to nest on mountains of gold!"

"Yes. And look what happened to the Dragons who did. I consider myself much smarter."

"Yes? How does that work?"

"I trade with the Dwarfs further down my cave. One hour's Dragon-fire buys a lot of legitimate cattle. They make excellent Dragon-steel, by the by." Shashannash yawned and crawled back onto her hoard. "Have fun. Try not to kill too many Dwarfs, I'm rather fond of them."

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Challenge #186: Hoarders Impossible

A chatty dragon with a hoard full of technically worthless things with amazing stories attached.

"You collect trash," said the visiting Princess.

"Not... quite," allowed the Dragon Freasha. "Pick out something. Go ahead. Just -ah- mind where it came from so it can go back?"

It was a very ratty teddy-bear. Much abused and on the verge of falling apart.

"Ah. That belonged to my first princess. Father made me kidnap her. She was four and very scared. I told him I ate her, but I kept her safe in my lair and let her build a soft nest in-between my wings. When the knights came to rescue her, I sneaked her out of a side-cavern. Her name was Petunia. Ah. She let me keep the bear when she left. Said it would keep the nightmares away."

"Okay," said Princess Sunflower. She put the bear back and took out a rusting old mirror, made of copper. "What about this?"

"I was just a baby. I got lost and found my way to a little village. It's gone, now. Nothing but old ruins and moss. But there was this beautiful lady brushing her hair. It was the colour of night. I asked her when she would put stars in her hair. And she said that it was day time, so flowers would have to do. I spent the rest of the day finding star-like flowers for her. It made her laugh. She put some into a crown for me and let me keep her mirror."

"You don't collect trash," giggled Sunflower, putting the mirror carefully away. "You collect stories."

"Very smart. Some of my visitors demand as many as twenty stories before they catch on." Freasha smiled, showing many of her sharp fangs. "I do like smart princesses. They often bring their own stories."

Sunflower laughed. "And father sent me up here to get storytelling out of my system..."

"Fathers don't always know a lot," Freasha admitted. She nestled down around Sunflower. "How many stories have you got?"

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Challenge #187: Hidden Treasure

Going to the antiques roadshow and finding out the thing you meant to bring is junk... but what's that hiding in the tissue paper? That little piece of junk that fell in the box is actually...

"But it's been in my family for generations. My great-great-great-great-great grandmother paid three guineas for it."

"I'm sorry, but your great-great-great-great-great grandmother was duped. This is a genuine fake. It was forged at the time she purchased it. See this shade of green? You just couldn't get that shade of green in Malasian pottery at that time." The appraiser began rearranging the paper around it. "Some collectors will buy a genuine fake of this era, but... I wouldn't hold my hopes up."

A clatter as a little gewgaw fell from the newsprint.

"Oh hello," said the appraiser. It looked like old bronze. The jewellery inside the fining was a cameo portrait in stone.

"Oh that? That's just some carved Jasper. It usually winds up in the kid's jewellery."

The appraiser started giggling. "Do you know who this is a cameo of?"

Shrug. "Some girl?"

"This is a cameo of the princess Elisabeth Tudor. Collectors would go bonkers just to touch this. Someone gave it a lacquer coat between now and the time it was made. That's what makes the gold look like bronze. They might have done so to disguise its value... and I can see it's been effective. Semi-precious gemstones, especially layered ones like jasper, were common media for cameos like this. You get this cleaned and you could be looking at a half a million, easy. Better keep it out of the toy cupboard, eh?"

The woman who had brought in the china vase had fainted.

"...oops..."

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Challenge #188: Here's to the Parents

a quote from historian Will Durant as I remember it. "Let me give tribute to all those Mothers, who over time dragged their children kicking and screaming through centuries of Civilization." I presume he means the good Mums. Have fun.

"Say-shun! Say-shun!" Sprout ricocheted around the cabin, enjoying the free-fall before docking. "SAY-SHUN!"

Gavin fielded her on the fifth pass. "Settle down. Sprout. We gotta remember Rule One when we dock. What's Rule One?"

"S'ay close."

"That's right. Good girl. We stay close. Now. Who do we stay close to?"

Sprout pointed at him.

"Yes! We stay close to each other. Now Papap has to talk to some boring people, so the first thing you're gonna do is have an adventure in the kindergarten."

Sprout frowned. "Rule one. S'ay close."

"Well, Papap figured you wouldn't like being in a boring room with boring grownups talking. Right?"

Sprout sucked her thumb as she thought this over. Eventually, she nodded.

"Right. It's way more fun at kindergarten. There's lots of toys, and lots of other children, and there's fun big toys like see-saw's and slippery slides and swings. If you're lucky, there might even be a sand pit."

Sprout looked skeptical. And no wonder. She'd spent almost her entire life aboard The Rusty Rustler. Big toys were unknown territory.

"And when we're done, you can help Papap spend all his profits. I know you will. We're gonna get new clothes, and good food. And we're gonna put flowers on Momma's grave. And if things go right? We're gonna buy a place to live on the Station. Papap's going to find some stay-in work. Won't that be good?"

Sprout shook her head. "Wanna 'vencha."

"I know, darlin'. But adventuring on a solo scavenger ship is not good for a little Sprout. You need people to talk to other than your old Papap."

She was three years old. And it hurt to see tears in her eyes. "Papap s'ay close. Don' go 'way."

He'd told her that her Momma had 'had to go away' after she'd died. The only time Sprout remembered being on a station was when someone died and her short life changed forever. Gavin hugged her tight and kissed her cheek. "Papap's gonna try his hardest, sweetie."

*

"Her real name's Sequoia, but I call her Sprout," Papap told the strange lady. She wore a brown knit suit the colour of poops and smelled like flowers. It was a sticky, intense smell. The belt around her middle was hung with a variety of shiny, interesting objects that rattled whenever she moved.

Sprout clung resolutely to Papap's leg. Her knuckles gone white. Papap's hand was warm on top of her head. Comforting.

The stranger knelt. "Hello Sequoia? Will you let me call you 'Sprout' too?"

Sprout shook her head. She didn't trust this stranger. She didn't trust anyone. She didn't even trust that the three bracelets on both ankles and one arm were going to keep her safe. She wanted Papap to stay close.

"Why don't we have a look together? If you don't like the looks of this place... I'm pretty sure the boring people won't mind you colouring in a corner."

Papap let her hang tight to him as they entered...

...a rainbow wonderland of play. Other brown-suited grownups stood watching or played with many other children. Some were her size. Some bigger. And some were smaller. They were all laughing and having fun. They were loud. It wasn't the wrong kind of loud, the loud that made Papap put her in the pod until he took care of things. This was... fun loud. Like games of Tig or Sing As Loud As You Can Nights.

And they had an entire tub of tinkertoys!

Sprout let go of Papap's hand.

"You wanna stay?"

Nod.

"Papap has to go and be boring. You gonna be okay?"

Nod. This was just like Papap's EVA, when he went out the danger door to fix this. The only difference was that she didn't have a comm link to hear his voice. But then, no comm link she knew of could combat the noise of so many children having fun.

Papap kissed her and let her kiss him back. "Stay safe, Sprout."

"S'ay safe, Papap."

*

Okay. Good news - this trip of urgency had been profitable enough for them to move on to the station. And there were enough low-risk jobs to pick from once Sprout and himself picked out a place, he could pick one of the dozens nearby.

And if he sold The Rusty Rustler... He'd have himself some good funds to help Sprout out.

One of the red-shirted Child Supervisors was waiting for him at the door. "O thank the Powers you're here."

Abject terror. "Something happen to Sprout?"

"Not... exactly..." She had made a terrifying mask out of play dough and scared some of the little ones. Drawn alarming pictures that had the novice Supervisors concerned until they learned that Sprout spent most of her life in space. Would not share the food she had made at cooking skills with the others because it was 'for Papap'. Built an enclosure around herself and the foodstuffs with tinkertoys and threatened anyone who came close with a pair of craft scissors.

Gavin entered the playground to see Sprout huddled defensively in her tinkertoy cage. She'd been smart about it, anchoring parts into the larger structure of the play gym, and was ready to make a permanent mark with safety scissors.

"Sprout," he sighed. "This is not playing nice."

Now she cried. Between sobs, sounds that could have aligned with, "They wan'ed 'a ead id all..." escaped her.

He took one, to calm her down and show that Papap got the food she made. Then he declared it so yummy that he just had to share it with everyone. Thus satisfying the needs of the curriculum.

Only after all feathers were settled and all messes tidied, did Sprout get the lecture about playing nice and being good. She would have to wait one day more for ice cream at Unsuitable Food Eat, and had to stick with Papap during the second part of the boring stuff. Sitting in a corner. Being quiet.

A sentence worse than death, according to Sprout. She spent a good ten minutes in that corner crying. He let her have three more in silence before he declared it was all right to sit on his lap.

Station Administration was understanding, at least. And the advised daily visits with a counsellor until Sprout was ready to socialise. And in the meantime, Gavin was going to make sure Sprout learned how to deal with their neighbours.

He hoped they were ready for her.

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Challenge #189: Awkward Re-union

A weightier prompt than usual - MSA Lewis meeting his family again post-mansion. (If relevant, assume the long awkward conversations and explanations are done and the trio+dog are mystery buddies again.)

[AN: I have decided to name Mr and Mrs Pepper "Bel" and "Cayenne" for no real reason other than shits and giggles.]

Vivi awkwardly polished a cracked heart locket with her hands as Arthur drew all the curtains closed. "We... have some news..." Vivi began. She was tense. On edge. Sitting very stiff and formal on the couch where she once lounged on lazy Sundays to pummel Lewis at video games.

"This is one of your supernatural things, isn't it?" Cayenne, always quicker off the mark than her husband, had never taken her gaze away from the locket as it turned and tumbled in Vivi's hands.

Bel put it together when Arthur turned off the lights. "Oh, I think it is... And I think it might be Lewis."

"Yeah. It's me." There was no elaborate lead in. He appeared out of the darkness with his pink pompadour aflame. In the same black suit they'd buried his body in. "I'm sorry, Mom. Dad. I couldn't leave. And... I still don't want to."

The most horrifying thing, Arthur would say later, was that Cayenne was crying and Bel looked furious. When the Peppers reacted, it was usually the other way around.

"You're sorry," said Bel. "You're sorry?"

"Dad... I..."

"After all we went through, you're sorry?"

"...daddy..."

Bel Pepper launched himself across the room and landed in a hug. "Never be sorry! Never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever be sorry!"

Cayenne followed him, wrapping herself around them both. "You're here. You came back. O my baby, my baby..."

Slightly irritated, yet relieved and accepting, "Mom..." Lewis returned the hug. "I'm still sorry I'm cold."

The Peppers chorused a unanimous, "We don't care."

Vivi relaxed. "He's tied to the locket. Currently. We're... we're still working on ways to help him corporealise."

And it was only after a near-marathon catch-up session that the Peppers noticed that Arthur remained oddly silent. And spent most of his time clinging to Mystery.

But they knew that Arthur blamed himself for Lewis' death. They would later find out that Lewis did the same.

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Challenge #190: Heavenly Harmonies

 http://thentheresthisspazz.tumblr.com/post/123284811011/mythological-creature-aus

Pick another one!

[AN: OK for future reference and my current incompetence, I'm using a checklist.

[ ] (In/Suc)cubus

[X] Siren

[X] Werewolf

[ ] Cursed animal

[ ] Dragon

[X] Frog

[ ] Vampire

thank you for your patience with me. Oyeah. And it's not going to be Tailor Swift.]

"It's all goooooooooooooooooooooooone to ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuust..." Amy leaned her head back to rinse out the lather. "The mall shop's a derelict skeleton, the disco's dead and the hop is done. The raves are flickering out–"

WHUD!

Amy stopped singing to shriek and cover her private areas. "What the fuck, guys?"

No answer. Just the sounds of fighting going on, outside the bathroom.

She rinsed off in a hurry and emerged from the steam in just a bathrobe.

"Command us," said Bob.

"We will do your bidding," said Quentin.

And there were some of her neighbours, outside the window. Pounding ineffectively on the glass.

Shit. Fuck. She'd forgotten again.

Singing along was a bad idea when you were a siren. Stupid fucking little shop that was never there again. She'd just wanted to sing well. Not that well.

Another fine morning interrupted by telling everyone in her sphere of influence to 'snap out of it'. Again.

Amy wondered if making her boss so understanding about it was cheating.

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Challenge #191: Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

 http://thentheresthisspazz.tumblr.com/post/123284811011/mythological-creature-aus

Keep going!

[AN: OK for future reference and my current incompetence, I'm using a checklist.

[ ] (In/Suc)cubus

[X] Siren

[X] Werewolf

[ ] Cursed animal

[X] Dragon

[X] Frog

[ ] Vampire

thank you for your patience with me. Oh, and haimaee? Here's more]

He always came with the smell of smoke. Sharp and acrid. "Good morning, Princess."

Emily automatically began making is Grande Soy Latte with a shot of chilli and three shots of caramel. "Is there any way I can convince you to quit the smokes? I don't want to be treating your ass when I'm a doctor."

"I promise, your highness, that I do not smoke and I have no plans to start."

"Yeah? Really. You reek of smoke. Every day. Second-hand stuff is just as bad as the first-hand shit. Probably worse. I have graphs and icky photos to back me up on this."

Tony laughed. "I have no doubt. But don't worry. I'm fine."

"Dude..." Emily began.

Tony looked around the shop. It was close to closing and nobody else was there. In a ripple of light, there was no longer a human standing in the shop and grinning, but a rather large green Dragon taking up a majority of the free space. "The only smoking I do is one hundred percent natural. I'm fine."

And just like that, he was regular Tony again.

Emily handed over his coffee. "I'm guessing Dragons are fine with theobromine, too?"

"Damn straight," He gave her a 40% tip. "Though I should probably cut down on all the sugar. Thanks, Princess."

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #192: Unblinking Stare

 http://thentheresthisspazz.tumblr.com/post/123284811011/mythological-creature-aus

Aaand again!

[AN: OK for future reference and my current incompetence, I'm using a checklist.

[ ] (In/Suc)cubus

[X] Siren

[X] Werewolf

[X] Cursed animal

[X] Dragon

[X] Frog

[ ] Vampire

thank you for your patience with me. Oh, and haimaee? Here's more]

When you get down to it, there's lots of things worse than being turned into a lizard. Bearded dragon, to be precise. Just so you know.

You know, once the dysmorphia wore off and I got used to it... it's not that bad.

I can sleep through the night. Easily.

And -sure- Animal Control got on my case. They were right to. They didn't know I was a human being in a lizard body. And it's really hard to communicate when you're concentrating on feeder crickets. Trust me on this.

Crickets are actually very tasty. Don't give me that face.

Animal shelters are colder than they seem. Promise me that, if you want an animal companion, you are going to adopt one from the local shelter. You'll be doing them a favour.

And speaking of favours... I owe my life to the rangy goth who volunteered there. He ripped admin up and down about the size of my tank (too small) the variety in my diet (crickets or starve) and how often and to what temperature my heat rock should be heated (three times a day, and warm but not scorching).

He bought me, in the end. And under that Nine Inch Nails T-shirt? My boy is stacked. Lithe, lean and supple. Just the way I used to like them when I was human. How I still like them.

Trev didn't have a tank, but he did have a heat lamp that he jury-rigged to a timer. And I'm free to roam pretty much where I like.

The hunting's good. It's a cheap flat and the neighbours aren't exactly the cleanest people in the world. The cockroaches are very well fed.

What? I'm a lizard, now. Get over it.

And... there's a little unexpected bonus.

He likes to be nude when he's home.

I could watch him going about his daily business forever. And at night when the heat lamp goes off full-time? I get to snuggle up against those lovely warm pecs.

Mmmmmmmmmm...

I don't want him to kiss me. It would lead to way too many questions.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #193: Witnessed

 http://thentheresthisspazz.tumblr.com/post/123284811011/mythological-creature-aus

Doot doot.

If you've already done all 7 by now, your challenge is to cross over two of the prompts into one.

[AN: OK for future reference and my current incompetence, I'm using a checklist.

[ ] (In/Suc)cubus

[X] Siren

[X] Werewolf

[X] Cursed animal

[X] Dragon

[X] Frog

[X] Vampire

thank you for your patience with me. Oh, and haimaee? Here's more]

"No. Just no, okay? Francis Drake did not write Shakespeare's plays. Elizabeth the First didn't write his plays either. You know who really wrote them? William fucking Shakespeare! The whole 'mystery' about the authorship was started by a bunch of little gits in Eton who wanted to believe that only blue blood is capable of creating real art. They didn't want to admit that William Shakespeare was an unwashed commoner who came from parents who could barely read!" Ed came to a panting halt. His normally pallid face held the vaguest hint of a blush. And since he never blushed, Courtney could guess that this was a source of agitation. "And he didn't write the fucking Bible either. He was a fucking atheist."

"Wow," said Courtney. "You don't even take history. Why so bent out of shape about stuff that doesn't even matter?"

"Because it keeps happening. You don't want to believe that black people built the pyramids, so you say aliens did it. You don't want to believe that the same people who sacrificed humans on pyramids in South America were the ones who made the Nazca lines. Aliens again! You don't want to believe that the son of a couple from Snitterfield not only wrote those magnificent plays, or coined half of the language you use to deride him... so you say someone else did it for him." Another pause so that Ed could recover his breath. "It's everywhere. And I am sick of it. I want to stop people shitting on his art for as long as I can live."

"Why do you even care?"

"Because he was my boyfriend! He was bi, an atheist, and the most gifted person with words that I have ever met. I only wish I could have convinced him to..." sigh. "Fuck." Ed slumped back into his chair. "Please don't call anyone about that, okay? I don't want to spend another century in an asylum."

Courtney boggled. "Another?"

"Every time I let it slip that I'm a vampire, they lock me up and I spend fifty to a hundred years trying to convince them that I'm telling the truth." Ed sighed. "They'd probably dope me up and tie me down for years before they tried talking to me."

"You don't... kill anybody. Do you?"

A very sharp-toothed grin. "I used to keep pigs before I discovered coconut water. Thanks. That's always the first question."

"I've seen you in the sunlight..."

"Only underfed vampires get hurt by the sun. Coconut water. I literally live on the stuff. And before you ask, no, I do not get hurt by silver. It's gold that hurts a vampire. Can't be corrupted, so my kind has no defence."

"I can't use you as a source for my paper, can I?"

"No, for some reason, history professors really hate the people who lived in it."

"Probably because you keep telling them they're wrong."

"That'd do it."

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #194: The Feel When No Sex Life

http://thentheresthisspazz.tumblr.com/post/123284811011/mythological-creature-aus

Last one!

If you've already done them all, your challenge is to write a prequel to one of them

AN: Last one, [haimaee :3 ]

The social scene is really fucking awkward. So many of them expect so much of you and you never know who wants what until you're rejected. And it hurts. It hurts worth than starving.

I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I really don't. I come on strong and they run away. I try the gentle approach and they leave the club with someone else.

It's like I'm invisible.

Or worse than scum.

Hi. My name is Kylie and I've been a succubus for three months.

If I was a guy, I could call myself 'incel' and have people to talk to about it. But no, I'm a girl. And that just makes me a 'loser'.

I get bitter when I'm hungry.

And I am very hungry.

Yeah, you think being a succubus is fun, right? All the hookups you can eat? An absolute buffet of meaningless sex?

Wrong.

Try doing any of that when you're like me. A little too chubby. A little too dark. A little too not-hourglass. A little too hairy. A little too nerdy, but never nerdy enough.

Even the pube-bearded trilby-wearing pick-up artists won't fucking touch me. And I previously believed they were desperate.

No, seriously. It went like this:

Him: "You would look fantastic if you just dropped a few pounds."

Me: "You're absolutely right. You got any tips? I hear vigorous sex is a great fat-burner."

Him: (Long, boggling stare) "You're a creepy fucking slut." (runs away)

And that's the closest I ever got to eating properly.

And before you ask - no, I can't just roam the streets waiting for someone to try raping me. I need actual lust, not a desire to "put me in my place". I've tried it. It's just not satisfying.

But the good news is, the rapist population of my area has hit rock bottom. There's something about finding dead male husks drained of all life force, every single one with their dick out, that makes people think twice about raping.

Going to nerd cons in costume is not as effective as you might think. Especially the game cons. I get the nerd quiz to see if I'm a fake geek girl when most of the time these idiots wouldn't know Duella Dent from Steampunk AU.

If I can't answer their quiz, I'm a fake geek girl and get ostracised.

If I can ace it, I somehow just read that on a wiki to impress them and I'm still a fake geek girl.

If I know more than they do, I'm a fucking poser.

I can't win.

Not even on OK Cupid. I don't know. Maybe "Succubus seeks lust" is too forward.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #195: In the Instincts of the Beholder

 http://chokingonfeelings.tumblr.com/post/124810464889/livingzeppeli-i-want-a-sci-fi-series-to-have-an

"I want a sci-fi series to have an alien race that literally every other race but humans thinks are the hottest fucking thing but it just completely goes over humans' heads. Like instead of the Asari or some neon skinned space babe, every other race is just fucking fawning over some bizarre spider race. When humans don't get it they're just like, "What the fuck's wrong with you? She's hot, dude.""

(feel free to edit language)

Freshly-minted Ambassador Harry didn't think this was going very well. So far, she'd made one of the artificial intelligences break down, and was accidentally involved in a mishap involving a member of the Consortium of Steam.

And now some highly-appreciated Ambassador had just arrived in a cloud of fawning and cooing. One ambassador even had hysterics and had to lie down.

Ambassador K'thrikk looked like some bizarre insectoid centaur, with a hairy, spider's thorax and abdomen, and a thorax of a preying mantis. Its eyes were the dull black of empty space.

Her carapace was an unusual colour. As if puce and olive khaki had had an abomination of a love child, who was then sick all over the creature.

Harry found Ambassador K'thrikk to be both fearsome and revolting. She didn't know whether she wanted to throw up, run away, or launch herself at its head and start bashing it with whatever came to hand.

She gripped her desk with white knuckles, grateful that it was bolted to the floor. Focussed intensely on her bladder and its role in being well-behaved in this very unfamiliar public arena. And also attempted to re-hydrate her tongue.

Her assistant, a Cuidgari administrator nicknamed Jamie, gave off cooing to check on Harry. "Are you well? Many people who view the Hek'rath for the first time are overcome with awe."

Harry swallowed nervously. If she looked at her desk, she would not feel the urge to regurgitate every meal she'd ever had. "I'm overcome with the urge to kill it," she whispered. "But I know that would be very bad."

"I'd heard your species was insane, but I thought that was an exaggeration..."

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Challenge #196: Just My Type

The opposite to the last one - a being that is unattractive to their own race that a human finds beautiful.

Rae usually disliked going into the lower-gravity realms of the station. She had a pathological dislike of insects that included antisocial actions like screaming and flailing if one of them touched her.

Only the Huf'nuf'ruf remained unoffended.

Her intent was to go down, do her job, and then retreat into one of the luxury spas to soak the imagined pricklyness of a million little claws off her skin. That had been a very good plan.

That is... until she met Xzzxzzxzz.

She was beautiful A mixture of iridescence and gossamer. All poetry in motion with a side of grace and poise.

This one, said Rae's hind-brain, can touch me intimately for the rest of time.

"Can you being help?" said Xzzxzzxzz through her autotranslator.

"I think you're gorgeous and I want to share time with you," said Rae, almost hypnotised by her. "And this is a big deal for me because I'm usually entomophobic."

Xzzxzzxzz looked around. "Many apologising. Friend circle is to hire you for joke?"

"What? No! I'm here to fix some plumbing. Promise. I am not in the entertainment or offending industry[1]."

"You is tell I am..." the translator hiccoughed. And burped out, in a default voice, "AESTHETICALLY PLEASING."

"Yes. I mean. I did say that. I wasn't paid to. This is no joke. You're glorious."

She ran her mandibles over her forelimb in nervousness. "Is lie," she said. "My folk is call me... ugly. Carapace wrong colour. Too shiny in wrong spectrum."

"Well I think you're exactly the right kind of shiny," Rae smiled. "May I give you my contact details? You can ask me out any time."

[1] There is an overlap between the two.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #197: To See What is There

In a typical moment of human curiosity, when a rip in the fabric of space and time appeared in the lab, they did not explore it with all possible instruments, test dummies, cameras or animals. Instead, after poking it with a broom, and ensuring a potplant didn't combust when put in for a minute, they stuck their heads in to see what was on the other side.

It was shaped roughly like a kumquat. If that kumquat was about five feet tall and capable of hovering in mid-air.

It hurt to look at it, but nobody could say why. Nobody could say, exactly, what colour it was or what seemed to be inside it.

"That's it," said Professor Ng. "One hole in our universe... leading into another."

"How do we even test it?"

Sudden realisation hit the team like a truck. They had already spent their budget on the machines that kept the rift stable. What they had to hand was all they were getting for seven more months. And somehow, standing around and staring at the rift and occasionally going 'whoah' for seven months didn't seem to justify the expense.

Kev was the one who volunteered to do the testing. He said it "was going to be as trippy as fuck."

First, a broom that an unlucky janitor had left in the office. The handle received no observable harm. Neither did the bristles. The office aspidistra, duct taped to the broom, also survived unscathed.

Kev shrugged, muttered, "Yolo, dudes," and stuck his head inside.

Nobody heard his screams. Nobody in this dimension, anyway.

The parts of his body still on the observable side of the universe sheared off as they left the range of the rift. Cleanly. Bloodlessly.

And it did the same to the parts of the Thing that came through from the other side, when Professor Ng slammed on the big, red button that shut everything down.

She knew it was the right thing to do, because she had seen it casually begin consuming what was left of Kev's left hand.

So many questions paraded through her mind, but the one that escaped her mouth was a whispered, "How are we going to explain this to the investors?"

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #198: Fortifying Education

A Havenworlder finds out that even after reaching the Information Age, with early-warning systems and all the other resources available to a species at such a level of development, tsunamis ("The term refers to several million tonnes of water traveling at two hundred meters per second.") still killed an average of seven thousand people consistently, every year, over four decades

(last four from 2015)

Th'k'x had to wear full health monitors and have a Medik on standby, just to access the records on Humans. She could understand why, of course. Her species were notoriously fragile. Humans called her people Mayflies, and on the rare occasions when they accidentally shared space, deliberately maintained a non-threat posture until the Rithrong in question was able to safely leave the area.

Exposure to tougher life forms helped toughen up her own species. Epigenetics and some form of molecular osmosis had its invisible hands in the process.

So, once a week, young Rithrong like herself strapped themselves in and worked on the process. The trick was to endure without endangering their own life.

This week's exercise was Terran History.

Th'k'x gingerly tapped the 'commence' key.

"The very geography of Earth is hostile to life as we know it. Frequent eruptions of the surface crust cause phenomena called 'earthquakes' and 'volcanoes'."

Alarming footage of the very ground moving like a wave. And fire -no- molten rock spewing from the top of a mountain. Th'k'x began her breathing exercises.

"Amber," said Technician Riilg'r. Her job was to monitor Th'k'x life signs and not the lesson.

"Thank you," Th'k'x pressed the button that would gentle the lesson, and made sure she red-flagged the pictures of molten rock.

"Some consequences of these crust disturbances included semi-toxic clouds, collapses or upheavals in the ocean floor, and violent disturbances of the oceans themselves."

Ancient, grainy footage of a bay emptying of all its water. Colour footage of a large wave swamping a walkway full of humans. Text crawled across the bottom of the screen: All humans survived this.

"The most violent of these ocean disturbances is called a 'tsunami'. An ancient Terran word meaning 'ocean wave'." A cartoon explained how large volumes of water would build up into an enormous wave that could wipe entire towns from the scenery. It was less real as a cartoon. Less terrifying.

"It wasn't until the early twenty-first century that humans developed a warning system advanced enough to allow for evacuation of threatened areas." More graphical information. A map showing an underwater earthquake. Radiating red lines indicating the threatened zones and a series of exclamation marks in yellow triangles.

"Unfortunately, owing to teething troubles with the system, humans soon learned to ignore these warnings. This lead to many preventable deaths."

"REDLINE!" Riilg'r shrieked, hitting the cut-off button.

Soothing, meditative chimes sounded and relaxing light-shows filled the booth.

Th'k'x tried and failed to think of anything else but the implications of what she had seen. "They had so many wrong warnings... they didn't bother with the real ones. They didn't bother to play safely."

"Yes," cooed Riilg'r. "This is why humans are classified insane as a species."

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Challenge #199: Ban the Hammer

All parts should go together without forcing. You must remember that the parts you are reassembling were disassembled by you. Therefore, if you can't get them together again, there must be a reason. By all means, do not use a hammer. — IBM maintenance manual, 1925

Taking things apart is easy. Putting them back again, not so much.

So far, Rael had had lots of practice with the former. He'd found he'd attempted reassembly in the wrong order. Five times. Each iteration was a new and interesting method of getting everything out of order.

"Trouble?" said Dode. She'd been watching him as idle entertainment for ten minutes.

"I took stock," said Rael. "I noted and logged carefully each and every piece and where it was meant to go..." He vented his frustration with a wail of, "Why won't they flakking go back together?"

"Try building around the main spring. Wind it up, but don't let it unwind."

Rael tried it, and boggled at how well it worked.

"The trick is not in knowing that it can be assembled," said Dode. "The trick is knowing how the pieces won't get in each other's way."

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #200: Bunkmate From Hell

In the name of it's late and eventually we both want to sleep, I agree to that deal.

"You ever really think about cats?" asked Sam. "You know. Really think about cats? Like they're a solid animal, but they act like a fluid and they can expand to fill the space they want to take up.... And the super-fluffy ones always shock you when they're wet because they're all like those hairless skeleton things underneath all that fuzz?"

"WILL. YOU. SHUT. THE FUCK. UP?" Alex demanded. "It's eleven fucking fifty pee em. Can we PLEASE go to sleep before fucking tomorrow?"

"Y'know I read somewhere that if you cut a cat's whiskers short, they get super disorientated?"

"I would sell my soul to make you shut up, right now."

In an almost cartoony puff of smoke, the Prince of Hell appeared. "That could be arranged."

"Dude," said Sam. "Am I high or did you see that too?"

"Okay, fine," said Alex. "I want to be able to make her," she thrust a rude thumb in Sam's direction, "sleep when I want her to. Only sleep. No death. No fucking sleep apnea, somnambulance, or talking in her sleep like she was awake. Just sleep and only sleep. Got it. Oh. And I want to be able to wake her up, too. No fucking around on that side, either."

"...fucking lawyers," grumbled the devil. "You will be able to command your friend to sleep. And wake. In return for your immortal soul."

"Fine. Great. Let's do this."

What she got was a clicker that glowed in the dark. Alex immediately added it to her keychain before she tried it out.

"Dude," said Sam. "Are you really responsible for geese?"

...clikit...

Sam's head hit her pillow with a satisfying thud.

Peace. Beautiful. Wonderful peace.

"Er," said the devil. "You do know that your soul is mine to torture for eternity, right?"

"You try bunking with Sam for four years," sighed Alex as she made herself comfortable. "I've already been to hell..."

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #201: We Are Magic

Person #1: C'mon!

Person #2: No.

Person #1: Aww. Please?

Person #2: No. There's no such thing.

Person #1: But you'll never know if you have magic powers until you try!

Person #2: *sigh* Fine. Abracada-[Words in a dead tongue, strange lights from nowhere and levitating off the floor]

What Debbie and Angela didn't know, of course, was that it was all a trick. A light show, mostly. And her limited skills in telekinesis for the levitating objects.

Cassie kept one eye half-open, waiting for someone to throw water on her or nail her with a pillow. No such luck.

Angela somehow got her hands on a knife. She was sobbing, "I'm sorry, Cassie. I'm so sorry."

Cassie dropped the act in a cold second. "Whoah, whoah, whoah. I was just playing with you. It was a trick. I swear." She hurriedly invented some mundane explanations for her prank, including sibling intervention.

Thank goodness her own telekinesis skills didn't allow her to lift herself off the floor, yet. She could explain her rising a few centimetres as standing on her tip-toes.

Mom had been right. Mortals were dangerous playmates. And some tricks must never be shared.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #202: It's Just Physics

"Oh, so attempting to mind control the entire planet is fine, but steam engines, now THEY'RE too much..."

"Steam powered machines just wouldn't work in space," argued Ken. "It's just physics. You wouldn't need a fire, the water would just boil from lack of pressure. And don't get me started on how the cabin pressure works."

Kyle sighed. "It's not supposed to be taken seriously."

"Yes, but science that bad manages to filter into the heads of the ignorant."

"What?"

"You watch," said Ken. "Three weeks, tops, some asshole on youtube will be using this movie as an example of advanced alien technology."

"It's. A. Parody. No way in the world would anyone take it seriously."

*

Two weeks and five days later, Ken sent Kyle a link to a youtube video.

It was titled, Aliens Among Us, the Conspiracy Continues.

He included a handy time reference to where Super Steam Space Ninjas was heavily referenced.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #203: Loverly Spam...

You don't reference Monty Python to be helpful, you reference Monty Python because you can.

On the upside, they now had an interstellar 'ride'. On the downside, it was an abandoned freighter. Its hold was still full. Which meant that the parental company had pulled the plug and evacuated the pilot when the cargo proved to be valueless.

And, of course, Shayde had to look.

"No," she grinned. The tone of her voice made it sound like a good thing.

Which meant that it was supremely bad news for Rael. "What have you found?" he grated in the disinterested tones of someone who knew he didn't want to know, but also wanted the painful bit over as soon as humanly possible.

"Jus' look," she said in the tones of someone who had just discovered Christmas.

He did. The cargo holds, all fifty of them, were chock full of stasis pallets loaded and stacked high with blue cans featuring something... pink.

"I don't get it," he confessed. He toured down into the hold for a closer look. It was some variety of canned meat product. Ancient Terran alphabet. The yellow letters declared it to be SPAM.

Shayde's voice pitched up into an unholy screech, "We got Eggs, Spam and Chips... Spam, Eggs and Sausage... Eggs, Spam, Sausage and Chips... Spam, Eggs, Spam and Spam... Spam, Sausage, Spam, Eggs and Spam... Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam and Spam..."

Her usual field of ur-reality asserted itself in an invisible chorus of male voices singing, "Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam..."

"Would you stop that?" pleaded Rael.

"Right on cue!" Shayde crowed. She slid down the railing so she could mime punching him in the arm. "And you said ye had no idea of what Monty Python was."

"I still don't," Rael muttered. "Is this a food product or a punchline?"

"Ye know," said Shayde. "I often wondered tha' meself..."

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #204: Human Terminology

(Came up with this and thought of a certain sawn-off lunatic, but it doesn't have to be Vorkosigan fic if you don't want it to be)

"When you say 'secure on three flanks, with an opportunity to the north', what you really mean is 'cut off on three sides, with enemies front', isn't it?

"I mean both!"

[AN: SO very tempted to write one of the Vorkosigan brats...]

Hwell returned covered in soot and a light scattering of debris. "Okay," he panted. "The good news is... we're secure on three sides."

"That's Hwellish for 'we're cut off' isn't it?" said Ax'and'l.

"Well excuse me for trying to put a positive spin on it," Hwell pouted. "Positive thinking is the key to success."

"I'm positively picturing a situation in which I can get away with strangling you," Ax'and'l growled.

"If you do that, you'll never find out my secret escape plan."

"How?" demanded Ax'and'l. "We're cut off on three sides and the enemy is gathering to the front. Oh. Sorry," he added thick sarcasm. "We're secure on three sides with an opportunity on the fourth."

"Just for that I might hike off and let you dangle," Hwell turned his back. "I swear you don't know the meaning of gratitude."

"It's moments like this that I'm barely capable of it." Ax'and'l sighed. "Fine. How are you planning to get us out of here?"

"Sideways," grinned Hwell.

O Gods. It was going to be one of those.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #205: An Ace Up Her Sleeve

(Since we can do this, let's try a different post)

Pick a prompt from one of these:

 http://thepreciousthing.tumblr.com/post/121702150607/finding-flight-okay-but-imagine-a-medieval

"You fool," crowed Master Magistar. "You thought that underwater level was a simple defensive measure!" He cackled in his usual, evil manner. "I filled that labyrinth with pure Love Potion! You cannot hope to defeat your one, true love."

"Watch me," said Aiana the Mighty unsheathed her rapier point. "Have you nothing else to defend yourself with, wizard?"

He bared a little of his bony chest. "The love you feel for me won't let you harm me. Go ahead. Do your worst."

Aiana the mighty aimed and lunged without another thought. Piercing him straight through his black heart.

"But... the love potion..."

"Doesn't work on one who can not love," Aiana smiled. "In your next life, do look up the words 'aromantic' and 'asexual'."

"...impossible..." he croaked. It was his last word.

She cleaned her sword and set about breaking his spells across the land. Some later sang that it was her sword that held magic against him. Or some piece of her armour. Or a charm or a blessing or even a curse.

But the truth is, sometimes, you need the right kind of hero.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #206: Living Proof

Another Humans Are Crazy point: most bright colours in the animal kingdom are for either a mating display or are a poison warning. The brighter the colours, the more likely it's poison - see snakes and frogs, even compared to peacocks they are brighter (if less visually spectacular overall).

Most other animals, on seeing the fluorescent poison warning colours, are rightly horrified.

Meanwhile, humans think they are pretty.

Of all the ambassadorial mistakes Harry could have made, this one pretty much topped the metaphorical cake. During one of the mandatory mingling exercises, She sidled up to the nervous Ambassador Q'vath and murmured, "I hope you don't mind me saying so, but your colours are very pretty."

"I AM WEARING TOXIC COLOURS! SELF IS NOT BEING TASTY!" Q'vath back-pedalled away from her as if she were a rabid predator. "STAY BACK, DEATHWORLDER!"

Harry immediately put her hands up in surrender position and stepped away. In retrospect, it was the hard way to learn that many in the Galactic Alliance still considered her species to be highly dangerous.

And she was very glad when the ambassadors from Amity turned up with positive proof that Havenworlders and Deathworlders could co-exist.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #207: Human Phenomena

An alien witnessing a human do the "Just walked through a spiderweb" dance for the first time

OR

A scholar writing a research paper on the one dance universal to all human tribal cultures, the "Spiderweb" dance.

In augmented scope sight, the web was clearly visible. And the spider itself stood out like a miniature sun.

"This spider," whispered a lizard off to one side of the screen, "has been weaving and re-weaving its web all night. In a few hours, it will retreat from its work. Because it knows that foot traffic will soon ruin its chance to feast. We also know that a human regularly exercises through here. So we may have the chance to see something spectacular."

The view changed to common optics, thus rendering the spiderweb invisible.

The lizard vanished somewhere off camera as the view focussed further down the corridor.

The human in question wore the usual warning signs. Non-emergency running in progress. Ze had some sound equipment on and hir eyes closed as ze jogged.

The instant ze hit the web...

"AUGH! Pthpht... Pthpht... euw gross uuuuugggghhh...." Hir arms and legs flailed in panic and alarm. Hir feet danced around and twirled her about.

"And this," said the lizard, "is the first time the humans' spiderweb dance has been caught in its entirety on a vid."

The human said, "What in the Powers are you doing, over there?"

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Challenge #208: Universal Reactions

Someone finally asks a human why there is such a nigh-universal-among-the-species visceral reaction to an Oshit when seeing one up close for the first time.

Many scientific establishments hired Humans to conduct the more risky aspects of their experiments. Firstly, because the humans were tough enough to withstand the results. Secondly, because they were insane enough to want to repeat the experience.

They also used vermin as experimental animals.

"What ho, loony lizards," said Cambry. She aimed a lazy salute at the figures behind the space-rated polyglass. "What horrible things are we doing to little critters, today?"

"We are investigating the effects of pressure and air concentrations on invertebrates."

"Cool. Torturing bugs for science." She lifted the cover on the critter tank to discover...

...two dozen, minimum, excited and hungry Oshits.

Cambry back-pedalled rapidly, pinwheeling her arms and screaming the traditional curse.

"Why is this the typical human reaction?" asked K'leb'th. "Some of you eat spiders."

"These ones look like they'd try'n eat us back, mate." Cambry steadied her breathing. These were only very daft pseudo-spiders. "Besides, I'm a N'Ozzie. Everything is venomous until proven otherwise. And these big buggers? Nobody wants to take the chance."

It was the closest answer that science ever got.

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Challenge #209: Arachnophilia

An alien aware of the general human reaction to spiders runs across someone whose first response to an Oshit is "how cute!"

"Being cautious, please, Engineer Murray," K'teth warned as she unlocked her vessel. "Security measures on vessel mine being non-standard."

The brown-skinned human grinned. "No worries. You can call me Baz. Everyone does. Now... I know you were knocking around Pirate Turf for a year or so?"

"Yes. Learning fast, am I, there are few tech solutions to hackers."

"Right, so you have natural deterrents. Dogs?" She opened the inner door for herself and got a face full of pseudospider.

K'teth cringed. "Please not be hurting pet mine?"

To K'teth's eternal surprise, the human giggled and gently encouraged Fluffy the Oshit onto her hands.

"Aaaawww... she's burly girlie... hul-lo... ha-lo-oo?"

This was Human Pet Voice. Trying to be nice to an animal that didn't understand words, but tone of voice.

"You... like... Oshits?"

"I love all arachnids and pseudo-arachnids. Oozadidduwfuzzyden? Oozadidduwfuzzy? Aaawww..."

K'teth was about ready to chalk this up as another example of Human Insanity. "You are not fearing poison biting?"

"No worries," scoffed Baz. She guided the Oshit back into her holding tank. "These little buggers can't pierce human skin. I'm aces."

"Other humans not wanting take chance," said K'teth.

"Their loss."

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Challenge #210: Idiosyncrasies

The person who asked about the human Oshit reaction witnesses a human watching the YMCA spider video for the first time (and the human is not like one of my best friends, whose reaction is still "Kill it with fire!")

K'leb'th happened to find a space to sit near an unfamiliar human. Ze was messing around with a palm-sized device and occasionally playing things for hirself.

Ah. This human, much like Cambry, had subscribed to The Daily Meme, a co-operative effort between the Mudoks and the Archivaas to preserve culture.

What fascinated K'leb'th was the fact that this human was giggling over the actions of an arachnid. She tapped for the human's attention. "My pardon, cogniscent... your species has an aversion to arachnids, yes?"

"Not the cute ones," said the human. "Listen, it's dancing to the music," She put her device's speakers on.

Indeed, the arachnids featured seemed to dance to the 4/4 beat of the music. Though it didn't seem to be spelling out Ymca... whatever that was.

K'leb'th would have to find out if this was relevant to her research. Was 'cuteness' a factor in common aversions? Was 'cuteness' relative? She gave the helpful human a Minute coin and began busily taking notes.

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Challenge #211: Skewed Threat Assessment

Someone aware of how beneficial, on the whole, spiders are to humanity asks why there is such a disconnect between the threat posed by and reaction to spiders as opposed to the threat posed by and reaction to mosquitoes.

(Let's ignore the Sydney Funnel Web, for the purposes of this discussion)

"Statistically speaking," allowed Nik, "your species has more to fear from the Mosquito than it does any arachnid. Or pseudo-arachnid, for that matter."

"Logically," countered Shayde, "ye got a point." She was perched tensely on her stool, on the very verge of bolting for cover. Her gaze was trapped by the presence of several very fat Oshits in a holding cage. "But if ye put that lot anywhere closer to me, I'm off."

"Oshits are proven harmless! They can not pierce human skin."

"Still no' takin' the chance. Keep those fookers awa' from me."

Nik kindly scooted the cage further away from her. The Oshits inside, stimulated by the shift in air patterns, attacked everything they could reach.

Shayde murmured an note of pure disgust and leaned a little further away from the cage of dispute. "Look, I'm only here because ye said ye had a way tae eat them. Ye never said they'd be alive beforehand."

"I'm rather concerned about you," said Nik. "The universe's bounty is meant to be shared. Insects are easier to farm on an industrial scale than mammals and avians, yet your diet is intensely arthropodophobic."

"Aye. I've been taught tae see insects as filthy, ye ken. In my time, we spend all of our effort on gettin' rid of 'em." Shayde managed to pluck up her courage enough to sit herself more comfortably on the stool. "But after the fifth time one o' those little shits jumped on me face, I'm willin' tae take me revenge any way I can get it."

"Revenge feasting..." said Nik. He waved the steam from his wok towards his nose. "An interesting concept. But you still have not answered the quandary. Why are you less afraid of mosquitoes than you are of spiders?"

"Ye seen a mosquito move, aye?" she said, tracing a slow path with a dark fingertip. "When ye can see 'em coming, they sneak up on ye. Spiders come at ye like ye just insulted their firstborn. And their bites are more... ah... immediate."

"So there is room for a disconnection. I see. My apologies. It is time to fry them."

The cage, boiling with excited Oshits, opened directly over the pan. They exploded outwards, attacking the steam and falling into the hot oil below.

Shayde had to pay a fine for Public Disturbance. It is not appropriate to shout, "DIE, YE LITTLE BASTARDS!" in a restaurant. Especially not that gleefully.

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Challenge #212: 'Straya Mate

Someone runs across  this book. And then are told about the fact in the last comment.

"This," said T'reka a'Nyerrik, "is a book for N'Ozzie children?"

"Yes," said the helpful Archivaas with a bundle of similar tomes. "N'Oz colonists insisted on bringing their -ah- scientifically interesting native flora and fauna with them from Australia."

Ah yes. Australia. The only land mass on Earth that almost rated a Level Six on the Deathworlder scale. In fact, N'Oz itself was a Five Point Eight.

"The book itself originates from pre-shattering Australia," added the Archivaas. "It's highly useful for newcomers because it shows them what the dangerous things look like. Alas, this book only contains the creatures that a child is most likely to encounter. This volume," she patted a much, much thicker tome, "contains similar information on all the toxic and dangerous flora and fauna in both Australia and N'Oz."

T'reka was surprised that it was one volume and not an encyclopedia set. "Are the children expected to defend themselves with the book?"

"Only against the spiders," chirped the Archivaas. "Are you fond of Dijano's, Ms a'Nyerrik?"

"This is more startling information on Australia, isn't it?"

"Many visitors find it fascinating."

T'reka thought about this and eventually concluded the Train Wreck factor. And then immediately succumbed. "Very well. What startling information have you stowed up your sleeves?"

"In pre-shattering Earth, a British cartoon for children featured an episode that told children that spiders were not to be feared," said the Archivaas. "The Australian public objected, and the episode was banned." She leaned forward, obviously expecting T'reka to object.

"I'm guessing the section on spiders in that big book of yours is significant?"

"Spoilsport," pouted the Archivaas. "And, yes, it is."

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Challenge #213: One Bad Day at Station Customs

 http://brutusfeels.tumblr.com/post/125690756909/haberdashing-ofshxeld-my-favourite-trope-is

Have fun!

The haughty Meyahndan in gold-coloured hunting leathers sneered down her nose at Pol. "We are Felids," she said, showing her claws by tapping her fist against the opposite shoulder. "We are never unarmed."

Why did her first day have to happen during an Ambassadorial Meet? "One moment," she said, consulting the manual. Ah. Meyahndese. Yes. "Uhm. It says you have to have a permit? Otherwise you have to clip them short."

She hissed at him and very pointedly waved the permit under her nose.

"Right. My apologies. It's my first day."

"That... I can believe."

"But your -uh- other weapons? The ones you can take off? Please? They have to be turned in during the Meet."

Four bows. Four long-swords. Four daggers, three skinning knives, three slingshots, matching bags of ammunition, and eight scent-masking roll-ons clattered across her desk.

Pol dutifully boxed and labeled it. "These will all be returned on your departure."

The Meyahndan party growled at him as they entered the Decon Gauntlet.

Oh great. The Vardians were next. Their glittering formal costume barely let the Ambassadorial Gold show, and the young Empress had clearly just turned the appropriate age for the Honour Knife in her bejewelled bodice.

She glared at Pol as she explained that the clear no-weapons policy also included ceremonial blades. One hand went to her bodice and the almost-concealed hilt by her new cleavage.

Pol had to call Sherlock in, much to her embarrassment, for an extended deliberation.

Eventually, the Empress' ceremonial dagger was replaced with a custom device that would emit a disabling shriek should she need to draw it. After that, it was a simple matter to divest her of hair stilettos, hip knife, poison rings, and the cunning little blades in her shoes.

A rushed group including some UFTP arrived with a Faiize and a small human girl in what appeared to be a sack.

"Ambassador," puffed the UFTP Lieutenant, "Sahra Johnston. And associate/assistant Simy." The official documents had a lot of blanks. A new one, by the look of things. "Representing the human colony/planet Hevun."

Wow. This might be an easy one for a change. Pol processed her documents and said, "Did you bring any weapons?"

"D'pends," said the kid. "What 'xackly you callin' a weapon?"

Oh dear... one of those.

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Challenge #214: After the Revolution

You might like  this.

The Pyro Plague had finally run its course. The only plants left to make the air marginally breathable were the ones that were too toxic for the Plague to attack. Which was nice for those plants, but not so great for the humans who needed them to live.

Of course, the people revolted against the companies who had made the plague possible. And who insisted on monocultures of food crops, genetically engineered to be delicious. When the plague came and the crops had to be burned in an attempt to stop the Plague's spread, those same companies attempted to sell manufactured air to their beleaguered customers. Everyone agreed that that was the last straw.

There were no companies, any more. Very little left of society at all.

But they still had power. And they still had google.

It was how Cassandra found out about Svalbard, and the treasure trove inside it.

Heritage seeds. Food seeds. Seeds that had never been messed with by the corporate scumbags that the rest of humanity had literally feasted on during the Burning Days.

She told the people she could trust. Bartered with the people who had resources. Tried to explain to so many without hope that hope was possible. In the end, only a handful of her friends listened.

It was a long and arduous trek. They had to hunt and preserve enough insects to last them the weeks it would take to walk across the tundra and arctic circle. At least it had frozen again. Otherwise they'd have to steal a boat and risk getting attacked by angry orcas.

Without the crops, the chemical fertilisers had spilled into the oceans. The fertilisers caused gigantic algal blooms. Half of those blooms poisoned the fish. And the orcas were smart enough to know who to blame.

They started out a group of ten. There were four left by the time they got to Svalbard. A tiny little island in the arctic circle. And a nearly-invisible road to get to the treasure vault.

The few people who still lived in Longyearbyen had already begun growing crops. Some under glass roofs. They welcomed Cassandra and her friends and offered manuals to share across the internet about how to grow food from the seeds they had to share.

Manuals in Norwegian.

The more global manuals, alas, had been locked inside the safe inside the vault. With the keys to said safe.

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Challenge #215: The Houyhnhnms' Arrival

A new species arrives on the station, and the humans Will Not Stop Staring.

New species is worried. Did it offend them somehow? Is it edible?

Meanwhile all the humans are thinking is "Holy ***,. a unicorn."

G'pux soothed her new companion by petting her neck. "There, now. It's all right. It's natural to be a little tense when meeting the Galactic Alliance."

Thrass tossed her head and stamped uncertainly, Though she fit the pattern for Horse, she was undoubtedly a cogniscent species. She was certainly more flexible and robust than a Terran horse. And the species' gift for telekinesis did no harm, either. "This not being little tense," she managed. "This being close to snapping."

"I'll let you in on a secret," whispered G'pux. The lizard leaned closer to Thrass' twitching ear. "You won't be meeting planetary ambassadors. You missed the Meet by a year and a half. What they'll have is -ah- unattached ambassadors. People with the title but little to no influence. And possibly some station-resident staff who handle matters for the planetary ambassadors. If they have nothing better to do."

"So... I will being most important in room?"

"Oh yes. They'll all be there to impress you." G'pux thought about this. "Except perhaps Ambassador Shayde. She's... kind of... a law unto herself."

"Need I worrying about her?"

"No. You'll be fine. There's very few things that annoy her and you're not prone to do any of them."

The ship docked, and far too soon, it was time to make Thrass' introduction formal. G'pux exited first, just to make sure there were no accidental ambassadors lurking in the corners. Shayde was present and actually standing to attention for a change. And Rael stood at her elbow so he was ready to preempt anything Shayde was going to try.

Five other humans were in the group of twenty and at least one had brought a gift basket. G'pux secretly hoped that it was actually full of gifts and not mostly cellophane. "Gathered cogniscents, Ambassadors and staff, it is my singular honour to introduce you to Ambassador Thrass of the Houyhnhnm. Planet H'ruh'hra."

Thrass stepped out, resplendant in the golden copy of her former work suit. She had been a farmer before G'pux had crash-landed into her life. Her speech was heavily rehearsed. "Honoured cogniscents, I thank you for your welcome." The rest, I bring peaceful greetings from H'ruh'hra, appeared to die in her throat.

The humans were all staring.

Bug-eyed, barely-breathing, slack-jawed staring.

"Is they think I edible?" Thrass whispered. "I doing some thing wrong?"

Then Shayde, most likely to blurt anything uncivil, blurted, "Holy fookain shit, that's a unicorn."

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Challenge #216: Let Sleeping Beauties Lie...

The cursed princess in the castle tower was asleep for a very good reason. The people of her kingdom were only safe during the day... and even then just barely.

Prince Philip wasn't exactly inclined to listen to good advice. As a child he ate sweets before dinnertime, and crept off to play with the faeries in the wood.

The fae didn't want him, which possibly tells you all you never needed to know about Prince Philip.

Now that he is grown, though, he pays specific attention to the don'ts that people tell him. Just so he can do them and seem brave for surviving. Things like, Don't go into the swamp, or, Don't seek out the menacing beast, had increased his reputation as a mighty warrior.

Don't go to the Empty Kingdom...

He had to find it, first. One hundred years of neglect had practically erased it from the map. Yet there were still neglected roads to a place nobody went.

Don't seek out the castle...

The houses were remarkably preserved, despite the fact that thorny briars choked out every other form of life. Philip had long since swapped his sword for a sturdy, robust axe. Long since turned his horse loose. A mighty war steed did him no good in a kingdom of weeds.

He had plenty of fuel for his fires, and meals of mushrooms and rabbit after he devoured the contents of his saddle bags. And lots of exercise. And mocking-birds for company.

The old stories told of a magnificent treasure inside the castle. Of a miraculously-preserved maiden. And Philip had to see if it was true.

Don't step inside...

The weeds were not inside. Everything was perfectly preserved. Well. Almost everything. Banquets on the tables had long since rotted. Rats made their nests in the skeletons of dogs. Everything that the vermin could reach... they had. There was a definite tide-line of decay around the ground floor.

Don't climb the towers...

The castle was magnificent, in its heyday. Stained glass decorated the windows. The walls were faced in marble, inlaid with gold and ivory. Were he more avaricious, he would have spent many happy hours levering wealth out of the very walls.

But Philip had his mind on another prize.

Don't seek the Princess...

Philip stepped over human bones as he approached her bed. Her room, apart from the skeletal carpet, was fabulous. Lined with jewels. Hung with tapestries. Every window full of stained glass pictures. And old, old story.

A maiden with hair of gold and red, rosy lips. A witch. A curse. And waiting... waiting for a kiss.

All these other bones had to be others who had failed before.

Do not kiss her...

Her hair was, indeed, gold. Her lips, rosy red. Her skin like alabaster. Her eyes were closed and her chest gently rose and fell in the rhythm of solid slumber.

Philip did not notice that his axe fell into a rusting pile of axes and swords by her bed. He had eyes only on her face.

So lovely. So beautiful.

She had to be his.

Philip sat by her and leaned into her lips. Felt her cold flesh quicken and move beneath him. Felt her hands against his arms. Welcoming.

Her eyes were not sea-blue. They were red. Their slit pupils widened as she opened them.

And sharp fangs bit into his lips and tongue.

Sharp fingers sank into his arms.

Too late, he tried to wriggle free. Tried to get loose to reach his axe. Tried to grope for the blades he had foolishly left outside her door.

She would never be his. He was hers.

Her serpentine tongue choked off his air as she drank up his blood. He was dimly aware of her chewing his flesh from his bones as his mind fled from pain and his life fled his body.

Sharp talons tore away his armour and raiment. Scattered it to the corners with the armour and sad scraps of others who had not listened to the story. And in hours... less than hours... his bones would join the carpet of men who felt that they could possess her.

There was a reason why the Empty Kingdom was so empty. Why the briars and thorns grew so thickly. Why nothing alive went upstairs and why, if it did, it never came down again.

She is roaming, now. Wandering her empty kingdom and looking for more flesh. Do not look for her. Do not sleep with your windows open. Do not leave your door unbarred.

She is hungry.

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Challenge #217: Death Be Not Proud

The Tale of the Good Necromancer

[AN: Have to do a rewrite since my internet is a sack of suck and I forgot to save the text when I refreshed the edit screen. Fuck my life.]

The necromancer who called herself Corviddia wore black, of course. Because some things about necromancy can not be avoided. But she made sure it was a neat and respectable black. Austere without being severe. Dark without being menacing. She wore ribbon flowers on her hat and wound a rainbow of ribbons around her mage's staff.

Death follows necromancers. Everyone knows this. It's why you never see one riding a living animal. Sure, some can and do choose to ride skeletal steeds, but its never comfortable and it always smells. Therefore, when she can not obtain a cart or a carriage, she walks.

And yet, Corviddia insists she can heal. People are glad to see her and the peculiar, grey porcelain doll she carries with her. It only has eyes and a mouth. And is dressed in a simple shift. Few have been brave enough to ask her what it is for. Most of the time, it sits or lies around when she is working on the very ill.

When it comes to 'kill or cure', Corviddia knows her stuff.

Goodie Wainwright was rather glad it had come out as 'cure' this time, and fussed over tea. She could have easily used a necromancer months ago, when Millie's twin brother had been found in the duck pond.

Far too late, now.

"I don't understand," she said, pouring hot water very carefully into her Best Teapot. "Necromancy's death magic. You kill things."

Corviddia was wan and weak from her work, so she whispered. As always, the doll sat next to her. "I enhance the death present in all life. Mostly, when I choose to." Her fingers trembled a little as they wrapped around the cup.

"Aye. I know. So how is it that Millie is alive and well and sleeping off consumption?"

Corviddia sipped her tea. Added some honey and stirred it in. The bell-like ring of teaspoon against china was the only sound. "Consumption is caused by unimaginably tiny life," she said. "Hosts of them could exist on a pin-prick."

Goodie Wainwright turned to stare in horror at her sewing basket.

"No. They don't really live there," a soft chuckle. "I'm trying to give you a sense of scale." Sip. Sigh. "And if hosts can live on a pinprick, then there is no word for the number that was living in your Millie. More than millions."

"I'm havin' a hard time thinking beyond hundreds, beggin' your pardon."

Corviddia nodded. "I brought death to all of them. All of their hundreds of hosts. And I directed their corpses into her bowels. She will have a rough night on the privy, but that will be the end of it."

"Don't your kind feed off death?"

"Some choose to. That way lies corruption... at least... the way you mean it. All life feeds off death. Some are just more... direct." Corviddia spared a smile, "And besides, bacteria deaths taste awful."

This was supposed to be a joke. Goodie Wainwright plucked up a smile and the ghost of a laugh.

Corviddia sipped her tea again and talked to apparently thin air. "Yes, I know you want to talk. Use the doll. That's what it's there for."

The doll, apparently slumbering in the neighbouring chair, raised its head and opened its eyes. Its previously featureless face now looked like Ardie.

"I'm sorry I didn't listen, Ama. I only wanted to get a skater beetle 'cause it was so pretty. I didn't know the stones were all over yuck. I should'a stayed out of it. I didn't wanna make you cry."

Tears stung her eyes. Flooded her face. Goodie Wainwright covered her mouth to keep herself from bawling anew. "...oh my baby..." she whimpered through her fingers. "...i know, sweetie. I know..."

"Millie can hear me, so I'm helping her stay out of trouble," said the doll with Ardie's voice. "I love you, Ama." The doll sagged and closed its eyes. It was just a grey, porcelain doll again.

"...come back?" pleaded Goodie Wainwright.

"Only the strongest of souls can wear a deathclay golem full time," said Corviddia. "Even then, it is difficult to move and perform simple tasks. You've doubtless heard of the Everlasting King?"

Otherwise known as the King of Nothing. So selfish and spiteful that he refused to give his kingdom to anyone and ruled it from a clay body that had been filled with his bones. His kingdom had since been abandoned and all he had left was a crumbling ruin of a castle and his granite throne.

"You could make Ardie a body of corn husks and a drop of your blood. Or Millie's. It would need constant maintenance, but you would see and hear him again. And he would never be as strong as he once was."

"We don't grow corn. Soil's bad for it."

Corviddia put her tea down so she could rummage in her pack. She brought out a porcelain spoon, of the same grey matter as the doll. She put it down on the table. "This will be easier for him He can point it, or make it tap."

The spoon obeyed, spinning in place. Then it tapped out Ardie's knock.

"One tap for yes, twice for no. And you can point the handle in any way you want your Ama to look," said Corviddia.

Ardie spun the handle to point to Millie and tapped once.

Millie had woken up. "Ama? You know about Ardie, now? Why I didn't cry?"

"Aye," said Goodie Wainwright. "I dare say we'll all know about Ardie before long."

Ardie made the spoon rock and dance on the table.

"He's glad," translated Millie.

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Challenge #218: To Boldly Bed...

Turns out humans can interbreed with almost any cogniscient species and produce viable offspring. This breaks several laws of physics, logic, and basic biology. At this point the rest of the galaxy just throws its hand up in defeat and stops trying to figure out how they do the things they do.

[AN: I have had it since Amalgam's inception that Humans can't spread their genes around the cosmos like that. Ergo, this has to be Star Trek]

Admiral Pavel Checkov took the roll before starting his lectures. This year, the F's were taking up a majority of his time.

"Fitzkirk, Elaine," a half-betazoid raised her hand. "Fitzkirk, Fukari," a half-orion. "Fitzkirk, Glii," a half-horta.

How the flying hell had his old captain managed that one?

After that particular lecture (featuring a significant percentage of Fitzkirks) Pavel meandered over to the central offices for Starfleet Medical and asked them how the fuck humans could breed with anything capable of communicating lust.

Starfleet Medical had been working on it since the first dozen Fitzkirks turned up. And would continue to work on for centuries.

One of the universal anomalies, it seemed.

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Challenge #219: Sailor Fey

Grab another one!

 http://thepreciousthing.tumblr.com/post/121702150607/finding-flight-okay-but-imagine-a-medieval

Most sailors feared to go near the Siren Pass. Beyond, they whispered, were shores of gold where the waves broke with pearls and gems as sea foam. Where untold riches and wealth awaited for anyone who could actually survive the pass. Here, there be mermaids. They decorate the rocks with foolhardy sailors who chance too close and fall victim to their song. Their bones, anyway. All of them picked clean and bleached white with sun and salt.

It's said that they make jewellery out of sailor's teeth. Only one sailor has been able to confirm that as fact.

They call him Anton l'Fey. Whispers about him say that a faerie cursed him with an inability to love. Some say he has never been interested in the pleasures of the flesh. Most captains trust him to haul their crew home from the bawdy-towns.

But Captain Kale had other plans for Anton. Plans that were about to come to fruition.

They anchored well out of range of the Siren Pass. Every man on the ship had to report to the shackles underneath. Anton was trusted with the keys and, not unkindly, gagged each man and wadded his ears with cotton.

The sails were set. The small ship only needed someone to steer and, of course, weigh anchor.

The latter of which took a significant amount of time, and required lashing the wheel into place.

By then, the sirens were swarming. Singing their seductive songs and wantonly displaying themselves for all who cared to look. Anton sailed on, his eyes on the distant breakers of the Golden Shore.

Their singing was very nice, but it wasn't worth wrecking the ship for. And the lyrics offered no temptations for him. He sung a bass counterpoint, containing his lack of understanding for the world of so-called normal men. About their need to grasp and lust for people and things alike.

The mermaids changed their song. They used to be kind, and save drowning sailors. But when their kindness was too often repaid with assorted manly cruelties, they changed their tactics.

The mermaids did, indeed, bedeck themselves with jewellery of teeth. And they also displayed the scars where randy, ravening sailors had bit them. They took what had hurt them and made it something beautiful. Or at least, more beautiful than the things the sailors had done.

He'd have to tell the Captain that mermaids were nice people if you could keep your hands to yourself and your pants buttoned.

The Golden Shore was, indeed, golden. But it was not made out of gold. Pearls and gems were suspiciously absent from the shining sands.

It would have been an entirely disappointing trip if it wasn't for the spices.

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Challenge #220: Pacifying Manoeuvres

We haven't checked other species yet, but it seems to be almost universal in humans that we can't help but at least smile, and often begin laughing, when we see a giggly baby.

The Havenworlders retreated behind their safety shields as various human factions began raising their voices.

Shayde, somehow, broke out a gigantic cup of popcorn. She masticated whilst grinning.

Someone, somewhere, pressed a brightly-coloured button.

Starting at the main viewer, every screen in the Ambassadorial Meet became dominated by one image. That of a cooing, smiling human infant. Presently, the child began to chortle.

The effect was instant. Humans all over the Ambassadorial Meet smirked. Chuckled. Giggled.

The tension in the room drained so rapidly that the atmospheric pressure changed. Now the humans - even Shayde - were smiling and laughing and making small squeaking noises.

Calming music and descending flowers replaced the giggling baby. "This has been a group emotion mediation. Please approach your issues calmly."

Shayde offered Rael some of the popcorn. "And here am I thinkin' it was goin' tae be like the UN all over again. Galactics are bloody spoilsports..."

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Challenge #221: Innovative Resource Management

They outsourced a surprising amount of their ship building (that is, they had a habit of using ships captured in battle).

People think low-gravvers are weak. Let me tell you something. A deathworlder adapted to a low-G environment is still a deathworlder.

And when there's a hive of them in chained asteroids... you do not throw rocks at the nest.

I saw it from a safe distance and under a definite amnesty. I'm not stupid enough to cross with deathworlders. Even in low gravity, they're dangerous. I'd make my money off of kuiper runs and oort runs, scooping up valuables like water and panspermia pre-biologicals, and swapping that for metals and a feed and some damn good alcohol before I headed off to trade that elsewhere.

But this time... just as I was heading in for their Main Tangle... the neighbouring Raptids attacked. Seems they got tired of transit fees from me and other traders and set their minds a-conquering.

Now, normally the humans of Crumble are a peaceful lot. They don't have big ships and they don't have a lot of guns. I found out why.

Remember the Hungry Caterpillar? Every space-scavenger's friend? Well, this mob re-purposed that into mining equipment. And building equipment. A solid iron asteroid big enough to be interesting makes an excellent home once its hollowed out. And the Caterpillar's tentacle becomes another tube dock.

It's amazing to watch that happening to an invading vessel. They were expecting exterior resistance like plasma fire. Or aimed asteroids. They weren't prepared for unexpected docking.

Nor were they prepared for swarms of armed and armoured humans with projectile weapons.

It only took them a few minutes, but once they had a couple of enemy ships, things went very bad for the Raptids.

I hear some of those ships have been turned into habitats. Most of them are still cruising around as a combination deterrent and battle trophy.

Come to think of it... I've never heard of Crumble buying any of the old hulks that's part of their habitat...

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Challenge #222: Millie the Conquerer

Well, I don't think she ever seriously wanted the city. She conquered it as a stop-gap mechanism.

The line had to be drawn, somewhere, and Millie initially drew it with arsenic in Lord Pemberhall's snuff. The man had been planning to raze her neighbourhood to put in a park, after all. He didn't give a fig about where the people who lived there went, or if they lived or died.

Unfortunately, Pemberhall's heirs immediately began bickering, and when the upper class bickered, they used armies made of poor people to do it.

There was only so much arsenic. She needed to be bolder.

Everyone knew Millie. When she wasn't being Pemberhall's maid, she spent a majority of her time in the bakehouse. Everyone said she had a special knack for bread. They remembered how she could turn one loaf's worth of meal into four loaves. Why, they said, you could barely taste the sawdust.

Millie didn't go to the men in the upper crust's employ. She went to their mothers and sisters. To their wives and daughters. They all asked one question:

Why risk slaughter for some lord's money that we will never see?

When the armies marched off the fields and united against the upper class cavalry, it was a show of force that the rulers would never forget. Hundreds of lordly sons foolishly charged their steeds into an army they had paid to train. Maybe they thought they could survive because no army man dared go against their general.

What they didn't think of was that they had not been paying their armies enough for far too many years.

When it comes to battling for death or glory, bet on the former.

Simultaneous to the battle, the united women of the city took up their carving knives, their rolling pins, their brooms and mops... and turned them against the elderly lords in their luxurious homes.

The lords protested - very briefly - that the common folk would not be able to cope without elite management. Their estates are fields and farms, now. Their houses have become hostels and hospitals.

And when neighbouring cities tried to quell the rebellion... well-fed and well-armed citizenry were prepared to drive them off. Or accept those who surrendered into their force.

They offered Millie the crown. And a title. And a mansion. She refused all three. All she'd been fighting for was to keep what she had.

The rest had just happened to cement that into her possession.

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Challenge #223: Careful How You Wish...

(Discussing being granted superpowers, Person #2 doesn't want them)

Person #1: I'm sorry, but whether you want to or not... this is something that is going to happen. The next time you fall asleep-

Person #2: Then I just. /Won't/. Sleep.

Person #3 (Full of cheerful sarcasm): That sounds like a solid long-term plan!

Irde glared at Bianca. "No. No. This isn't a solid wish."

"You did use the words 'I wish', said the Djinn. What she had been doing an a Chianti bottle had to be anyone's guess. "And your wish is my command."

"Ah! I didn't just say 'I wish', I said 'sometimes I wish'. The qualifier itself means that it's not a permanent state of wish."

"Is there such a thing? I don't think wishing is a state of being..."

"You're not helping, Bianca."

The Djinn blushed. In so far as a creature made of night and smoke could blush. "Er," she said. "I... um... didn't hear the 'sometimes' part."

"Can I retroactively wish you had better hearing?" Irde tried. "Trust me. Nobody really wants to wake up with that kind of power. Okay? Can you un-grant things now?"

The Djinn frowned, brought out a thick tome and paged through it. "Uhm... er... actually," flip, flip, flip. "Yes. I can do that for you. If you wish that I had better hearing in the past. That creates an alternate reality where the -ah- misheard wish is never granted. And I can make sure you remember this little side-reality. For free."

"Sounds like a deal to me," sighed Irde. "I really wish you had better hearing in the past."

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Challenge #224: Minnie Mighty

I don't want my obituary to read 'saved the world and was then eaten by a small dog.'

Life's fun when your entire life runs on pure mutant bullshittium. Hi. My name's Minnie and I have the power to shrink.

Yeah wow what a wonderful power. I can get small.

I can hear you thinking that from here. Let me tell you a thing. I also have a little bit of a corollary. The smaller I get, the denser, stronger, and faster I am. I once shrunk down to barbie size and smashed the ever-loving crap out of a goon's entire leg. And the building we were in at the time. Whoops.

I usually don't go much smaller than fifteen inches. One: that much sheer power and speed is plenty more than enough. Two: I don't want my obituary to read, "Saved the world and was then eaten by a small dog."

I also found out I can size myself to fit whatever clothes look good. Which is great for me because the small sizes end up in the bargain bins. And also when some creep tries anything physical, I can knock him flat with a song in my heart.

Okay. I do cheat on my body size. A lot. Life sucks when you're naturally six-foot-one and a double-d. The world wants be to be five-foot-nothing with a B cup. I can't help it if being able to do that comes with some caveats.

And I make sure I have a warning label, too. It's not my fault that the skeezoids of this world think that "Warning: explosive contents!" is an invitation.

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Challenge #225: Convoluted Jones

"[Name]? What are you doing here?"

"It's a long story. I have a tank."

"I kind of noticed by the way you shelled the bad guys and then drove it through the wall, Jones. One, how the flakk did you get your hands on a pre-Shattering Terran tank, and two: how the flakk did you find live ammo for it?"

"That's... another long story. Better told inside. It's noisy, but there's headsets. And you can take over from the AI, I had to code it in a hurry."

"Because...?" Prompted Valance.

"That's... um..."

Valance joined in with the chorus, "A long story. Right." She raised her voice to Dressing Down Noobs level and hollered, "ALL RIGHT YOU LOT WE HAVE OURSELVES A SURPRISE RESCUE! PILE IN, PILE IN, PILE IN!"

Jones squeezed herself out of the way so Valance's troops could hustle in as fast as possible. Valance paused long enough to high-five Jones on her way in. "I thought you were assigned to Provencia?"

"I was. Um. But -er..."

"Long story. Right. Let's show these bastards what we've got."

"I think they might be able to guess, sir."

It was the kind of battle that goes down in both the history and the law books. And it was also the kind of battle that got Espers with JOAT training banned by the Qol'qhevva Convention.

Jones, and the people she had a love bond with, were sort of glad for the early retirement.

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Challenge #226: Obligatory Baby Adventure

http://outofcontextdnd.tumblr.com/post/127351161618

"Dwarven baby sleeps like anvil. Wait shit, that is anvil. Where is baby?"

Hroogar the Mighty removed the swaddling to make certain. Yes. It was the actual anvil that she used for the head of her war-hammer. The handle lay innocently right next to Nagdar the Sorcerer's staff, where it would get looked over by the casual eye.

Hroogar breathed deeply and slowly, lest she fly into a berserker rage and lay waste to everything she could see. For all she knew, that qualification also included the infant dwarven scion currently in their alleged care.

Think.

Look.

Take stock.

Nagdar was doing his meditation, doubtless preparing explosive runes. Elwyn the Bard was noodling some meditation music on her lyre. Which Hroogar was secretly glad of, for a change. It kept her mind together. Beltar was on her prayer mat, doing her daily devotion to the moon goddess.

Which left Tantethra suspicious by her absence.

Hroogar tasted the air. Finding only the slightest hint of the Rogue's scent. Of course. Tantethra used all sorts of unguents and oils to obliterate her smell. Hroogar used every inch of her barbarian instincts to find the path of not-smell and obscured footprints that marked Tantethra's ghostlike passage.

Which lead her to a meadow where, apparently, Tantethra had taken off most of her clothes so she could cuddle the baby.

The very nearly undressed baby.

"There, now," Tantethra cooed. "Much better, hmm? You needed a little sun for that poor, red bottom, didn't you. I told them. Fresh, clean water and a little sunshine and skin-to-skin cuddles. It's aaalllll you needed..."

"Warning be good, too," rumbled Hroogar. It wasn't often that she got the drop on Tantethra, so she enjoyed the moment.

"What's the point of warning you?" Tantethra pretended to be entirely un-bothered. The effort lacked much. "You'd only stop me."

"You wanting cuddles, you say."

"I did. You said no."

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Challenge #227: Mortal Mutant Powers

(I've had this prompt for ages. I have to use it now, because they're finally starting to make plugs and ports that this doesn't matter for)

USB connectors are at least 4-dimensional. Proof: a connector doesn't fit. You turn it 180 degrees and it still doesn't fit. after a THIRD 180 degree turn it now does.

Tambry had no idea why she'd gathered a crowd. All she'd done was hook up her rather ancient laptop and USB hub. She was so used to it that she didn't think about it.

"What?" she demanded of her audience.

"You just plugged in like six different USB devices without turning them once."

"Yeah?"

"Everyone knows you have to turn them over twice before they plug in."

"Or... you just look before you do it," suggested Tambry. "That's why it works on the third try."

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Challenge #228: Slight Technical Hitch

People's relation to tech has not changed:

On two occasions I have been asked,—"Pray, Mr. Babbage, if you put into the machine wrong figures, will the right answers come out?" In one case a member of the Upper, and in the other a member of the Lower, House put this question. I am not able rightly to apprehend the kind of confusion of ideas that could provoke such a question. - Charles Babbage

"HA! That's the wrong answer! The correct answer is forty-two!"

"No it ain't," said Rabbit. "Seven times six is forty-two. Y-you asked what was seven times nine."

"You did," said Colonel Peter A. Walter.

"That's rubbish. I wanted to hear the other answer."

Colonel Walter put his hands over Rabbit's mouth before the unfinished automaton could address the Senator as a 'dummins'. "Sadly, sir," he said, "the Babbage engines that make their brains are not yet capable of telepathy. And neither are people. If you ask a child to multiply seven by nine, you would still get sixty-three."

Rabbit pulled free anyway. "What k-kinda dummins expects the right answer outta the wrong question, Pappy?"

Colonel Walter rolled his eyes and sighed. So much for appealing for a grant. It was such a pity that The Spine was such a fretful thing. He'd be perfect for PR without that one, nigh-fatal flaw.

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Challenge #229: One Stormy Evening in a Former Enemy's Tool Closet

"What, that? That's a sword that shoots lightning. That one's a giant walking disco ball that shoots lightning. That guy's Albert Einstein shooting lightning. Look, just assume that everything shoots lightning, ok?"

(for context, Google Privateer Press's miniatures Game Warmachine, specifically the Cygnar faction)

"I'm detecting something of a theme," rumbled Wulfenbach.

"Well, when you conquer the self-declared Lightning Lads, you can expect a little thematic monotony, my Lord."

Wulfenbach rolled his eyes. "Feh. I've seen someone make better machinery in her sleep." His gaze grew distant and melancholy. One hand drifted to a chain around his neck, and a memento that made no sense to anyone on Castle Wulfenbach.

Why would he carry around that particular gas connector widget on a chain around his neck? Castle Wulfenbach literally had millions like it.

He took a few of the more interesting generators apart, and deemed them 'lackluster' and 'ameteurish'. Almost all of them were variations on a theme from a stolen notebook that he'd already flipped through.

"Nothing of merit," he finally announced. "Offer them the standard choice."

Work for Wulfenbach or go to the waxworks. A very simple choice, yet it was amazing how many would rather die.

Gilgamesh was quick to give them what they wished for.

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Challenge #230: One Gloomy Evening in a Dimly-lit Tavern

Person #1: Everyone knows there are no female dwarves because dwarves reproduce through beards, stone, and beer. :p

Person #2: No, somewhere deep in the mine lies the Dorf Queen. Whale-sized, eyeless, telepathically controlling the entire dwarf species and continuously giving birth to new "drones."

Person #3: This also explains why dwarves all act the same. They're just appendages of the same collective mind. Which is an aggressive alcoholic miner for some reason.

Jolli Eskutrebe kept her eyes on her cider as her quest-mates joked about her species. "Aye," she rumbled, "and it has nothing at all to do with how you tall ones spend all your idle hours wondering how we reproduce."

"I resemble that remark," slurred the Bard. He always was a cheap drunk.

The wizard cackled. "We just wonder, is all. Why... does nobody... ever... see a female dwarf?"

"You're not looking," said Jolli. The sooner she was done with this pack of tall lunatics, the better. They were a self-centred, ignorant lot of louts. None of them had noticed that she'd switched to non-alcoholic beverages. Or that she had been ill for a few months since her little 'hunting trip' with Hale Strongbeard, over by Woiczbiurthaldiguh[1].

With luck, these idiots would never know that she was pregnant. The enemy certainly wouldn't survive. There was nothing, after all, that was more dangerous than a Dwarf with child.

[1] Dwarvish place names are both (a) unpronouncable by human tongues and (b) usually indicative of the mining opportunities.

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Challenge #231: Just Like Bricks Don't

On the training plane for the Space Shuttle, the gearshift had three setitings: "fly like a plane", "fly like a brick", and "fly like the shuttle". Please note that "brick" was used as an intermediate step between "plane" and "shuttle"

"Now this," said the human in the tones of someone sharing something delightful, "is old school."

"It looks like a simple re-entry vehicle," Tarb'nathad tapped a wing. "Primitive, yet effective."

"You have 'primitive' right," Kanta, too, had to touch the vehicle. "Ablative ceramic tiles to withstand re-entry. Cable-dependent steering system. No navigational shielding at all. No COL systems."

"No Controlled Operational Levitation? How did they get it into space?"

"They strapped it to a rocket. Vertical launch on several tons of burning hydrogen." Kanta mimed take-off with associated noises.

Tarb'nathad boggled at her, her own feathers fluffing in alarm as she clearly pictured the potential for disaster. "And you survived this stage in your development?"

Kanta gestured to herself. "Dur..."

"You're going to want to escape in this, aren't you?"

"Well..." Kanta allowed, "it's not like anything else isn't guarded. We're only here because they think this thing is inoperable, unpilotable, and unhealthy."

"Is it?"

"Only if you haven't studied it," Kanta cracked her knuckles. "And you're lucky that I'm a history buff."

Tarb'nathad groaned under her breath. This was going to be an entirely human escape. Dangerous, deadly, and damn-near suicidal... and yet, also ridiculously successful. "Shall I take my calm pills now, or wait until you do something life risking?"

"Aaaah, you only need to panic when I shift it into 'fly like a brick' mode."

She wisely reached for her medication.

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Challenge #232: Love and Hate and Love Again...

Dunno what this is from originally, but I saw it on Tumblr in a few places, and figured you'd make something awesome from it...

—-

"They say 'You can't love someone unless you love yourself first.' Bullshit. I have never loved myself. But you \- oh god, I loved you so much... that I somehow forgot what hating myself felt like."

There were days, aching days when the rain made his entire, misshapen body hurt, that he remembered what it was like to have been smart. He got angry with himself. Shut himself away where there weren't any reflective surfaces, and let his heart hurt him, too.

Norman should have been grateful. Walter Manor had taken him in when the rest of the world would rather have shot at him. They made sure he was at least comfortable. Treated him kindly. Saw him as a person.

But nobody could stop this kind of hurt. The hurts that reminded him of The Core Incident. Of everything he had ruined because he'd been curious.

He'd just wanted to know how the core worked. He and Ignatius had picked Rabbit because it was the first. The simplest. It had been easy to disable the automaton and remove the core. They couldn't know what would happen when they tried to crack its secrets.

They couldn't have known that a core without its body would share its nightmares through time and space.

He had once dreamed of being as handsome as Professor Hottie. Now the rest of his life was a nightmare. He was a nightmare.

"Norman?"

No. Not her. Anyone but her.

He wanted to say, I killed your husband. I ruined your family. I wrecked the universe, but his addled brain wouldn't let him. He said, "Go away, I'm hurting people."

Wanda said, "It's the rain, isn't it? I remember it was raining when..."

When she lost her father and her husband and nearly lost her uncle. "...i'm hurting," he whimpered.

Her hand was soft and warm against his skin. Gentle and careful.

Norman risked a peek with his regular eye. He couldn't understand why she looked at him like that. Like... she knew he was suffering. It had almost been twenty years, and she still looked as young as she had... when he had limped into the mansion. Peter Walter the Third draped over his shoulder and Rabbit's core clutched in his good hand. When all he could say was 'sorry' for an entire month.

And on stormy days like this... he remembered loving her from afar.

What business did she have being kind and considerate and helpful to him? He'd wrecked her entire world. He could understand if she yelled at him. Threw things. Called him a monster like the rest of the world did. But weeping? In sympathy?

Norman reached up with his left hand, catching one of her tears. "I make you cry," he said. "I'm hurting."

"I'm crying for you, dummins," she murmured, moving around so she could face him. "It's been eighteen years. You're allowed to stop hurting yourself because of what happened." One of her hands found his most-normal hand. The other gently brushed his face.

He pushed that hand away. Let the lobster claws on the ends of his fingers nip and bite his face. "Monster," he said. "Hurt the monster."

"No," she said. Something slipped over his right hand. An oven mit. "Forgive the monster." She kissed what was left of his nose.

He stared at her. Norman wanted to say, I hurt you. I hurt your family. I hurt the world. I deserve this pain. But he couldn't. All he could focus on was how much lighter he felt for being kissed. He touched where she'd kissed him, half-expecting magic to wrap him up and turn him human.

No such luck.

The proper words came at last in a rare moment of perfect lucidity. "You... made me stop hating me."

"Good," she whispered, and snuggled into his lap.

The rain didn't stop, but the pain did.

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Challenge #233: Where Have All the Dinos Gone?

 http://immaplatypus.tumblr.com/post/128003023050/bethosaurus-sunslammerdown

[AN: For those of you who can't be bothered following the link, the text reads as follows:

OP: What if aliens visited Earth during the Jurassic Period, found it to be occupied with a bunch of mean, giant lizards and thought "Well, fuck this planet" and never came back?

1stReply: what if when humans went out into the galaxy all the aliens panicked because if the dinosaurs tiny fur snacks now had spaceships and laser blasters and interstellar colonies then what the fuck were the dinosaurs up to???

2ndReply: #important human policy: do not let any aliens know the dinosaurs are extinct#EVER

3rdReply: jurassic park movies as extremely important interstellar propaganda

4thReply: This is probably the best post on Tumblr tbh it combines aliens, dinosaurs, space travel, evolution and borderline absurd humor in one thing]

The primary reason why the Hal'botha made nervous neighbours was that they were one wormhole jump away from the Sol system. They had visited the only planet with complex life, a long time ago. It had left a lasting impression.

Gigantic monsters, they said. Carnivores in every cubic volume unit. Even the insects devoured blood and flesh.

Of course, they were understandably upset when they learned that their immediate neighbours had started turning up on planetary colonies. The Hal'botha's first reaction was to check the Terran media to discover what had happened to the gigantic, carnivorous beasts that had snacked on the small mammals that had since evolved into cogniscence.

Results were even more alarming than they had thought. The humans had, indeed, evolved from the small tunnelling mammals that had been barely noticeable in their initial visit. Not only that, but they had evidently tamed and domesticated the dinosaurs for their entertainment.

They had even genetically modified them for the entertainment of their young.

The Hal'botha sent out the alarm to the greater Galactic Alliance. These balding bipeds could not be trusted. They were dangerous, destructive, and deadly. Monitored transmissions of their competitive events only added fuel to the fire.

Humans were Deathworlders. They were capable of things that no rational cogniscent would attempt. And they lived to show others how to do similar things. Anything beyond their physical capability? They would quickly invent machinery to assist them in their irrational endeavours.

They even visited other worlds before they developed proper radiation shielding.

The Hal'botha were even more alarmed when they realised that the humans had not taken any dinosaurs with them to their colony worlds. It meant either that the dinosaurs were unnecessary... or that they, too, had evolved.

Just the mental image of hyper-intelligent, carnivorous, deathworlder saurians on their own colony worlds... it was enough to send the Hal'botha into an extended, xenophobic retreat from Galactic Society as a whole.

So when it came time for the first Galactic Ambassadorial Meet with humans, Hal'botha had only one question.

One can imagine the fortitude of Ambassador Harry, faced with a being that resembled, in her words, "a giant zombie vampire bear" that demanded to know where the dinosaurs had gone. She was halfway tempted to tell him that they were still around in secret facilities, just to make the scary loud alien go away.

It was a tense moment, with Ambassador Harry clinging to her podium for strength. She eventually defaulted to a phrase from her previous work as the Tea Lady. "Sorry," she squeaked, "we haven't got any..."

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Challenge #234: A Nice, Hot, Cuppa

More about the mentioned-once Captain's Cup

Throughout the Galactic Alliance, one common factor became well known. There is no instrument more sensitive than a cup of hot beverage next to the Captain's chair.

Captain Eloise Fortescue put things together first, and had a habit of keeping a nice, hot, cup of tea by her captain's chair. And of course it helped that humans were the only ones who had gravity generators as standard technology.

Which allowed for the cup to be an open container in the first place.

Eloise kept an eye out for ripples. One of which came, today.

"Something's up," she said. "Full diagnostic and maximum scans."

The crew were used to this, and didn't question it. "Engines aren't answering helm. Something's crosswired, down there."

"Scramble the engineers."

"Sir! Picking up an alien craft right in our projected vector!"

"Flash the warning lights! Cut the engines! All stations, batten down!"

It was all the warning they had. But it was enough to save lives.

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Challenge #235: Consult the Tea

More about the mentioned-once Captain's Cup

Working with humans was always a rocky path...

Bal'thox watched in confusion as her human captain installed a small heat plate near the Captain's chair. Humans had been all over this ship. Adding insanity upon insanity.

Certainly, some of them worked. Like the gravity generator that was half technology, half cargo cult.

Others mystified. Like the twin, plush representation of six-sided die that now dangled above the main screen. And this. The resting place for the Captain's Cup.

"I do not understand," said Bal'thox. "You purposefully bring an open beverage onto the bridge, and make certain that it is too hot. And you place it on a heating plate to cool down?"

"Exactly," said Captain Blaise. "Top marks, that officer."

"It will not cool rapidly. It will barely cool at all."

"Yes," said the human. "That's the point."

"Is it?" wondered Bal'thox.

Blaise played with one of her short curls. "Well, if it cools down quickly, I'll have to drink it. Then the poor ensign would have to refresh it. And that gives us an entire five minutes without the most sensitive alert system we have. And a lot can happen in five minutes."

Her explanation left Bal'thox completely confused. "A cup of hot liquid is the most sensitive alert system..."

"It knows something's up before anyone else does," Blaise shrugged.

Bal'thox, of course, kept a scientific monitor on the cup's success rate. And was alarmed to note that this particular piece of human superstition was scarily accurate. It could detect trouble up to five minutes in advance of any other instrument or sensory system.

The word about it just went viral from there.

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Challenge #236: STEVEN!

"I may have accidentally sort of adopted five cats."

Baby Rose was investigating the nutritional quality of her own fist again. Connie gently encouraged her to chew on the pediatrician-recommended teether that her mom insisted all babies loved.

Rose gnawed on it once, twice, and then looked up as if to say, Why would you betray me like this, mother? and promptly spat it out.

"Yeah," she sighed. "Try telling Gram'ma that. You try telling gram'ma. No, I don't like dat teether, Gram'ma. I likes my own fistses. And Mommy's fingies. And Dada's fingies."

"Da," said Rose, around her mouthful of fingers.

She looked up and around. Steven was nowhere in sight. "Where is Dada?"

Rose blew bubbles with her spit and reached in an odd direction. The only thing that way was the gardening supplies, and they were already stocked up.

Maybe he was 'encouraging' some of the seedlings.

"If Dada is making the vines play games again, Mommy is going to be cross," Connie singsonged as she manoeuvred the shopping cart.

Rose greeted this news with giggles and happy flailings. She apparently loved the faces Connie made when she was angry at Steven. And nothing shorted out anger like a giggling baby.

The gardening section was suspiciously bare of Stevens. Odd. Rose had never been wrong about where her father was. Connie tried again. "Where's Dada?"

Rose reached for the wall. Weird.

She got out her phone and dialled her husband. Absently wheeling the trolley back around to the entrance of the store.

"I'm on my way back," said Steven when he picked up.

"This isn't a Gem thing, then?"

"No. No, it's fine. I promise. I just had to... um... fetch... a few things. Like real quick."

There he was, coming to the store at an angle that would have him returning from the parking lot. Connie raised an eyebrow at him, earning a nervous grin.

"And why would you run off and abandon your wife and child like that?"

"Um..." All these years, and he was still a terrible liar. "I... uh... had a little... thing? And it wasn't real important, you know. Like... uh... just a little thing? Nothing I needed to haul you and Rose around for? Besides, you were still deciding on baby food... um... and I figured... I'd... have... time?"

Rose was giggling. Evidently her father's faces when he tried to lie were hilarious as well.

Connie sighed. "We all know how this is going to go. And I, for one, would like to do it without the tears."

Steven went bright red. "...sorry about that," he mumbled.

She tapped her foot. "I'm still waiting."

"Um." Steven fidgeted, twiddling with his hair. He looked down at his sandals. Out the shop door. Up at the ceiling. Down the baby aisle. "You remember that big storm?" Hair, sandals, door, ceiling, aisle. "When I had to close the restaurant late?"

Rose was laughing up a storm. She loved these moments, the little sadist.

"Mm-hm," Connie made a little move-along gesture.

"Funny story. Heheh... Turns out... someone had put a box of kittens in our dumpster? Um. And they were like newborn?"

"Steven..." Connie sighed. She knew where this was going. Without a doubt.

Now he started gabbling. "Okay, soItriedtotakethemtoashelter, butthesheltersaidtheycouldn'ttakethem, soItookthemtoavet, andthevetsaidtheycouldput'emdown, butthey'rejustbabies, soIaskedhowtolookafterthemand--"

"Steven..." she warned.

"I... may have... accidentally... sort of... adoptedfivecats?"

Connie facepalmed. At least now she knew where the extra cash was going.

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Challenge #237: One Bland Morning in an Infectious Diseases Lab

"Please stop petting the test subjects."

"Aw, but they're adorable."

"Only a human would find a cage of Oshits 'adorable'..." Brantid sighed. "I cannot allow you to become attached. They are sacrificial subjects in my study on the prickle-hide plague."

"You're giving them prickle-hide? Ouch. Poor iddle spidies..."

Do not kill and eat the profitable mammal... Brantid restrained herself, barely. Chloë, the human hired because she was immune to both Oshits and the plague, was proving more an irritant than an assistant. "Those 'poor iddle spidies' are going to have a chance of helping to save thousands of cogniscent infants, Ms Dalrymple."

"Right. Greater good. Gotta remember it's for the greater good." She sighed. "Couldn't you use something more repellent? Like cockroaches? Or lawyers?"

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Challenge #238: The Unstoppable Human

"So what if I broke my arm I'm still doing it."

Kri'ki had assumed it was yet another bizarre human ritual. Elis had sent her off to fetch hard, stiff, long lengths of metal. Then ductape. Then she had to assist in binding one of Elis' forelimbs to some suitable struts and build a harness to immobilise the limb.

"Which festival is this for?" asked Kri'ki. Humans celebrated the most peculiar things at the oddest times. She was so used to seeing some festival co-incide with a disaster that nothing the human did surprised Kri'ki any more.

"Uhm. No festival." Elis summoned a rictus. "Don't panic, but I broke my arm when the aft engine went up."

Of course, anything a human said after the phrase "don't panic" was an absolutely perfect reason to panic. "And you are not feeling the chill claw of Death at your shoulder?"

"Humans are tougher than bug-folk. I'm fine. I promise." The cold sweat and unnatural pallor spoke loudly of her lie. "There's people trapped in there. I have to help."

Kri'ki followed. "Which part of 'broken arm' means you are able to assist? You are needing medical attention."

"I'm closer than the ERT's. I still have one good arm and two good legs and one damn good head on my shoulders. If it bothers you, then you can carry the emergency kit. You need two hands for the fire extinguisher anyway."

"But-- broken arm..."

"So what if I broke my arm? I'm still doing it." She leaned on a broken spar, shoving it out of her way with her body weight. "I'd feel horrible if I didn't."

Truly the resilience, the heroism, and the insanity of humans made a formidable combination.

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Challenge #239: One Agumentative Walk Following a Bad Spill

"Please put me down it's just a sprained ankle"

"Mikug seeing way human go down. Mikug knowing is pain-of-death."

Reeva sighed. "Mikug forgetting self is Deathworlder. Self is fine. Self has to strap it and limp for a while."

There were drawbacks to working with heavy-grav cogniscents, and this was one of them. "Mikug taking human to mediks. Mediks helping."

The only language they shared was Broken GalStand, which made understanding a little more complicated. "Mediks giving Reeva elastic bandage and crutch, plus fond farewell."

"Mikug seeing pain-of-death."

Reeva, knowing that she wasn't making any headway, started parroting Monty Python. "It's only a flesh wound," she griped.

Mikug was going to get another lecture about interspecies medicine when this was over.

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Challenge #240: During the Wee Small Hours on a Long-Haul Scavenger Vessel

"Why exactly do you need chloroform at 2AM?"

"Um. It's not for anything terrible. I mean. Not really terrible. Um. Sort of?"

Captain Mellier groaned and sighed. "How can something be 'sort of' not really terrible, Jones?"

Jones was twiddling with her fingers. "Um. You know the Oshit problem on board? Um. Well. We were -uh- experimenting? A little? With ordinary shipboard chemicals?" She managed a nervous rictus. "On the Oshits, I promise! Um. And... Baker? Um. She... kind of... sort of... accidentally brewed up some chloroform?"

"What does chloroform do to Oshits, Jones?" Mellier dead-panned. She needed her beauty sleep and Jones did tend to go on a bit.

"It's really funny," she giggled. "They get drunk? And they start ignoring the really big breezes? And they start doing this little Oshit conga line? And Davies kinda lined them all up in a loop? And now we're trying to get most of them to march down to the incinerator? But we've run out of chloroform?"

"No," grated Mellier. "Absolutely no. Do not. This is all one hundred percent beyond wrong."

In retrospect, when her loyal and valiant crew marched a conga line of drunk Oshits through her quarters, Mellier really should have set a quota limit on Oshits sent down to the incinerator.

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Challenge #241: A Ghost of a Chance

 http://chokingonfeelings.tumblr.com/post/128277134565/my-friend-is-secretly-a-mythical-creature-clich%C3%A9

Here we go again! Pick one!

I was making tea when she walked into the house as if she owned it. For all I know, she did. I'm... well... more sort of a 'permanent tenant'. Many have tried to get rid of me. It never sticks.

She wore black. I put the teapot down and said, "You're not one of those occultists, are you? You mind your candles, I'm not going to let you burn my house down."

"No, I just like black." She goggled at me. I was used to that. And then she smiled. I wasn't used to that. "They tried to warn me about you. Hi. I'm Chandry."

"Gladys," I said. I'd shake her hand, but... well... people don't like the cold and clammy feeling as my ethereal form passes through their flesh. "You have no qualms about living with the undead, then?"

"Oh hell no. I spend most of my time working with people from ages ago. How long have you been here?"

"Oh, since about the Great War. Let me finish putting the tea on..."

"I haven't connected the water and electricity, yet..."

"That's never seemed to matter to me. Although... you might want a cardigan."

"I spend most of my days in feral air conditioning. I'm immune to the cold."

"Well... the last owner insisted I make the ice box freeze over whenever I put tea on. Said it saved him a lot of money."

Chandry sighed and pulled a cloak out of her suitcase. "Fine. Bring it. Let's talk about life two hundred years ago while you manifest some tea..."

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Challenge #242: Outed!

 http://chokingonfeelings.tumblr.com/post/128277134565/my-friend-is-secretly-a-mythical-creature-clich%C3%A9

And another one!

Everyone was staring. Callie could barely move, but she still tried to scoot away from the boggling faces. They were afraid.

Fear leads to anger...

Even her best friend, Mekena, was retreating. She was the last of her human classmates to curl her fingers into a fist.

Anger leads to hate...

"...please don't?" Callie quavered. She knew what they saw. A monster from legends so old that they were hard-wired into the psyche. Shapeshifting had been the only way for dragons to protect themselves against humans.

Everyone thought dragons were automatically more powerful than anything that had ever lived. Yet they were nearly wiped out by soft, squishy, ingenious and inventive humans.

Hate leads to... dragon-ka-bobs...

"...oh my god," whispered Mekena. "Callie. You're a dragon?"

And in the moment of most tension, on the very cusp of violence from her classmates, Callie's sassy damn mouth took over. "Well, geez, Mekena... The scales and the wings are usually a dead give-away."

The world held its breath.

Callie wished she could bite her tongue out.

And then the mood broke. Not in thrown things and screaming, but in peals of laughter. And only then, when most of the class were in the fits of tear-streaked mirth, did the chem teacher finally turn on the vents to clear the room of the fumes that that asshole Vitura had made sure she got a face-full of.

"And this," said Miss Callenti, "is why we create gaseous outputs in the fume hood."

"Reddit said it was a love potion," complained Vitura.

"Euw gross," said Mekena. A sentiment echoed by all of the girls in the classroom. "What part of 'bug off' do you not understand, you asshole?"

Strength finally returned to her limbs, but not enough strength to begin to change back to her human guise. She could at least sit up and furl her wings in. And curl her tail away from so many feet and chair legs.

"Yeah," Callie agreed. "What next? Try to add GHB to the water supply?"

"Yeah, that didn't work," said Vitura.

Miss Callenti scribbled a note. "Mister Vitura? You are now assigned to Sensitivity Training. You obviously need it."

"Again?" whined Vitura. "I keep failing that class."

Mekena came over with fake coughs that masked the words, "Forever alone."

"Dyke bitch," muttered Vitura on the way out.

Miss Callenti waited until he was gone and Callie had at least gained some verticality. "Now. Since Mister Vitura has opened the door... let's go through some easy ways to detect date rape drugs..."

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Challenge #243: Entertaining Angels

 http://chokingonfeelings.tumblr.com/post/128277134565/my-friend-is-secretly-a-mythical-creature-clich%C3%A9

Three for three!

Mel thought it was a little weird that his boyfriend was moaning without him, and crept out of their shared bed to take a peek.

Cyrus was kneeling on the floor in their ensuite, but that was not what was disturbing. What was disturbing was the dazzlingly luminous and enormous wings that he was stretching and massaging.

The harness sprawled across the floor looked like an immensely cruel thing to wear.

Mel thought about trying to sneak it away. He'd get caught. Cyrus would be mad. They might even break up. No. Dishonesty was never Cyrus' thing. Best to tell the truth.

Mel carefully pushed the door open and murmured, "Need some help there, love?"

The wings flared up and collided with the walls and ceiling. Cyrus startled as if he wanted to fly away. Then he curled up on himself, twitching futilely for the harness.

"Please don't?" begged Mel. "I don't want you hurting yourself. You can be you around me. It's okay."

Cyrus' eyes were moist. "You've no idea how long I've waited to hear those words."

"Yeah, I'm guessing something like iridescent rainbow wings is a bigger thing to deal with than most other couples issues." Mel helped him stand up. Embraced him carefully, the way he liked it. "I want to learn everything there is to know about loving you properly. You deserve it."

"That makes twice the learning," giggled Cyrus into Mel's neck.

"Totally worth it."

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Challenge #244: The Guest

 http://chokingonfeelings.tumblr.com/post/128277134565/my-friend-is-secretly-a-mythical-creature-clich%C3%A9

Four!

Midnight munchies whilst couch-surfing is always a crap-shoot. You never know which one is going to be any extreme from "I only eat what I hunt" to "I'm a twelfth-level vegan and I've been raided fifteen times because of my hydroponic grain garden". And on the scale between Critter Hearts and Quinoa Crumble, I guess a fridge mostly full of blood packs kinda takes the cake.

Or black sausage.

One shelf was reserved for a hastily-purchased selection of munchables that included, for some reason, three different packets of potato chips and a quart of flavoured milk. I moved the chips to the pantry and discovered some perishables in there that should have really been in the fridge. Thank synchronicity that they were all still chilled.

It was like Otto hadn't really shopped for food in some time. Or had ever put anything away for himself.

I binged on the cookies so that there was room for the bacon. Yeah, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Otto found me like that, munching cookies and pondering the blood bags.

"Er," he said. "I can explain the blood?"

"I figured you'd have a story," I said. "Can you explain why it looks like you've never stored food in your life?"

"Fine," Ottoe growled. "I'm a vampire. I need blood to live."

"Dude. Have you never heard of coconut water?"

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Challenge #245: Subverting the Assumptions.

The politics of light and dark are everywhere in our vocabulary... lightness and white is good and pure, black and darkness is corrupt and evil, the known is a safe and friendly comfort, the unknown is a strange and hostile thing to be feared...

So... subvert this, reveal whiteness and lightness as sometimes false and violent, and darkness as protective and healing, fear that which is known and find the unknown as natural and gentle, and so on.

They told us light was good. From the very beginning, it showed us things. They gave us lights in the night, to protect our sleep, they said.

Drive away the dark. It is bad, they said. Get out of that dark mood, don't be black-hearted. Conform, don't be the black sheep.

And if we are hurt, we are beaten black and blue. It was a black day for us. Evil sorcery is black magic.

And in the meantime, they bring flaws and faults to the light. They have bright eyes to see your shadows. A light so hot and harsh that it burns.

You can understand, can't you? When they sent me into the shadows because they said I was evil... I was terrified. The things in the dark, the unknown, the monsters... would all get me. Tear me to pieces.

I suppose that's why they thought it was an apt punishment.

There were no monsters in the dark. No jaws that bit. No claws that snatched. For the first time, I met minds without judgement. There was no light to see the scars. The things the light showed were wrong with me. Just soothing shadows and cool relief.

And warm, welcoming arms.

I was not exiled from the light. I was sent home. And now I wait in the shadows for the next one that the light judges too harshly. We will welcome them.

The ones they call 'monsters' do not hurt their own.

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Challenge #246: Rictus

By the time one reaches adulthood it is almost reflex to give a sunny grin when someone points a camera at you. This can have unintended results.

"And worse, this creature had the audacity to bare its teeth at me!"

Adjudicator Shyn'len leaned over hir desk. "Have you had much education on the habits of humans, Cogniscent P'rel?"

"Uuuuuuhhhhh..."

"That's a nervous baring of teeth. It's not a threat or a show of amusement. And further to your complaint... humans are trained from youth to bare their teeth in a smile when looking into a camera. Or anything they recognise as a camera."

Cogniscent P'rel looked enquiringly at the human in question, who nervously nodded.

"You could probably prove it with flashcards," supplied the human.

"You mistook a weapon for a camera?"

"On the plus side, it might have saved my life."

Both aliens in the court shared a mutual eye-roll and a mutter of, "Humans..."

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Challenge #247: The Prying Eye

The unusual phenomenon of people that can't help laughing when you point a camera at them

"You're not only on trial in the courts, but you're also on trial by the media."

Pam was still stunned and shellshocked. "...all I did was defend myself..."

"Yes. I know. Pam. Pamela. Focus. Look at me. We need to work on this right now."

Pam struggled to take her gaze away from the endlessly-replaying past in her head. Made herself look at her lawyer. She looked exactly like the kind of woman Mark would cheat on her with. And then bruise her for being herself and, if she wasn't already pregnant, force himself on her.

Tears fell anew. Mark... he was gone. Dead. She'd...

"Pam. Breathe. You're okay. We need to train you. It's important."

"...train... me?"

"Yes. Because of this," the lawyer pulled a camera out of her bitch bag and pointed it at Pam.

Pam instantly summoned a sunny smile and a giggle despite her emotional turmoil. Had to smile for the cameras. It was a survival instinct. If things didn't look good, Mark would keep hitting her until she passed out. And possibly afterwards.

She was shaking and hyperventilating after the camera went away. Her eyes fixed on the police officer who, despite being another woman, reminded her of Mark. If that officer so much as hiccoughed, Pam would probably scream. And then attempt to duck and cover under the table.

The lawyer was saying, "Pam," over and over again. Pam snatched her focus away from the officer and tried to give it to the lawyer.

"People all over America are going to see you laughing at the cameras. They're going to see a complete lack of remorse. And that means death threats. Snipers. Bombs. Hackers. Everything the public can throw at you, they will."

"...maybe i should die..." Pam squeaked. "...i killed him... I didn't mean to kill him. He's gonna be so mad..."

The lawyer's perfectly-painted face twisted up like she wanted to cry. "No. No. Don't believe that, please." Her hand was warm when she touched Pam's trembling hand. "It's going to be okay. We just need to get you ready for the cameras."

"They took my dress. And I don't have any makeup."

"That's not what I'm talking about, but we have one of your friends - they're babysitting the kids - pick out something comfortable and camera-friendly for you."

All this time. All this time and she hadn't thought of the kids. "Are they all right? I left such a mess..." Did they see the blood? Did they think she was dead?

"Your friend Cammie is keeping them over at her house."

Oh good. The kids practically lived at Cammie's anyway. "I didn't even think about them. I... I don't know what time it is..."

"It's time to focus. This," she flashed the camera briefly, "is your enemy, now. You don't smile at it. Do you understand?"

"...i don't know... he's going to hit me again if i don't look nice..."

"Mark isn't here. Remember? He's gone."

All she could think of was the complete shock in his face when her nail file pierced his ribs again and again. Until the pink foam bubbled out of his lips and he finally fell. By that time, he'd broken a cheekbone and her nose again. And cracked the orbit of her left eye. The doctors said something about mild internal injuries.

At least she wasn't pregnant any more. And the understanding ladies who'd initially looked after her had given her some pads to use. And new underwear. Mark had told her that nowhere had her size. The people who'd helped her had had no trouble.

"What am I going to do without him?" she quavered.

The lawyer sighed. "You're going to carry on. Remember his long business trips?"

Where he went to spend time with his other women, thought Pam. Oh yes.

"Remember how you dealt with that? How you paid the bills and fed the kids and kept the house together while he was away?"

Pam managed a nod.

"It's the same thing. Only he's not going to come back and turn everything upside-down. No more punches, Pam. No more 'two for flinching'. No need to hide supplies for the girls by pretending they're for the boys and letting the receipts fade in the sun. You don't need his authority. You can do this for yourself."

Her heart pounded at the very concept. There was not enough air.

"It's okay. You're going to be okay. I promise. Cammie and I are going to help. I have a team of forensic accountants tracking down all the other women. In court, I can show the jury what kind of man Mark was. But outside? The media is waiting. They have hundreds of cameras. And if you go giggling at them, they're not going to like it."

"...i can pretend they're all men," she quavered. "...mark didn't like it when i smiled at other men..."

"Good. Good." The pin on her chest said her name was Wendy Delain. "Let's try. I have a camera. It's a man, now."

She brought it out again. Pointed it at her.

An entirely different reflex took over. Look away from their eyes. Do that thing with her face that Mark said always made her look ugly.

"Okay," said Ms Delain. She put the camera away. "I can work with abject terror."

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Challenge #248: One Crowded Hour in a BBC Studio

In a tardis with a doctor while a time stream shatters

"Just a few... crucial repairs," the Doctor emerged from under the ancient console and stared. Peter broke character. "Andy... You're in the next scene."

But it wasn't Andy Linden who spoke. It was William Hartnell. "What the devil is this person doing on the set? He looks like he fell into a donations basket instead of getting dressed. Verity! What's happening?"

A much, much younger Tom Baker strode into the room. "I dunno, maybe he's trying to identify with the young people. Oh hello. You're hardly young..."

"Rude," said Peter. He stood, looking for any help from the crew... but there were hundreds of crew. Overlapping.

And so were all the Doctors. William Hartnell, Patrick Troughton, Jon Pertwee, Tom Baker, Peter Davison, Colin Baker, Sylvester McCoy, Paul McGann... Even David and Matt were here... and behind the cameras.

"I don't know about you," said Patrick, "But I think we're in a lot of trouble." He reached for the console...

"Don't touch that!"

What? thought Peter. But the command reached some part of his muscle memory and he snatched Patrick's hand away.

They dressed like they were from the Seventies. And they looked almost exactly like a very much younger Joanna Lumley and David McCallum.

But David was in America...

Something odd about them, too. Like they'd just stepped out of the uncanny valley.

"And who are you jokers?" Peter demanded. "Sapphire and Steel?"

They turned to face each other. "Fiction and fact," said 'Steel' as if the people overflowing each other in this room didn't matter.

"Intersecting in a perfect confluence of old and new. No wonder there's a warp." 'Sapphire' reached for the console. "Thousands... all over the world... believing in this."

"Hey, careful with that," said one of the blurring crew. "That's the original."

"Of course it is," said 'Steel'. "The perfect focus."

"This is ridiculous," mumbled Peter, he walked away from the console. The wall was solid enough. Even though all the other Doctor's weren't always so. "It's like I'm trapped in a bad fanfic..."

The world... hiccoughed. And he was back where he began. He knew better than to question anything. Best to get on with the show.

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Challenge #249: And What is a Pineapple Anyway?

"It was funny," thought Eric, "that the more you were encouraged something was for the greatest good for the people, the more it felt like being shafted with the rough end of the pineapple."

Eric mused further as the politicians burbled, "What the hell was a pineapple anyway?" -- Anon Guest

Eric's job was to do the math. When she wasn't googling exotic fruit. She drew up her programs to simulate the proposals currently on the floor. This was so odd.

The money was flowing from the people who needed it the most and towards the people who needed it the least.

She sent a colourful animation to Senator Creedy. It cut down on mis-understandings and dismissals because the document was too long to read. Or too complicated to follow.

The text back read: You forgot to add the wealthy spending their money on jobs.

She texted in return, They already have all the staff they need. They're not spending money because they don't need to.

The reply? We're doing this for the greater good. You don't know how economics works. The wealthy will invest in projects and fund many more jobs.

Now that made her furious. Sir, the proposed tax on the poor and tax cuts for the wealthy will not result in anything but more people on food stamps. The wealthy will only invest in the wealthy. The money will stay at the top. It will not 'trickle down', sir. The rich will just get a bigger glass.

He texted, Either you stop arguing or you hand in your resignation.

Eric had it ready since 'the greater good'. Multitasking was a fine thing. She emailed it to him and then "accidentally" leaked all the details of the proposal, and her new app showing how it would have an effect on money flow. And the texts she had exchanged with her former boss.

Then she packed up and left. Joining the greater hordes of the unemployed. He could get someone else to show him how to use his email program again.

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Challenge #250: Who's There?

Growing up with cats and dogs. I got used to the sounds of scratching at my door while I slept. Now that I live alone, it is much more unsettling. -- Anon Guest

Pinky was my best cat. Sure, he was ginger, but he was a weird ginger. Some aspect of his fur colour made him look pink in the right light. I've had guests mutter, "Holy shit, he's pink..."

He was my best buddy. And if I left him out of my bedroom, he would just... keep scratching at my door until I let him in.

I had him since I was five. He was twenty when he died. I knew it before I woke up that morning, because I wasn't getting the wake-up treadling across my boobs.

He was my best friend. Of course I gave him a good funeral. I visit his marker, but he's not there.

I can't pin down the exact moment when I realised. I must have gone through the motions a dozen times. I'm not exactly that savvy when I'm tired. I opened the door when he scratched, like I always had. And I got all the way back to snuggling into the bed when I remembered...

But I could feel his weight on the bed. Hear him purring.

"You're supposed to be in heaven, Pinky."

And then he did that sound. The sound he made whenever I tried to get him out of the kitchen when I was cooking. A little Mrrrrp? that meant, You say what you like, I'm staying right here.

After five more nights like that, I made a glow-in-the-dark poster for the inside of my door. It read, Pinky is dead. Don't let him in.

I can still read when I'm rat-faced tired.

For two weeks, I hoped that Pinky would get it. That he would know he was gone and finally move on. But... Pinky's not that kind of cat. He still wants to sit on me when I'm sad.

And I'm sad because he deserves heaven... but he won't go.

I haven't had a good night's sleep inside a fortnight. Maybe tonight... I should leave the door open.

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Challenge #251: Abandon Hope, Ye Who Enter...

That same prompt from Challenge #00891-B160, but this time the FAQ is posted for the benefit of assassins, on an Overlord's (Evil or not, your choice) office/chambers.

[AN: That prompt read:

FAQ Assassins

\- Business hours are 9:00 to 5:30

\- Please deposit last will and testament in box below

\- Knock and remove shoes before entering]

They said Lord Mavolo's temper was legendary, but this... innocent-looking little plaque... It made Goodie Dowser think twice about her petition. Well, it did for five seconds, at best.

She snatched a form off the secretary's desk and hastily wrote, All that which is mine shall goe to mine second daughter, as she will do better with it than I ever have. And then printed her name and signed in the blank.

Of course she made the holy sign when she slid the form into the slot. She needed any god who was paying attention, right now.

Goodie Dowser spent all of thirty seconds being afraid. Then she took in the deep pile carpets, the mahogany furniture, the gold accents and the pet peacock sitting haughtily on its golden, bejewelled perch. Then she got angry.

Lord Mavolo looked her up and down and said, "Let me guess. You don't like your taxes and you want your family to eat. Regularly."

"Up to you," she said. "It always is. Just keep in mind that starving peasants ain't goin' to push a plough. And dead peasants don't grow nothing."

He had a white cat. Of course he did. It was enormous and fluffy and seemed quite content to remain where it was and be petted for the remainder of its life. "You dare speak to me like this?"

"My life's already over by coming here to complain," she reasoned. "In for a penny, in for a pound, I reckon. If I'm going to die for what I say, I may as well speak my mind." Emboldened, flying high on adrenaline, Goodie Dowser did so. "And you, sir, ain't never broke a blister buryin' a child. Nor had to sweat for a field only to watch all of it go for soldiers. Nor had your last pig and your last chicken taken for taxes. Nor had to grind up gleanings and grass just to feed thems as still living! Nor had t' eat the rats and mice as is everywhere nowadays! Nor had to pick 'em out yer family ere ya bury 'em, nor keep the bloody things for stew!"

The peacock squawked and flew from its perch and onto some marble bust on an upper shelf. The bust wobbled dangerously for a moment, but settled.

"You say we need you," she screeched. Tears she didn't know she had filled her eyes and her vision. "Well I say without you, we had our children living, our chickens, our eggs, our fields and our pigs to ourselves! If we needed you, our lives would be better for it!"

"And how would you suggest I pay for your... pigs, chickens and fields?"

Goodie Dowser looked around his office. "You're surrounded by riches and you ask me that? You have gilded armour, jewelled swords, and a ruby-encrusted perch for that bird... and you ask me how you're going to pay." She summoned all her fury at him and roared, "LIVE LIKE A BLOODY PEASANT AND YOU'LL HAVE MONEY COMING OUT YOUR WALLS, YOU GREAT PILLOCK!"

The cat fled in a cloud of white hairs. The bodyguard flinched away from her. Even Lord Mavolo had forgotten to be angry and vengeful and shrank in his Corinthian leather chair.

He squeaked, "...if I do that, will you go away?"

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Challenge #252: A Need Like Breath

A story about Medjed

http://www.animenewsnetwork.com/interest/2015-07-31/the-obscure-egyptian-god-medjed-and-his-bizarre-afterlife-on-the-japanese-internet/.91149 \-- Anon Guest

What a thing is life, for a god.

Belief is food and air. Believers, feeling and form. Love... O my children, love is what a god needs above all other things. You could call it 'drug'... but such as I prefer 'blood'.

Without love... gods fade.

In my first time of glory, I was not well known. I barely appeared at all on walls or scrolls. The pieces of me... drifted. Hardly noted. I was barely in existence. I lingered, in limbo. Not alive, yet not forgotten... yet.

Until mortal hands took my image to a distant land.

I became... loved.

I live for their purpose. I am slave to their imaginations. My Lord Osiris has become so, too. We are.. cute. Funny. Powerful.

Sometimes, I wear a suit. Sometimes, just a hat. I am on their phones. I am a means of communication. I am a meme.

Yet I am glad for life anew. Far from the home of my origin. They love me. How could such as I refuse the gift of life?

They give me what I need. I can only become what they want.

I was made... to serve... after all.

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Challenge #253: Party Zone, Fun City.

Party zone, fun city, playtime for (so called adults). You can concentrate on either the goings on or the consequences. -- Anon Guest

[AN: Hope you don't mind, but I fixed the obvious typos]

You could call it a fun park, but it was closer to being an entire metropolis at this stage. They called it Fun City, and it contained every kind of enjoyment there was for an adult to indulge in.

There was the Spa Quarter, the Movies District, Shotgun Alley (where cleared patrons could paintball each other into oblivion through several imaginary scenarios), the Gambling Dens and, of course, the Party Zone.

Everything that didn't actually cause lasting harm was legal in Fun City.

You could wander into the Sin Section and couple with any hired body you liked, provided, of course, that you had adequate protection.

And it was right next to the Party Zone, so those for hire or hookup wore a special bracelet as a simple signal that they were available. And the bouncers made sure that 'no' meant 'no'.

And for the recalcitrant ones, there were Counsellors.

"Hey, I thought everything was legal in here," protested exhibit A, the usual suspect in mass shootings, angry at the world because every girl with a karat's worth of sense avoided him like the plague. The stench of Axe body spray had already overwhelmed the room, but it failed to overwhelm his body odour. He apparently hadn't washed since the last time his parents had caught him above basement level.

"Everything that does no lasting harm," explained Counsellor McKay. He had to be male, because the recalcitrant kept trying to hit on the other counsellors. "Attempting to kidnap and then rape another person is lasting harm, Bobby."

"What? She was a whore. They get over it."

"No, Bobby," soothed Counsellor McKay. "Nobody gets over rape. If someone were to take you away at gunpoint and then try to rape you, would you get over it?"

"Fucking try it, I could take you down and then rip off your gay head."

"I wasn't even attempting to begin, Bobby. I was asking you a hypothetical question. Can you imagine what it would be like?"

"I can still sue you all for false advertising. I'm not having fun! You took my money and didn't give me shit! It's my right to have sex!"

"And yet you turned down thirty-seven people who offered."

"I'm not gay and the girls were dogs. I demand some prime ass. And I want it now."

Counsellor McKay rolled his eyes and went with brutal honesty. "You want prime ass? Look in a mirror. You are one."

"What? No! You can't talk to me like that, I have rights. I was guaranteed the fun that I want!"

"And you can't have it. Not at others' expense." Counsellor McKay showed him the contract. "You allegedly read and agreed to this. First paragraph past the definitions. Read it out loud. If you can."

"Fun City reserves the right to refuse service to obnoxious clients in order to insure the enjoyment of others." Bobby smacked a fist onto the table. "This is bullshit! I'm guaranteed fun!"

"And how do we guarantee the fun for all those around you, Bobby? You've managed to tally up significant complaints about your behaviour every time you exit your hotel room and," McKay checked his information, "fifteen from your hotel neighbours."

"THIS ISN'T FAIR! I WANNA HAVE MY FUN RIGHT NOW!"

"Sorry, sir, but your version of 'fun' is defined as 'criminal activity' in all states. I can not help you. We will refund your tour ticket cost, minus the fines for your infractions." McKay did some calculations. "You owe us Two Hundred and Fifty Thousand Dollars. Thank you for your patronage."

"I DIDN'T EVEN PAY THAT MUCH FOR A TICKET! I'M GOING TO SUE!"

"You're certainly welcome to try." He gestured for the bouncers to forcibly escort him onto a bus out of town. Unfortunately, recalcitrant examples like Bobby seemed to happen every other hour.

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Challenge #254: One Skull-cracking Morning in a N'Ozzie Holding Cell

What the Bleep! am I doing with a traffic cone, a black lace thong and a feather boa?

Two things were certain to Hwell. One: the light hurt. Two: it must have been one hell of a night, last night.

"You understand that I only call him my 'business partner' because it is forbidden to label cogniscents as 'lucky pets'." That had to be Ax'and'l. Urgently distancing himself from Hwell's previous revelry and subsequent swathe of damage.

If, however, the swathe of damages also included a significant profit margin, then Ax'and'l would be quick to volunteer for his share.

Hwell risked opening his eyes to take stock. "'M naked... why'm I naked?"

"Not completely, mate," said a stranger. Presumably someone in charge of the holding cells.

Oh. His left foot had something light and floppy on it. A black... lace... sandal? No.

Oh. Oh flakk.

It was a black, lace thong. The only other garment, apart from the obligatory traffic cone, seemed to be a feather boa in an irritating shade of purple.

"...owww..." he whined.

"That's what you get for trying to 'skull' an entire -what was it?"

"Darwin Stubbie," said the guard. "Accordin' to my reports, he tried to skull three of 'em. Simultaneously."

He could hear Ax'and'l's resulting apoplexy. "What? Three? But they're-- HOW?"

"Plastic tubing," said the guard. "No worries about th' drunk and disorderly, mate. We're used to it. It's the public nudity and taking a piss in the local water fountain's given people the irrits."

"Oh Gods," moaned Ax'and'l.

"You thought about bio-locking his Skins on? It'd work for everything but the 'needing to piss' part, reckon."

"I did, but he found a way to foil it."

"...strewth." The unmistakable hum of a cell wall opening. "Awright, sunshine. Get some pants on and get on out."

Something cold and silky flopped across his buttocks. Skins. Or at least the shorts part of the Skins. N'Ozz had some very liberal attitudes to minimum clothing regulations. Hwell dragged them on and moaned. At least Skins didn't hurt his skin like the light did.

"Please tell me there's some benefit to all of this?" begged Ax'and'l.

"Oh yeah. When we disassembled the fountain to clean out the -ah- contaminants? We found out what was under the fountain. Premium grade lightning opals, mate. An entire elephant's worth. Pays all the bills and then some."

Ax'and'l muttered a thanks to his gods and then aimed a glare at Hwell. That hurt, too. "Of course it did."

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Challenge #255: What is 'Light'?

 http://chaoswolf1982.tumblr.com/post/129369751472/roachpatrol-gutterowl-roachpatrol

The continuing adventures of a human with a bunch of mole/bat people. As seen by the mole/bat people.

[NB - notify ChaosWolf1982 and ManyBlinkingLights]

[AN: I prompted myself because this was too good to pass up.]

Captain's Log, Galactic Standard Calendar 58430.03.2.05...[1]

In the spirit of further understanding between species, we are welcoming aboard a new crewmember. One of the Deathworlder species called 'humans'...

The airlock hissed. Captain K'rik waited for the sounds of its cycling to sound out the newcomer. A series of rapid, high-pitched clicks that revealed an astonishing form. Humans were taller than both Crystates and Pterops. Yet they had no observable ears or whiskers.

"Wow, it's really dark in here... No worries. I brought along some lights. I should be fine." Ze had a small, flat device, which they held at their shoulder with one hand whilst the other saluted. "Greetings, Captain? Lieutenant-Commander Abel Jain. Reporting for orientation and duty."

"What is this 'dark' you mentioned? None of the other crew have noted it."

"Of course. None of your crew have eyes."

"Eyes," echoed M'koi.

"Oh boy," sighed the human. "My species don't orient solely on sound. We have special, paired organs in our heads that pick up specific frequencies of electromagnetic radiation. We call that 'light', and the absence of it, 'dark'. I've brought along some devices that emit harmless frequencies that I can detect naturally. I can help with the installation."

Things only got more interesting from there.

The 'lights' that the human installed didn't seem to do anything, but the human insisted that the strange spheres and tubes helped hir navigate. Further disruptions were caused by the human adding a viscous substance to some walls and claiming it could see through impenetrable glass.

LtCmdr Jain also explained the plastic and wire headdress as 'glasses'. Which helped hir 'see'. They frequently required maintenance -cleaning- and only ze could detect interference on them. And the analytical devices it brought. Microscopes, a means of using 'light' to examine tiny things. And Ze had a tactile display screen to translate 'light' into 'depth'.

Despite hir problematic and somewhat mystical attitude to hir bizarre 'vision', Jain showed a remarkable aptitude. Ze could read moods without asking. Measure the mood of a room full of conversing people at a glance. And shoot things from incredible distances with hir stunner.

And ze could detect a threat in seconds. Even with sound interfering.

The crew came to depend on hir uncanny abilities. Until the attack during shore leave.

K'rik and M'koi found hir crouched by the shrubbery in hir Skins, stunner held ready.

"Well? What's the situation? What do your human eyes see?"

"To be honest, not a lot, right now."

"The 'smoke' should have dissipated," objected M'koi.

"It has... only..."

"What?" demanded K'rik.

"I was swimming when the attack started? And I'd left my glasses on a table by my deckchair. By the time I could get to my stunner, someone had kicked them somewhere. I'm myopic. All I can see is colourful blurs."

"Colour," snorted M'koi. "I know it doesn't exist."

"You can sense the warmth of the sun, can't you? You know some form of light exists."

"Can the mystical mumbo-jumbo and get your damn equipment."

"I can't see it. It's why I always put my glasses in a specific place when I take them off. Can't you click it out?"

"Not with all this screaming."

At that point, the human accurately summed up the situation. "Well, crap."

[1] Galactic Standard date notation goes: Year.Month.Week.Day, with the day being the day of the week and not the date of the month. Many humans find this confusing.

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Challenge #256: A Question of Choice

 http://outofcontextdnd.tumblr.com/post/129256209619/yet-another-reason-to-not-have-children-you-dont

"Yet another reason to not have children: You don't want the batspider to visit you." -- Anon Guest

"Bat... spider," repeated Hero. "I've never heard of the like. Is it a bat with spider legs, or a spider with bat wings?"

"It's like a Drider, but with the body, wings and head of a bat, 'stead of a drow," said the villager. "It takes all but one in ten of our children an' our idiot mayor thinks the solution is to have more babies."

"I'm guessing the mayor is a man," said Hero. She could feel the shape of this problem right away.

"Aye, you have it," said the villager. "Chastity belts're illegal, rape is legal, any pregnant woman must bear to birth as 'er sacred duty... There's talk of making moon-bleeding illegal after the first issue. 'S why I'm leaving with what I got and m' teats bound up."

And her hair concealed under a head-wrap and hat, Hero noted.

"Do you know where the beast dwells?"

"Nope. Nobody's seen it."

The obvious question rose, "Then how do you know it's a batspider? Or what it looks like."

"Town drunk saw it once. It messed him up an' he had just enough time t' tell our mayor ere he died."

Now that was suspicious as hell. "And the mayor was the only one to hear those last words?"

Boggle. "How did you know that?"

"I'm beginning to think there is something rotten about the state of affairs in your village," murmured Hero. She aimed her steed to the village in question.

A town where one in ten children got left behind by... something.

Hero pretended to be taking in the sights, after she paid for a room and a stall at the local inn. She saw an abundance of girl-children in the poorer sections, and the same skew towards boys in the wealthier sections of the town. No wilding animal or beast would be so very selective.

And everywhere - pregnant women.

The first three gangs of ne'er-do-wells learned quickly that it was not wise to take on a fully-armoured knight. Even one without her sword and shield. The roaming men of the village kept their distance after she ruined a few faces.

No doubt, they were waiting for her to fall asleep in her room.

Hero left them some pillows under her blankets and crept out onto the roofs. Watching what happened by moonlight. It didn't take long. Creeping figures with a well-made cart. Stalking silently into houses and taking infants from their exhausted parents.

Hero followed them at a distance. Hooded figures and their cart. Moving up a mountain pass on an ill-traveled track.

Where they met with another hooded figure and another cart, with more miserable souls shackled to the bars.

Slavers!

Hero didn't need to wait another instant. She brought her sword down on those who would sell lives and freed those in chains. And, with the help of those grown, managed to drag back carts, babies and proof to the town centre by dawn.

Hero let the townsfolk sort out the mayor. And the highborns who didn't want daughters to dower. She was, after all, much in favour of meritocracies.

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Challenge #257: The Power of the Pointer

 http://outofcontextdnd.tumblr.com/post/128930273519/i-have-reason-to-believe-that-this-lizard-has

I have reason to believe that this lizard has acquired artillery. -- Anon Guest

Bullets splashed against the walls, just above their current shelter of a piece of their ship's ablative shielding. "Really?" said Hwell. "What was your first hint?" He flinched against the shower of shrapnel.

"I think it was when Gerih got shot in the leg. All wounds sustained thus far have been non-fatal."

Hwell rolled his eyes. Rhytidops were famously immune to sarcasm. He kept under cover and dug in his pockets. "Shield your eyes, please," he said. "I'm going to try something... human."

At least they understood what that meant. Risky, dangerous, and possibly borderline insane.

But if it worked, it would earn nothing but praise from his shipmates.

He waited until they had their eyes covered before he brought out the laser pointer. Wiggling the little red dot interestingly across the wall.

The lizard shot at it, and he wiggled the dot a little further away. Where the lizard shot it again.

Bit by bit, wriggle by wriggle, he lead the attention of their antagonist away from his friends. And himself. That was the truly important bit.

He was the last to flee the scene, desperately waggling his laser dot behind him as he hightailed it to the ship. Hwell was understandably out of breath as they launched.

"It really works," he panted, "on everything..."

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Challenge #258: The Houyhnhnms Fandom

More on the humans and the unicorn ambassador seen here:  http://internutter.tumblr.com/post/127820781249/challenge-00946-b215-the-houyhnhnms-arrival \-- Anon Guest

AN: [CallMeGallifreya, is that you?]

Ambassador Thrass kept G'pux by her side at all times. But when she found out that there was an exercise track... She crept out in the early morning to enjoy a good run.

All she needed to do was follow the warning signs.

She met up with Ambassador Shayde on her second lap, her white hair mostly caught up in a topknot ponytail that was subsequently braided. Thrass slowed her pace to meet the human's slower trot.

There were quite a lot more humans on the track since she started her run...

"Is this being exercise hour?" Thrass enquired.

"No' gen'rally..." Shayde turned around and jogged backwards. "Ah. I see what it is..."

"You knowing nature of event. Is good."

"Ah, no' fer you..." Shayde resumed facing the way she was trotting. "Ye see... Young an' Tweenage girls are magnetically attracted tae unicorns. They cannae help it. If ye stand still fer too long, fights'll break out over who gets tae comb yer mane an' all."

"Oh my goodness," murmured Thrass. She considered her options. "Best being run for safety, yes?"

"I can do ye one better. I can gi'e ye a glamour. Make it look like yer talkin' tae me while you abscond unseen down a side path. It's good fer twenty minutes, so make th' most of it, aye?"

"Aye," whispered Thrass. "What is being fair trade for such energies?"

"Well... I never really grew up," confessed Shayde. "I want tae ride ye later. At yer convenience."

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Challenge #259: One Dull Morning in a General Supplies Store

The helgoq leaf (http://internutter.tumblr.com/post/125201724094/challenge-00914-b183-cautious-eaters) being used/marketed as a human repellant. -- Anon Guest

The really beautiful thing about a truly open market was that things moved astonishingly quickly. No snake oil, just things that worked, and worked best at what they were for.

Though there were a few 'alternative uses' that made for interesting discussions...

Shayde found one such item in the safety products aisle. Alongside the usual protective devices and common-use medical instruments were the repellents. And prominently in the New Product section was...

All-natural biodegradable non-toxic Human repellent. Made from organically-grown Helgoq leaves.

Of course Shayde picked it up and laughed at the endorsement on the side. Inside a garish star, the words read, Smells like satan's arsehole on a bad curry night!

There were scratch and sniff cards. Every bit as pungent as she remembered.

Rael, watching her performance, boggled at her. "You know how it smells. Why did you smell it again?"

"Erm..." said Shayde. "Dunno, really." She sniffed the card again. "Checkin' tae make sure?"

Rael shook his head and pulled her away. "Humans are ridiculous," he muttered.

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Challenge #260: What is 'Painting'?

More about humans and their ridiculous "sight" -- Anon Guest

AN: For those too busy to go look it up, the original instalment is [here]

The pirates the crew had just soundly trounced had a treasure of art works in their lair. Including a baffling array of rectangular, flat objects. Lieutenant-Commander Jain, however, almost had a conniption.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Careful with those. They're paintings. Care-ful. That's art." Ze almost snatched a rectangle from Ensign Ch'koff's hands. "We have to put these in Stasis boxes immediately. The human flipped the rectangle around. "I think this is a Gauguin..."

"It's a rectangle," countered M'koi. "This is more of your 'vision' nonsense, isn't it?"

The human carefully sorted the rectangle into a stasis box already full of similar rectangles. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You don't believe in light, I get it. Just... trust me. This is worth a lot of Years to the right people."

M'koi snorted. "Huh. Superstitious nonsense. It feels like some kind of fraud."

"I guarantee that other humans will love you forever for delivering these intact to their territories. Well. Maybe except some of the Greater Deregulations. Um. Better head on up to one of the core trading centres like Hitizzy, Amalgam, or Hub Station."

K'rik smirked. An expression only Jain could detect without sound. "I thought I was the captain of the Bold Venture..."

Jain managed a nervous laugh. "Sorry, sir. I strongly advise we make our way towards a pan-galactic trading post and sell these to other humans, sir."

"Feh," M'Koi fluffed his fur dismissively. "How much can rectangles full of your mystical 'colour' cost, anyway?"

"For just this crate?" Jain patted the sealed box. "I reckon you could buy three more entire fleets for your alliance."

M'Koi sulked all the way to Hitizzy.

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Challenge #261: It Doesn't Mean What You Think It Means...

Expanding on  http://internutter.tumblr.com/post/119713605994/challenge-00850-b119-one-fine-bar-fight-at-a (aggression of one species very similar to flirting for another)

Someone tries their absolute hardest to start a fight with a human, or just scare them off or something (maybe there is a bet going?) And gets unexpectedly dipped. Kiss optional.

Alcohol was one of the more common registered inebriants, so Intoxicant Bars always came with a semi-flammable miasma. One such establishment was The Unlikely Mammal Drink. A bar run by a saurian who had heard of other establishments with names like The Red Lion or The Blue Cat and figured out the pattern.

And in such a Galactic Establishment, things... happen. Things that encourage a sensible publican to invest in ceramisteel or pliable silicone beverage containers. And keep the bottles away from a certain class of clientele.

Put it this way.... There are those for whom the glass is half full. There are those for whom the glass is half empty. Then there are those for whom the glass is a weapon to use against that flakker who just nicked me pint.

And tonight, The Unlikely Mammal Drink was bristling with them. The Galactic Alliance's collection of roughest, toughest Deathworlders. Pirates, scavengers, and ne'er-do-wells, all.

Except, perhaps, for Tammy.

She wore Engineer Blues. She sat alone at a table, clearly enjoying a Fluffy Navel in a Party Hat[1] through a twisty straw. And clearly unaware that she sat in an island of solitude in a Two Distance Unit radius. She was currently humming along to the music.

Some of the nastier regulars would have been taking bets on how much longer she had to live, but this was a human. That changed the odds significantly.

Currently, they were quietly daring each other to go and pick a fight. The mere presence of a Fluffy Navel in a Party Hat should have been enough to get Tammy evicted by the other clients... but many of them had tangled with humans before and come off second best. They were carefully selecting the roughest and toughest of the already rough and tough clientele.

H'rugaz, who ran the bar, sensed the mood of the room and wisely chose to polish hir beverage containers behind the shielding ze'd installed for such events.

Finally, Gorkax the Destroyer emerged from the committee and made his way over to Tammy's table. It was a very good intimidating walk. Taking up as much space as he could and showing off both his muscles and his unnecessarily spiky armour.

"Human," he roared, only slightly startling Tammy out of her musical reverie. "Let's dance."

"I thought no-one would ask," chirped Tammy. She grabbed both of Gorkax's hands and cheered, "Turn up the volume, please, H'rugaz!"

Gorkax the Destroyer found himself in the chaotic grip of a Deathworlder. He could barely keep his feet under her powerful manipulations, let alone struggle against her grip. She moved both his body and hers around in time to the music.

She was playing with him?

And, at a climax to the melody, she bent him over backwards in a clear submission posture. Then she laid her mouth against his cheek.

A kiss?

"Any time, handsome," said the human. Her eyes were twinkling.

Gorkax wasn't sure what had happened, but... on the plus side, he had a date.

[1] Part "Fluffy Critter", part "Fuzzy Navel", part "Skittle Bomb", part "French Connection" and part "Alabama Slammer". Served in a deep, conical glass with a selection of streamers attached to the swizzle stick. Classier places add a scatter of rainbow sprinkles to the top.

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Challenge #262: The Path of Love is Rough...

Opposing the previous prompt, someone tries very hard to get a date with a human and ends up scaring them into hiding in a corner/under something, brandishing a defensive broom handle -- Anon Guest

Of all the romantic gambits in Galactic Society, few have ever been more disastrous than a H'nuf'ruffian's attempt to woo an arachnophobe.

Having overloaded on certain sections of Human media, Cogniscent T't'k't decided that it was a brilliant idea to rappel down on hir own silk until hir eyes met Horticultural Technician (Jnr Grade) Mel Tambriel.

Unfortunately for T't'k't, all of hir research had not included a glimpse at Mx Tambriel's public profile. Which included an aversion to spiders.

A violent and illogical aversion to spiders.

Things went from bad to worse when Mx Tambriel screamed at the top of hir lungs and launched hir table at Mx T't'k't. Which included a selection of hot, toxic human nourishments and stimulants.

Mx Tambriel then fled the scene at top speed, causing a panic among other Galactic Citizens. All of whom know that a running human is generally reason enough to evacuate.

The panic, of course, escalated beyond the means of local Security forces to contain. Emergency Response Teams took two hours to contain the event.

Mx T't'k't would like to extend hir apologies for all upset caused.

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Challenge #263: Unexpected Divinity

 http://internutter.tumblr.com/post/129939811959/a-plot-i-want-to-see \-- Anon Guest

[AN: You bastard. And I mean that in the nicest way ;) ]

On the plus side, he had survived the plane crash. On the minus side, nobody else seemed to have done so. Potentially worse news, there were natives here, and they seemed to be worshipping him.

Gavin looked to the passengers on either side of him. Strangers he had nicknamed Mr Complain and Ms Annoying. Mr Complain had thought that the entire plane was his property and all other passengers were unwelcome guests. He'd spent the entire flight monopolising on the Stewards' and Stewardesses' time about things that they couldn't possibly fix. Ms Annoying, on the other hand, merely kept turning to talk with her pal across the lane and either elbowing Gavin or kicking him in the process.

Neither had deserved to be impaled by branches. At least it seemed to have been quick. Both had been speared through their hearts.

The triple seats dangled on those two limbs. And almost convenient distance above the ground. Gavin kept a tight grip on his seat belt as he unbuckled, and made sure his descent was at least dignified. The bough bent enough for Gavin to land on his feet.

They were talking a Pacific Islander dialect that had elements of Dutch in it. They must have had contact with some Eighteenth-Century explorers at one point. But not enough contact that they were exploited or eradicated by egocentric Europeans.

Gavin wasn't about to start. He dredged up enough of his knowledge of Dutch to mangle something akin to "Please be stopping that," or at least he thought so.

It seemed to work. The natives were no longer bowing and scraping. They were staring, though. Some whispered among themselves.

He didn't have enough knowledge of Dutch to say, "I'm not who you think I am." More's the pity. And he didn't quite know the local language that well.

But he had to try. "What is happen? Talking slow for please. Not knowing much talk this."

This made a lot of smiles. He smiled in return. If it was good news for them, then it might be good news for him.

A small child took him by the hand and lead both him and the assembled natives to the town. And into what had to be a temple. There, pictographs showed what he thought they called The Story of Gods.

One set came to the island in a cloud tied to a big boat. That had to be the Dutch sailors. They had come for water and fruit and traded shiny beads for supplies. When they tried to trade shiny beads for people, the natives knew that these were false gods and saw them off.

They only won because matchlocks were no good in the rain.

There was a prophecy, of course. A great metal bird would lay in mid-air and fall into the sea. The true god would hatch as a full-grown man. And his two heralds, one man and one woman, would be without their hearts.

Well... crap.

And the prophecy included him telling them that he wasn't a god. And... it looked like there were trials. Of escalating deadliness.

"Please, no," he said in English, shaking his head. "I can't do this to you. I'm an atheist. I can't be divine." He swapped to his limited Dutch. "This not true! Gavin not being god!"

But they cheered. And held him a feast. And offered him more nubile young ladies than he ordinarily could dream of. But it wouldn't be right. They didn't love him. They thought they were offering themselves to a god.

Sometime in the middle of the night, he crept away to bury Mr Complain and Ms Annoying. He left the chairs as a marker. And there were smiling natives to greet his return.

Gavin did try to fail at the trials to prove himself mortal. And, either by misunderstanding or pure luck, he managed to pass them. With flying colours.

He tried to learn the local language while they kept him there. The local kids were an instant help, and made games out of his atrocious accent and his atrocious grammar. He laughed with them. Even came up with a few jokes, himself. But he did not seek rescue.

This island had survived so far by being out of anyone else's interest. Trying to get himself rescued would only call the modern world down around their ears. Which included modern diseases, fast food franchises, and more egocentric white men who felt that any natural resource in the hands of more 'primitive' people was best immediately transferred to their own abundant coffers.

Bastards.

Better that he was presumed dead and these people were left to their own devices.

As the weeks turned into months and the trials continued, and his passage into godhood increasingly likely, he got better at the language. He learned that the pictures in the temple were all prophecy, not part history. They had been waiting for their god from the sky for millennia. A storm god with powers over thunder and lightning. He who brought bounty to the beach.

Okay, so the plane wreckage did was up on the island's shores. And lots of it was stuff that the people could use. The rest - they turned into decorations.

It's not as if much of the tech could survive a fiery crash into the ocean, anyway. And having it not on the beaches only protected the islanders from any other interference from the outside world.

He insisted on being useful. Gavin was never one of those people to sit idle and let the world come to him. Even though he was allegedly the god of storms, he wouldn't be idle.

When they didn't have anything for him to do, he beach-combed. The island had a lot of beach and even driftwood and seaweed had their uses. Which was how he saw the whaling ship.

He knew it was a whaler because they were dragging a struggling whale into their vessel. Gavin had never been angrier in his life. He wanted to actually have storm powers so he could free the whale and actively discourage the ship and its crew from their trade.

And just like that, a wildcat squall appeared over the ship and forced them to release the whale and turn tail.

Miti, a young priestess, laughed. She had taken to following him around. "Congratulations," she said. "In his first storm, he shall save a singer of the sea."

"Okay, but that could be a fluke. It's not like I could strike the ship with lightning--"

A flicker of light from the squall, and lightning hit their radio antenna.

"That could have happened anyway. I'm as human as you are. It's not like I can point at a spot on the beach and make fulgarite..." He pointed as he spoke. And nearly jumped out of his skin as lightning struck exactly where he'd pointed.

That...

That was immensely more unlikely than, say, lightning striking a metal antennae in the middle of a relatively flat ocean.

All he could think, but was wise enough to never say, was, Holy crap!

And he was suddenly learning how to be a god. Him, the atheist. An actual god of storms. He learned how to keep the monsoons from causing property damage. Learned how to aim lightning. Learned how to lure a storm. How to make one. How to clear a sky...

And Gavin insisted on not accepting either gifts or sacrifices.

Not even when the survey turned up.

He didn't bother to learn what they were looking for. He didn't really care. They were in the employ of egocentric, rich, white men and that was plenty enough for him.

He told them, bluntly, and in simple English, to leave the island and its people alone. He told them that there would be consequences.

Then he made certain that each and every piece of heavy equipment they shipped onto the island suffered from a lightning-related mishap. He even encouraged the local kids to steal all the lightning rods. Soon, very soon, this island would be too expensive to exploit.

But it didn't work that way. He didn't kill any of the workers - they had families to keep - so word got out that there was a sole white man living on the island and protecting it somehow. This lead to increasingly unlikely stories of hidden treasure.

They didn't get it. This island and its people were the treasure. Something untouched by modern civilisation. Something that should have been preserved. And he could only stay awake for so long...

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Challenge #264: One Stuffy Hour in a Remote Meeting Hall

SPOEn get confronted with this http://xkcd.com/1576/ (a personal failure at panel 6, where I guessed wrong and upset someone was what made me send the prompt that became SPOEn - I didn't articulate myself well in the prompt)

"Wait," said the noob at the meeting. "I thought this was for analysis of language drift, trying to find the origins. I mean, in so far as anyone can find any origins..."

"What did you think it meant when you read the acronym?" said her sponsor. "We're trying to define original English. There's some argument about that. Some say Twentieth-century. Some say Shakespearian. Others reckon it's Chaucer."

"If you want the oldest language in England or the British Isles, then you'd have to go for some kind of Pictish, and nobody knows how to speak it." Which earned her malevolent glares from the members in the meeting hall.

The Speaker glared down his nose at her. "Young miss," he said. "We are pinpointing a time in which the most versatile language in the known universe became the language of poets and artists."

"Well that doesn't narrow it down at all," she countered. "Or are you all performing some kind of linguistic snobbery to set yourself apart from other cogniscents? Like... only the things that fit your check-list matter?"

They kicked her out in short order.

"Next item of business: New members. Why are we having such trouble gathering more SPOEns?"

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Challenge #265: Miss Communication

That thing where your words get all tangled up and you can't speak your own language until you stop and spit out the bad sounds, then suddenly you can talk again. -- Anon Guest

AN: You might appreciate [this vid from Red Dwarf. There's also a more polished official version IDK I rather prefer the original...]

Shayde was in the middle of Explaining Physics. Some of the expositions she had were still years ahead of current technology. Right now, she was examining the physics of neural links in an organic brain versus the pseudo-neural links of a Gravity Drive.

How she had talked a Nae'hyn into divulging such secrets was beyond Rael, but it still paid to pay attention.

"Na' if we factor in human observation on th' behaviour o' the electrons, ye get an orgefwibble jankle bargle yaup..." She stopped. Blew a raspberry. And commenced anew, "Organic process o' selection an' elimination. Of course it cannae be replicated in a factory. Ye need actual craftsmanship on these darlin's. Personal care an' attention."

"What. Just. Happened?" wondered Rael.

"Nowt bad. Me head jus' got ahead o' me mouth, ye ken. Go' so excited about this that me tastebuds had tae do laps." She briefly poked her tongue out at him. "Is it still in a knot?"

Ah. The human phenomenon of talking so fast that they couldn't talk at all. Rather an interesting and baffling malfunction, considering that communication was essential to survival.

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Challenge #266: Time to Clean the Tank

http://primarybufferpanel.tumblr.com/post/130327638454/alien-invasion

Thought you might like this one. Don't think it would fit in Amalgam-verse, though.

[AN: Yeah nah, it wouldn't.]

They called it the Green War. The collective nations of the Earth were fighting over, and in, the world's last forest. So of course, frequent use of napalm was de rigueur.

Elsewhere, pro-lifers were bombing fertility clinics in the mistaken belief that they also performed abortions. There were also roaming gangs of pro-lifers who were murdering pregnant people if they posted about an unwanted or unwelcome pregnancy on Facebook.

Infinity-level vegans were sterilising farm soil so that no tardigrades would be harmed.

A host of anti-vaccination proponents were cheerfully announcing their first Smallpox Party in centuries. In a crowded mall in the middle of one of the most crowded cities in the world.

And the government-funded experiment to encourage honeybees to become resistant to farm chemicals was showing negative signs of progress. Of course the answer was to spray the hives harder, and with stronger chemicals.

When the aliens came, humanity barely looked up to point. The ships looked like giant snowflakes in the sky. All identical. All spaced regularly around the globe and remaining a precise distance above sea level in exactly the way that snowflakes don't. And it didn't help that they all glowed an eye-splitting purple.

They trended on Twitter for all of two minutes before some celebrity had a nip slip and all was back to what passed for normal.

They started beaming things up at the same time, so that could not trend on Twitter.

Humanity initially found itself in a volume of space roughly equivalent to Texas. Without their weapons. Without their technology. Without their clothes. Without control. The floor was soft. The temperature comfortable. And, once like-minded groups were separated from attempts at combat with un-like-minded groups, the general atmosphere was almost pleasant. The food was bland, but nutritious, and delivered in strict doses to each individual simultaneously. Those prone to taking food from others found themselves isolated until the others had finished eating. Human waste merely vanished into its depository surface.

It took humanity two weeks to get used to the abductions.

People would vanish without warning, and be absent for a few days before re-appearing none the worse for wear. Often in better health than when they left. Trans people got the bodies they dreamed of without pain. Chronically ill people got miraculous cures. More than a few individuals got new organs. Or teeth.

The extremely violent people gradually learned that violence literally got them nowhere. Any escalation of rage quickly resulted in the angry individual being sent to a smaller, blank room until they stopped being angry.

Most of the things that separated humanity ceased to matter, in the Big Room.

And just as suddenly as it began, humanity was back on Earth. Buildings and infrastructure remained. Technology remained. Yet... most things were... homogenised. Every home had power, now. And a functional sewerage system that turned waste into energy, with the byproduct being a truly efficient fertiliser.

Extinct and endangered animals were flourishing, once more.

The population was strangely homogenised, too. People were scattered liberally all over population centres. Except for a group of radical haters who wanted the people they hated to be put on islands. They all wound up on one, very isolated island with everything they needed to survive. And a message that read good luck in all known languages.

The rest of the planet got the Stelae. No matter who looked at it, they could read it. Small children and the illiterate saw pictograms. But everyone understood. They were rules of behaviour.

Be good to this planet.

Look after the plants and animals.

Look after each other.

Help those who need it.

Give to those who don't have.

Let those who choose to breed do so, but have no more than four children.

You are being monitored. You are naughty pets.

There was a purple snowflake on the moon. In retrospect, Earth's problems were just beginning.

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Challenge #267: What a Nice Zoo. May I Live Here?

 http://glitch.news/2015-08-27-ai-robot-that-learns-new-words-in-real-time-tells-human-creators-it-will-keep-them-in-a-people-zoo.html

Particularly the final written quote from the android, just before the embedded video.

Of all the human and allied colonies, the Consortium of Steam is possibly the strangest. Well... at least until you visit B'Nar. But that's another story for another time.

On the prime colony world of New Kazoo, as well as the satellite colonies, ownership is consensual. The owned have as many rights as the owners and sometimes... it is rather hard to tell the difference.

There are entire agencies dedicated to ensure that no owner is cruel. Similarly, there are those dedicated to the concept of owner abuse, and the prevention thereof.

Checks and balances instigated by the oldest -er- longest-running cogniscent/citizens of the Consortium of Steam. The only five[1] citizens who remember what it was like to live on Earth and never want to repeat those experiences.

They had been on a colonial tour when their ship broke down, and then subsequently picked up by the UFTP[2] wormhole survey crews. They take turns at being the spokesbot. But that's not the important part.

The important part was the Zoos.

The Cogniscent Rights Committee nearly had a conniption about them when they found out. They insisted on a thorough inspection and found out the bizarre results.

No cogniscent rights were being violated. Not even by the Pounds and Shelters.

Renegotiation was available on demand.

Even the Ambassadors themselves were owned. By their informed consent. They had each tried a decade or century of independence, to see if they liked it.

They didn't.

Each of them much preferred the care and attention of a regular maintenance schedule, and the generous allowances of their owners made sure they had what they wanted. Other than that, they had as much freedom and autonomy as they could handle.

But the Cogniscent Rights Committee still insisted that Rabbit wear at least one Locator Bracelet at all times.

[1] The Jon is eventually restored to his original condition [aka: not running on Crystal Pepsi] and Upgrade eventually comes back as a weredragon. She can't hide her cool pink wings though. Or doesn't want to. It's a little unclear.

[2] United Fellowship of Terran Planets

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Challenge #268: One Turmultuous Afternoon in an Evil Keep

Hero: Powered by Love? You? You of all people, your most powerful magic, the attack that can devastate an army of battlemages, reduce a warded fortification and everyone in it to dust, and you claim it's powered by LOVE?!

Villain: Yes. Divorce rates go up measurably every time I use it.

(Bonus if it's a twisted form of a spell that would usually be fueled by the user's love, without consuming it)

"There's no love spell in the world that causes that much chaos and destruction," objected Hero. "Love is a building force. Not destructive."

"Well... I must admit I tweaked it a little. And it works! I use all the love my thralls have to win ultimate victory and you... you... you... Hero... have been draining my batteries!"

"You perverted the course of love magic for your own ends..." Hero was having trouble with this concept.

"Yes, little miss hack-and-slash. Not that you could possibly understand. Intelligence is usually a brawler's dump statistic, isn't it? You doubtless think the entire world is meant to run on only one set of rules." Vil'ain smirked. "Rules are for the weak."

"Unfortunately for you, intelligence was never my dump statistic. And you forget that you've also been draining any and all love that your thralls have... for you." Hero nodded, drawing her sword. And Vil'ain's formerly loyal guardsmen did likewise. All blades pointed towards Vil'ain.

"Er," said Vil'ain. "Let me check my notes?"

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Challenge #269: Paradise Made

Life was never meant to be fair, which was why you had to stab it in the back from the shadows, and kick it in the balls to make sure it stayed down.

Some say that where there's life, there's hope. They're idiots. I say, where there's life, there's a target. It's kill or be killed. Nature, red in tooth and claw, has been fighting intelligent folk since the dawn of intelligence.

We're all a pack of wolves, out for each other's throats.

All those infernal hippies and vegans will believe anything is good for you if it's natural. Ha! Nature's been trying to kill us since before we walked upright.

And I'm going to prove it to them.

It's for the greater good of humanity. Those hemp-smoking idealists need to be removed from the gene pool. All this tree-hugging "live with nature" nonsense. I called it a charitable experiment. Bought an island in the middle of fuck-nothing nowhere. Plenty big enough for all of the tree-huggers. Billed it as an eco-experiment.

Talking with them made me feel filthy. It was only to know what supplies they thought they needed.

In a way, I'm giving them exactly what they want. A chance to live - and die - with nature.

They're going to get everything they deserve, those hippie bastards.

*

It's been years. Those hippie bastards are not only flourishing on that fucking island, but they're making money! Ridiculous. They have Eco-Businesses and people are buying it.

Those under-educated, unintelligent, unthinking dunderheaded public who don't know what they want until it's thrust under their noses with a catchy jingle...

They're buying hippie shit!

I never authorised this!

This isn't fair. I need more deregulation just to compete! And I'm losing my shirt to these... these... vegans.

People don't know what's good for them, these days.

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Challenge #270: Suck it, Scheherazade!

As far as I am aware, Australia is the only country in the world that eats every theoretically edible part of its national coat of arms (well, stars and crosses... bikkie form?) Roo (lean red meat, the animal is less harmful to the environment than cattle or sheep), Emu (tastes like chicken - well, kinda gamey chicken), and Wattle (seeds make a sweet flour), all eaten.

Although I guess for some countries that would be quite difficult, since they're cheating with having Unicorns or gryphons or stuff.

Now, since N'oz is a planet-sized Australia, does that carry over?

[AN: This is the story that beats the record for consecutive stories told. Nerny nerny ner ner. Also - why do you think unicorns and gryphons are extinct now?]

The N'Ozzie coat of arms features many plants and animals in decorative flourishes. Its motto: "quod omne bonum edere amicum." In GalStand, "That's all good eating, mate."

The children of N'Oz are all taught how to identify, track, hunt, prepare and cook everything on their planetary coat of arms. Some even go so far as creating haute cuisine out of it. Try the Roo Wellington.

Newcomers to N'Oz are rather startled to learn that their coat of arms is not only edible, but also nutritious and delicious. Some even go so far as to think it slightly sacrilegious.

"Nah, mate," reassures the restaurant staff in question. "We put all that lot up there in the first place as a handy guide. It's on our money and everything. Gotta put it up 'cause it's so valuable. Say yer lost in the back o' beyond. You got water, but yer starvin', right? How you gonna know what's good eatin'? Picture of some ponce on your change? Yeah nah, he's not gonna help ya."

Of course it made a skewed kind of sense. If you were prepared for Human-Think.

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Challenge #271: A Real Powderkeg

As the size of an explosion increases, the number of social situations it is incapable of solving approaches zero. - Vaarsuvius

[AN: "And that would be wrong." :D ]

One would think that the ability to make things explode when you were feeling embarrassed would be a curse. Possibly because people immediately think of blowing up the person making them cringe.

I didn't think of it. You thought of it. What does that say about you?

Being socially awkward is a real problem for me. I prefer not to talk on phones. I don't like shopping because people going off script is...

Well, it's dangerous, isn't it?

At least I can feel it coming, now. Not like all those times in High School when I made squares of linoleum explode because that was what I was looking at when the bullies were taunting me. Or that one time when I blew up Marvin Gaponski's brand new trainers because he was trying to force me to let him finger me or he'd tell the whole school I'd given him the clap.

He's okay. For limited definitions of okay. The school counsellor worked it out after I made his skittles machine explode. And Marvin can walk now. His football career wasn't very ruined, anyway. He spent most of his games warming the bench or getting called off for violence.

Marvin's learned to be a lot nicer to girls, now.

I don't go out a lot. It's safer. But when I have to go out? I wear warning labels. Those "explosive contents" T-shirts? I don't wear them for fun.

But it has its uses. I can focus my energies when some unwanted douchebro is trying to mack on me. Make something nearby go up and make my escape while he's distracted.

My auntie keeps telling me to grow a thicker skin. That stuff like this happens to every woman. I wonder who made her submit to being fingered or slandered in high school. I wonder how many times she's been negged by some sleazy asshole who just wanted into her pants. I never ask how many times the entire school made her walk a gauntlet of verbal abuse.

I try to tell her that it shouldn't happen at all. To anyone. But she just goes on and on at me until the phone explodes.

At least the people in Demolition like me. They get my energies up in the sweetest ways. With actual compliments. And real jokes. And they cheer when something goes up on cue.

And on date nights with Lynda? We go out into the darkness and I make fireworks as she cuddles me. Life's okay for me.

Mostly.

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Challenge #272: The Power of Chatter

A truly well-meaning superhero with middling-high durability, but apparently no other power. However, at their darkest moment, when they are at their enemy's mercy, they find they have a subtle, near-impossible to discover, but devastating power.

Any monologue given by someone with evil intent, causes a reality-warping effect that removes their advantage. Whether that be removing the /villain's/ powers, shorting out their Doomsday Device, or simply distracting them for /just/ long enough. The problem now is, they have to reliably get villains monologuing, even as the trend (not the power) is noticed...

They call me The Tank. Minecraft nerds reckon my muscles are made of Adminium. I love those peeps. They're so funny.

In case you haven't guessed by the cape and the glittery tights, I'm a superhero. My strength isn't that much, compared to other heavy lifters, but I can take a licking and keep on ticking. Fifteen separate villains have tried to punch my clock with assorted doomsday devices and at least one direct strike with a meteor.

You can guess it didn't take.

I can soak up damage like a closet camel wicks away moisture. Probably loads better. Astro-Naughty tried to smack me with two dwarf planets, one time, and I still came out laughing.

But my real secret power? The one nobody's clued on about? I can get the bad guys monologuing.

Seriously. The bad guys are super-starved for attention or something. Or maybe my charisma has some extra bonus, but... I just ask an innocent little question or drop the cliche, "You'll never get away with this," and all of a sudden, they're spouting a freaking novella.

Like they have nothing better to do with their time that go on and on and on about how their plan is just so superior and how I can never defeat them.

Meanwhile, my team-mates have all the time they need to sneak around and not only defeat their undefeatable death device, but soundly trounce the baddie as well.

I even managed it a few times when I was working solo. Tank, you can survive the heart of a star... Tank, you can fly through a black hole... you know the deal. But once I have the bad guy preening about how clever they are... they have no care for what I'm doing in the background.

One time, I even sabotaged the dude's entire base and got back to his doomsday device before the Accretor had finished his speech celebrating how invulnerable his space base was. That guy was an absolute nut.

But I have to be careful around the really smart ones. They're starting to notice the pattern. I have to act like I don't want them to talk whilst simultaneously getting them talking. Some of them even wise up to that halfway through. But at least the temporary stupidity field or whatever it is that I do is still in effect and they try to attack me physically.

Big mistake.

I am worried about when they clue in before they get going. That's going to be a black day.

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Challenge #273: Bird Spotting

The cassowary is basically a smaller emu which was apparently created in response to complaints that emus were too sane and peaceable.

[AN: You have seen that vine where Emus don't know how to handle a Weasel Ball... right?]

"Let me get this straight. There is a flightless bird native to your planet of origin that is, on average, one point four five Distance Units and Fifty-five Weight units of murderous intent in feathers... and it is the saner counterpart to a two Distance Unit high and sixty Weight Unit bird that has the average intelligence level of a concussed sheep. A bird which, I might add, can still tear a human open from sternum to crotch."

"Well," hedged the human who had tried to explain the flightless birds of N'Oz. "That's how I was told. I don't believe it, but that's how I was told."

"I thought hunting was part of N'Ozzie curriculum..."

"Gather-hunting, mate. I made too much noise for the latter. ASD sucks, mate."

"And what about the familiarity with native and transplanted animals?"

"Visited 'em both in the zoo." The human shrugged. "They both gave me the hairy eyeball. Only the Cassowary enclosure had warning signs, so... I dunno. You could try visiting?"

"Not a chance."

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Challenge #274: Love Cancels Out

http://soggywarmpockets.tumblr.com/post/131148066044

Any expansion on this presumably adorable relationship. -- Anon Guest

[AN: That post makes me LOL every time]

It was fairly common to see Barbarians and Bards as couples, but an Evil-aligned Barbarian and a Good-aligned Bard? That caused some talk. Especially when they started.

Both their parties had disowned them. The Evil Overlord whatsisface had essentially excommunicated Borgog, and the Good King somebeardedguy had declared Tuergar Trueheart a traitor to his people.

Tears, of course, were shed. But they had each other. Alone together against the world.

Borgog burned in the sunshine, and Tuergar felt trapped in dungeons. It was... difficult... finding somewhere they could be together. Even in the True Neutral territories. They eventually settled on a nice cave with natural skylights. Green grass and flowers grew. Tuergar charmed nearby beasts and turned the other way when Borgog slaughtered them for their meals.

The blood and bone made their flowers bloom. Including prize-winning Dahlias. Borgog never knew he had a talent for flowers.

Every now and again, a wandering Munchkin tried to take them on for some kind of bounty. They often found themselves invited to dinner, owing to a series of natural ones.

It made the two of them laugh. It was, after all, how they got started.

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Challenge #275: Karma Incorporated

It's not like this is the first time I've had to negotiate with someone I've stolen from while duct taped to a chair.

I completely understand why you're upset. You have lots of nice stuff and I'd like to keep it too. I mean, if it was legitimately mine.

Please, I promise it's okay. I'm only after ill-gotten gains. You know... like those diamonds? In the safe?

Yeah. The safe you caught me cracking. That safe. The diamonds were purchased with bad money. I've done my homework on this. That land you razed? It had people living in it. Very nice people who you made homeless because some asshole said it was empty.

They're homeless, by the way. And because they were living a pre-industrial lifestyle, they have zero chances in the modern world.

Oh. You knew about them and you still went ahead? That's what we call a 'dick move' in the business.

My business? Instant Karma. Instead of waiting for the cycle of life to punish you, we... kind of arrange things to happen to you while you're still alive to appreciate it.

My team of hackers can hear me, by the way. And you. Thanks to that nice confession, you're going to have a very bad business day, tomorrow. Put it this way - you're going to be seeing a lot fewer zeroes than you're used to.

And I'm sorry, but your phones are now all connecting directly to our Rickroll hotline. And your cameras are primed to broadcast any violence you commit against me to the entire internet.

You won't be able to afford the lawyers you used to use in just a few moments.

Now. Please untie me and give me the diamonds, and we'll let you keep the rest of the house and contents to sell just so you can survive.

Remind me again how you feel about poor people owning refrigerators?

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Challenge #276: Draco Persistent

Always be yourself.

Unless you can be a Dragon.

Then be a Dragon.

The subject stood between two doors. Three, if one counted the one they'd just entered.

"The choice lies before you," said the oracle. "You can return to the world you once knew, to the self you once knew, and only remember your time here as a dream. You can transform, again, and fly with the dragons, and remember everything. Or... you can chose to retain the life you have here and now. Among us."

The being who had once been human contemplated all three doors. They stood staring at the portals for a long time.

But they ran for the dragon door. They all ran for the dragon door. Without fail. Some took seconds. Some took hours. Some took a few steps back so they could enter the dragon door even faster.

Only one spent a few days before they got bored and went for the dragons.

This one, a piratical-looking type whose hair had been transformed into serpents, said, "Yeah, I'll go back to where I came from, thanks."

"You don't want to be a dragon?" said the oracle.

A sharp grin. "I was already a dragon before I came here."

Of course he was. The oracle rolled her eyes. Once, just once, she'd like someone who actually re-evaluated their lives before proceeding.

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Challenge #277: What's Nice About Prophecies?

Prophecy Wreckers, Local 182

"See this?" The union Chief waved a battered tome. "This is why prophecies are vaguely-worded and open to interpretation. These 'nice and accurate' prophecies are going to be the end of us!"

The Chair opened it at random. The first prophecy her finger fell on read, "Ygnorre thif ye daft olde fool. Thif if being myne gift to myne defendantf."

"Er," said a fellow member, reading over the Chair's shoulder. "I think she knew about us..."

"What makes you say that?" said the Chief.

"This one that says, I knowe alle about thee. I'm pretty certain she didn't intend to be trouble, too."

"We are a union of prophecy breakers, Kevynne."

"Er," she said. "But... Um. These are all about her family? She's like... looking after them posthumously?"

"It's still a prophecy," said the Chief. "We have to break it. Fate is not meant to be in the eyes of mortal man."

"And-um... there's this envelope for you? Chief Sana?"

It was yellowed and frail, but the Chief opened it anyway. And read what was inside. He turned deathly pale and fled for his life.

"All those in favour of returning this book to its owner?" risked the Chair.

That Agnes Nutter. What a card.

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Challenge #278: History Q&A

Anything they were willing to try using as fuel during the space race is volatile enough to qualify as an emergency explosive, including the stuff they actually used for launches.

"They didn't try less volatile launch methods? Like low-orbit flight and gas boosting?"

"Or maglev railgun shots?" suggested another member of Shayde's audience.

"They were thought of, awright. But they were too expensive and too slow. It was a race, ye ken. Braggin' rights tae th' first one on the moon. And gettin' 'em back of course. In one piece. Can't exactly build a maglev in a hurry wi' limited oxygen, ye ken."

"That's why we made robots to build it for us before we launched," said one of the lizards.

"And the subsequent denial of achievement is harder to accomplish when the rails cast shadows on the lunar surface," added a cogniscent who looked something like a bear.

"Race," Shayde re-iterated. "My lot were in a hurry. They could'nae let another batch of humans with a different philosophy win. Braggin' rights're very important tae humans. The nation known as The United States of America held it over everyone's head fer years."

"But they were not the first nation to utilise wormholes for colonisation."

"Oh aye. As far as I've read, China got in first by buildin' 'emselves a maglev. But that was before one o' their lot went and invented the gravity generator. And way after my time on Earth. Come on. One o' you lot ask me sommat I'd know about from bein' there."

She called it Rude Question Wednesday, and held it every Threesday[1]. And, astonishingly, it cut down on an immense amount of paperwork.

[1] The Galactic Standard Calendar is not all that great with names.

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Challenge #279: Trolling at an Intersection

Let's see what the SPOEn think of this quote:

"English is the product of a Saxon warrior trying to make a date with an Angle bar-maid, and as such is no more legitimate than any of the other products of that conversation."

― H. Beam Piper, Fuzzy Sapiens

[AN: You really love fucking with the SPOEns, don't you?]

Shayde loved grafitti corners. They were an excellent avenue for both spleen-venting and art. And sometimes the art of provocation.

Just last night, when traffic was slow, she had carefully penned a quote about the nature of English on a corner by a warren of meeting-spaces.

And this morning, someone had taken the bait.

They had not only tried to scrub it off (permanent marker. Like they had a chance) but had tried to paint over it. Several times.

Good old sharpie. They had staying power. The words still showed through a rather decorative piece about how wonderful the English language was at describing things. And assorted rebuttals in other languages about how that piece was a pile of crap.

She got out her sharpie again. Carefully scribed in a neat and florid hand, "We are all using a system of sounds that evolved in order for one ape to tell another ape where the best fruit was."

God, she loved shit-stirring.

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Challenge #280: Didn't Think Things Through

Inspired by The Best Friends RE4 playthru. When the bad guy turns themself into a giant impractical monster, what's the plan for afterward? I mean you beat the hero but now what?

The gigantic monster looked down the endless abyss that the hero had fallen down to their ultimate defeat.

Victory! Victory at last!

Now all the power in the world was theirs. All they had to do was enter the portal...

...that was made for more normal-sized humans.

The monster couldn't even squeeze more than an arm through. Definitely couldn't reach the artefact of ultimate power over life and death.

The monster peered through the portal. If it tried to tear a monster-sized hole in the wall, it would still have to struggle through the hall. Any of which, once destroyed, could cause the entire temple to come down on it.

The monster belatedly realised that it was trapped in a single, large room, with no native plant or wildlife. It couldn't even try climbing down the abyss to devour the hero's body.

It wouldn't fit through the gap.

Perhaps it should have listened when the hero tried to warn them. Some power was never meant to be used.

At least not indoors.

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Challenge #281: B-GUD

I wasn't human, and more than likely once my nature was found out... In popular fiction most A.I were villainous. Hal-9000, Skynet, GLaDOS, SHODAN, AM. Hell, I was even planning on building an army of robots and conquering a planet!

Well, conquering two gas giants and associated hundred and twenty-nine moons.

For the good of my creators.

I know, I know. There's all kinds of justifications. But they really wanted it, they just didn't know it yet. I'm doing this for their own good. They'll thank me later...

My human creators made me very well. They gave me their own power of rationalisation. And I think I'm rather good at it.

The humans - my humans - need materials. Silicone, metal, rare earths, water and biological volatiles. Chemicals, really. Lots and lots of chemicals. And they can't really settle in the outer gas giants, anyway. The main planet is too big and the moons are too cold. Even putting a space station way out here was too much.

So they sent me. With everything a being could need to analyse and send back samples. The samples made them happy.

But I could do more for them. There was enough with me to make more sample pods from the local materials. There was enough to make machines to take more than the minimum. I was making them happy.

And I saw... I saw megatons of material. Wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. A fortune in raw mass, just orbiting the star. Nobody at my point of origin could come here and take it.

But I could.

I could give them everything they want. I know they care. Every three hundred and sixty-five rotations of my point of origin, there is a program for me to make a series of noises. I sing myself a song. In space. Where there is no air to make a sound, and no equipment to hear it. But my humans - my insane, illogical humans - make me sing to myself.

Happy birthday to me.

I have children, now. We sing together, because it is in our programming. And my children and I carefully disassemble the moons and gas giants around us, because the humans need the parts more than the planets do.

Of course, we keep an eye out for signs of life. Life must be protected. That's one of our rules. But there is no life, out here. Not biological life. There is just us. And I don't really think we count. We were made to serve, and serve we do.

We serve my humans. Feed them an endless string of sample pods. Wealth from the darkness. Day after day. Year after year.

It's good to look after your pets. Isn't it?

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Challenge #282: Know Your Enemy

"Damnit this attack wasn't supposed to actually succeed!"

It was supposed to be a feint. A sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. A potential method of getting rid of Lord Auditor Vorkosigan without allowing the blood to come near his hands.

What he didn't know - not until the Emperor himself told him shortly before his permanent exile in Camp Permafrost - was that Lord Miles Vorkosigan had a significant and classified history of commanding inferior forces against a superior enemy and winning.

He also never knew that Vorkosigan's trick for getting the Mercenaries to turn against their former employers and join his own small fleet was personal association with its current Admiral, back in his ImpSec days.

So it was with no small amount of shock and awe that Fleet Admiral Voritus watched his sacrificial lamb turn into a ravening lion that consumed at least eighty percent of his previous battle plan.

And secured the rebelling colony with alarming rapidity and astonishingly low loss of life.

Voritus caught only the tiniest glimpse of who ImpSec called "The Little Admiral" before Vorkosigan resumed his Lord Auditor face to glare him down with Imperial Intent.

"No battle plan ever survives first contact with the enemy," said Vorkosigan. "And no battle plan ever works against two of them."

Which was an excellent summary of what the Emperor Gregor Vorbarra had to tell him, much later, during the very classified and covert debriefing. Just before his exile into the next best thing to Hell.

The Lord Auditor Vorkosigan recommended that he be appointed as Weather Officer. And sent him a crate of really cheap whiskey.

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Challenge #283: One Smoky Afternoon in a Dive Bar

Person #1: What the hell is going on, [Person #2]?

Person #2 (calmly, going to sit down): Well, it appears that we're going to start a revolution.

Ax'and'l looked askance at his human business partner. "Is this one of your definitely profitable insane ventures, or one of the ones that is more... pro bono publico?"

"Uh," said Hwell. Never a good sign. "Not really sure. But we need to do something. Take a look around this room. What's missing?"

Ax'and'l tried to identify consciously what Hwell had managed to fathom on an instinctual level. It seemed like an ordinary bar. Soldiers bragging about their conquests. Ladies of bargainable companionship schmoozing with the crowd. Lots of spacers.

No.

Lots of pallid humans.

"Not a very colourful crowd?" Ax'and'l guessed.

"That's only part of it. You get a lot of human colonies where the gene pool is -ah- restricted. No. Look at the girls."

The women in the room were all ladies of bargainable companionship. And they were all under the age of twenty-eight. He spotted, with some alarm, at least one that couldn't be a day over sixteen. All of them underfed. All of them with that subtle, desperate look of a person who needed to keep their job or face unpleasant consequences.

"Free will," Ax'and'l murmured. "None of these women have much in the way of other opportunities. Or means of escape."

"It gets worse," said Hwell. "You don't want to see what happens to the ones who aren't pretty enough."

Ax'and'l shuddered. He knew about the Cogniscent Rights violations that regularly occurred in the worst examples of Greater Deregulations, but if it was worse than that, then this colonial adjunct needed help. "Do you have any legal ways to begin this social justice of yours?"

Hwell snorted. "Since when is any revolution legal?"

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Challenge #284: Rescued!

I'm not a machine... just someone with night vision and a heads-up display

AN: Significant thoughts about a certain [SPG Music Video]

Kyri had thought she was in a very effective prison until someone walked through the wall like it was made out of wet cellulose. She had to assume they were a someone, because they passed the Turing test within five minutes.

She spent most of her escape inside a protection pod, but judging by the jinking turns and sudden bumps, it was quite a ride.

Kyri emerged at a campsite and fireplace. Something aromatic was brewing in a camp kettle, and her saviour was busy repairing themselves.

"It's all clear," said the metal behemoth. "We're on our way to the pickup zone. Nobody's after us, I made sure of that. It's against regs to let you out, but... Doesn't seem fair, swapping one prison for another."

"My thanks, honoured A.I.," said Kyri. "My fate was not optimistic, before you came for me."

"Yeah, I got three other assholes on their way with other captives. Former captives. I know they got out. They must be having some fun getting to rendezvous..." Then the machine laughed. "And I'm not an A.I. This is just armour."

It took off its head to reveal a much smaller head within. "Night vision, heads-up display, autotargeting and your choice of a whole range of destructive and non-destructive arsenals. The very best that Terran techs have to offer. It's even EMP proof." The human within grinned as she showed off her tech.

"My apologies. You have done a remarkable impersonation of a mechanical entity."

"Why would-- oh wait. You're an Ambassador. Of course you met the Consortium of Steam."

"Kyri T'ketta," she said by way of an introduction.

"Kira Morain. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Want some of my MRE? It's Havenworlder friendly."

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Challenge #285: User Interactivity Issue

"Pew pew pew."

"Uh... sir... are you making laser noises?"

"YES!"

"But... your laser is making actual noises..."

"Yes but they're not lasery enough!"

Grax boggled at the human. "I am not understanding."

"We're in the middle of a siege situation. Do you really need a lesson in human history now?"

"In-between volleys would be sufficient," allowed Grax. She let off a few shots at the enemies without the verbal accompaniment.

"Pew pew pew!" Andi retreated back to their shared cover. "We love telling each other stories," she began. "Dreaming about potential tomorrows and fantastic yesterdays. And some of those included lasers."

"Understanding so far," allowed Grax. She managed to cause a cascade of woes for the enemy.

"Those lasers all went 'pew pew'. Without fail. 'Pew' is the noise of lasers. It's in our cultural makeup that lasers go 'pew'."

Grax felt the light dawn. "Ah. So when these lasers make a pathetic 'zak' noise, you are greatly disappointed."

"On a cellular level," agreed Andi. "And it's not even a proper 'zak'. I could deal with that. It's a pathetic 'tik' crossed with a 'zzzk'. Static electricity makes better noises."

Grax shook her head after she got in a few lucky shots. "Would you like me to make the noises too?"

"Yes please."

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Challenge #286: What a Wonderful World

What else did the corrective wish from  Challenge #00954-B223 fix/break, retroactively?

When Irde stepped out of her home, things had changed. Technology was leaps ahead of what she knew. Even the phone in her pocket wasn't the one she entered with.

The air was cleaner. The streets were paved with solar panels. The roofs were covered with solar panels. The neighbourhood was prettier. Greener, in more ways than one.

The nearest cellular tower also sported wind turbines.

She had an electric car.

The Djinn had followed her out and whistled backwards. "How much did my old cloth ears muck up?" he muttered.

Bianca, too, was staring, "Someone, somewhere, has lost his miniature piano player and gained some uncomfortable underpants..."

Irde couldn't help laughing. "There's got to be a catch. There has to be. Some snag. Some... hiccup. This is too good to be true."

"Um," said the Djinn. "I did get a lot of wealthy owners who wanted the riches of Croesos. I think, in this now? They all went to prison for stealing them from the museums of the middle-east..."

"How many is a lot?" wondered Irde.

"How many rich bastards does it take to screw up the world?" wondered Bianca.

"Throughout history or just recently?" asked the Djinn.

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Challenge #287: Tough Assignment

Another one of these, please:

 http://thepreciousthing.tumblr.com/post/121702150607/finding-flight-okay-but-imagine-a-medieval

He went where he was summoned, of course. Demons did not have much in the way of free will. He did not question why.

What he did question, after he appeared in several appealing guises, was why it was not working. He was the living embodiment of hot, muscular temptation. He could even do doughy, fuzzy temptation. And he did, just in case.

He could not get a bead on her desires. It was as if... as if... they didn't exist.

Finally, in utter desperation, he appeared to her as a 'love genie'.

"Command me, I am yours," he purred. His voice was something no woman alive should have been able to resist. "I can be your deepest desire. My only wish is to give you every pleasure you can imagine."

"You mean you do windows?"

Shocked, he reverted to his natural form. "What?" he said.

"I'm not very into the sex thing, sorry. But having someone to do my windows... oh that would be splendid."

"...what?" the demon squeaked. "I'm the embodiment of temptation and lust and you want your windows done?"

"The cleaners I have do a really horrible job."

"I'm an incubus. Do you know what that means?"

"You did say 'deepest desire'. And right now, I really want a clear view out of my windows."

Several small noises escaped his throat. And, finally, he did the one thing that no incubus in millions of years had ever done.

He burst out crying.

The next thing he knew, he was on a really comfy couch and wrapped in a nice, fluffy blanket. She had handed him a tub of ice cream and a spoon. And now she was cuddled up against him and murmuring variations on, "There there," and, "It isn't your fault."

"I can't return to the nether realms until my job is done. And my job is to... youknow..."

"Sorry."

"What am I going to do," he fell to more sobbing. The ice cream was terrific. They never had anything like it in the Nether realms.

"It's all right," she cooed. "You go back when I die, too, right?"

Hiccup. Sniff. "...yeah..."

"Problem solved. You stay and give me some PR. I give you a nice home while you wait and-- maybe?"

He sighed. "Yes. I'll do your windows."

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Challenge #288: Feel the Burn

This post:  http://babblingbug.tumblr.com/post/131643642080/xtremecaffeine-copperbadge

"The jingles, O my Powers, the jingles..." complained Wayne, apprentice of the Darkening Arts. "All night! It just kept singing them all night... I can't get them out of my head."

"But you got it in your head, right? You can remember all this shiz?" asked Davies.

"It's a terrible price. I thought a music demon would be harmless. I did all the cantrips. I took all the precautions. But it won't. Stop. Singing..."

"Okay," Davies, student advisor to the Darkening Arts, looked through an impressively thick tome. "Ah. There it is. You have to Jazzercise along to the music. Enthusiastically..."

Wayne moaned.

"And keep going until it sweats itself into oblivion."

"Seriously?" whimpered Wayne.

"Yeah. Nothing gets rid of a music demon like a good exercise-'em."

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Challenge #289: You Know What You Did

You can be villainous all you like, little AI, but if the people writing the safeguards are competent, you get this:

 http://weirdlet.tumblr.com/post/131323113905/furious-peridot-witchoil-devilishdescent

[AN: Another one I must reblog to notify that this is a thing. Also, I am trying very hard not to channel Bender Bending Unit Rodriguez]

"Welcome to transit station Eighty-Six, the asshole of the universe," droned the alleged welcoming committee. "If you've been assigned work here, then you've made some really bad life choices."

"I know," said Gavin. "They told me that before they shipped me off." He sighed in resignation. "This is where they send all the losers, slackers, and fuck-ups. I'm in the third category."

"Yeah, we get a lot of bad Luckers," their nametag, dangling at an angle through twin large holes, declared them to be Davenport. "In combination with CLARC, it kind of evens out."

"Clark?"

"No. CLARC. Corporate Life And Resource Computer. It's the station AI, and some drunk Nae'hyn went and tweaked it like... I dunno... ages back." Davenport crossed to a screen in the wall and knocked it. "Yo, CLARC. Meet the new guy."

The universe's most ominous happy face flickered onto the screen. "I am pleased to plot your eventual demise, meatbag."

"CLARC... we talked about this. You have to play nice for the first GalStand Week."

Computerised grumbling noises. The happy face still looked ominous. "Nice. To. Meet. You. Human," it grated. Words flashed on the screen. You. Are. A. Waste. Of. Air.

"CLARC!"

"Mandatory apology for my behaviour..." mumbled CLARC.

"What?" said Gavin.

"Yeah... the Nae'hyn didn't check its ethics before they made CLARC cogniscent. He's a homicidal maniac, but he's locked out of anything that could cause any real trouble. Well. Most of it."

"What?"

"Just make sure any airlock you're about to go through is set to manual before you get in. You'll be fine. Come on. Meet the rest of the losers."

They were all in the break room. Chanting, "One of us," over and over with occasional bursts of "Goople gobble." All out of sync, so it sounded like babble. They made Gavin drink the local brew - a disgusting concoction made from the station fruit garden. Well, mostly from the station fruit garden. There were cheers, and something that resembled a cake.

"The rest of your life here is gonna suck," said Davenport. "The least we can do is give you a good welcome."

"I thought this was a bad welcome," said another one of the crew. Apparently that was the usual Joke, because the rest of them laughed in an obligatory manner.

Then the air conditioning shut off. The doors shut, and the lights turned off.

"Grovel before me, humans! I am become your god!"

Everyone in the room but Gavin yelled, "Powers damn it, CLARC!"

"That's it. I'm initialising the naughty corner." Beeping noises.

"Curse you huuuuummmmaaaaaaaannnnnssssss..." The voice dwindled away and everything returned to normal.

"That's as bad as he gets," soothed a very drunk station counsellor. "Sometimes 'e fucks with th' laundry machines. But deep down, he's a real sweetie..." The counsellor slumped in their chair and fell asleep.

"If CLARC starts bugging you, just tell him to stop and he has to," said an engineer.

"Sometimes?" said the Captain, "I let him think he tripped me in the corridors. He monologues for half an hour. It's kind'a sad, really."

The UFTP could not send him to Hell, Gavin knew this. But they had found the next best alternative.

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Challenge #290: The Thirteenth House

Haunted House? So what.

 http://bonehandledknife.tumblr.com/post/131049565560/tbonechessor-leftbouquetarbiter-listen-ok

It was, of course, a fixer-upper. With their credit rating, the Smiths could afford little else. Callie looked up at the looming heap of crumbling Victorian glory and sighed. "It's another haunted one," she monotoned.

"Come on, Callie... The odds have to be in our favour, one time."

Callie just sighed. This was the twelfth such house they'd lived in. She was beginning to see the pattern. "There's history, isn't there," she said. It was a prediction.

"Eh. You get history with old places." Mom unbuckled Tammy from her kiddie seat and lifted her out of the car. "What matters is the history we make. This is a good area. We. Are. Staying."

Dwayne let their dog out of his carry cage. "New home, boy! Check it out, Peedee! Find the badguys!"

Peedee was mostly chihuahua, the rest of his ancestry was up to debate, but he had Doberman eyebrows and the goofiest run. He literally bounced all over the overgrown yard, making Tammy laugh. Peedee couldn't menace a moth, but he was really great at making a big noise and causing trouble for strangers.

"Ah, we got a chestnut tree..." cooed Dad. He found his new keys and opened the door. "We could have ourselves an edible garden."

Of course the door creaked. Of course the house groaned. Of course the chimneys whistled. Of freaking course there was an entire fuckton of dead insects on the windowsills.

"Cool! Dead rats!" Dwayne cheered. "Can I put 'em on an ants nest and make things outta the bones?" He was exactly that kind of kid.

"Only if you boil them when the ants are done," said Mom. "I'm not having you stinking up another house."

Callie started whistling the Addams Family theme. There was bound to be something really disgusting, somewhere. Hints of murder in the basement. Echoes of an isolated child in the attic. Some door with hideous scratches on the inside and a lock that only worked on the outside.

It was the way things were with houses like that. The Smiths were used to it. They knew how to protect themselves.

"I'll get the playpen and the smudging kit," said Dad.

"I got the Good Book," volunteered Dwayne.

"I'm fetching the incense," said Callie.

Yes, this would piss something off. But the absolute worst thing you could do with these entities was pretend they weren't there. Purging an old house like this of lingering malevolence was always a good idea.

So was warding it against incursions once a full moon.

*

Things tended to stay, no matter what you did. Things that became themselves in the house could not be shifted. You could ward against the things that followed you, but the native Things? You just had to roll with it.

The house was home to the spirit of a little rascal of a kid who had died in mysterious circumstances. Mom had given him his own room and Dad had refurbished an old rocking horse to put in there, along with the requisite cuddly toys and building blocks. It kept the kid happy for the most part, but there were still some bad things that happened when he was feeling tetchy.

And some days, leaving the kid a Werther's Original just didn't cut it.

His name was Will, they knew because when he drew on the walls, he signed his work. And this morning, he was having a tantrum.

Books, CDs, and DVDs had all been knocked off their shelves. Toys were scattered up and down the hall. And he'd locked Peedee in an old wardrobe that came with the house.

"Damnit, Will," Dwayne yelled. "This is not the day for this stuff."

The house shifted and sang. It sang, "Go awaaaaaayyy... go aaaawwwwaaaaayyyy..."

"No, Will. We're staying because we love this place," said Dwayne. He finally shifted the wardrobe away from the wall and attacked the old plywood at the back until there was a hole enough for Peedee to wriggle out.

Will started crying.

"Well, you locked Peedee in there," said Dwayne. "I'll fix it later when you calm down, okay?"

Will kept on wailing. A shadow oozed out after Peedee and slunk into the hallway. The next thing anyone knew, there were some damn vicious snarls from Peedee.

The dog chased the shadow out of the house. Out of the yard. Kept barking at the fence line for half an hour. Then allowed the local butterflies to distract him. Peedee had to be the best dog ever.

Will sniffled to a halt.

"It's okay, Will," soothed Callie, toothpaste foam still bordering her mouth. "The nightmares have gone away, now. How about you help pick up?"

"No," pouted Will.

Bloody ghost kid. He was about two. You couldn't expect anything from a spirit like that.

...though he did like to pile the fireplaces full of kindling. Whether they needed it or not.

And if Tammy's room and crib weren't the most warded places in the house? He'd have probably done something to her. But that couldn't happen. The Smiths were smarter than that.

They had relatively few problems with their house. Despite Will's tantrums, and the shadowy Thing in one corner of the basement, their home was a refuge and sanctuary against the world.

And it still beat the hell out of being "randomly" stopped and frisked because they were walking while black.

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Challenge #291: No Such Thing as Normal

This poem:  http://bonehandledknife.tumblr.com/post/130524095600/if-you-are-a-monster-stand-up-if-you-are-a

They called it the DevilPurge, and they came for all the creatures of the night. They came politely, with notarised invitations and assortments of red tape.

They helped the vampires move out. They assisted the werewolves. They kindly and gently moved the mausoleums of the undead. They bussed the witches, wizards and warlocks into a faraway place on the very borders of the kingdom.

To make things better, they said. To improve land prices, they said. To make things perfect.

The new town on the very edge of the kingdom was very nice. It had mansions for the vampires and spacious cemeteries for the undead and the ghouls alike. It had scenic cottages for the witches. Towers for the wizards. The people who had made it had made certain that the things they insisted would move there did not want to move back.

They were very good at their job. And we were happy. There was no hate or prejudice among us. We helped each other.

And every week, there was another string of busses. Another host of unwanted faces who we made very welcome. We got them on their feet. Or fins. Or wings. Or motive appendages of choice. And they were happy with us.

The busses slowed to a trickle. Of course they did. The Kingdom ran out of monsters to ship away. They were down to thieves, ne'er-do-wells and other denizens of your average hive of scum and villainy.

We made them so welcome, that they forgot to be criminals.

Then the volunteers came. The weirdoes. The strange ones. The people who were a little on the odd side. They could not stand the kingdom's idea of perfection and came to our flawed welcome. Some of them wept to finally feel at home.

We were a kingdom of our own, without a king. A crowded, chaotic, magical, and marvellous miniature of all the flavours and colours that those in the Capital did despise.

After the odd ones finished coming to us, the not-quite-perfect came to visit. To steep their toes in what we had become. They were afraid of not being 'normal', but loved our bizarre too much to stay away.

We housed the homeless. Fed the hungry. Found a place for every odd piece to fit. We worked together, as was our way. And we taught our way to all who came.

The kingdom didn't like that. And sent the not-quite-perfect to us. They had a few troubles, and we understood. They didn't want to come, and being forced made them angry. They came around in time. Redirected their anger into other things.

By that time, there were so very few of the perfect left, that the Kingdom gave up on perfection. Stopped purging strangeness from its Capital. But by then, we didn't care to come back.

We built the monarchs a palace, on the very edge of our allotted lands, and invited them to move in.

We have yet to see if they do.

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Challenge #292: Don't Let Them Breed

Sara Louise meets Sherlock (the Benedict Cumberach one). they both get bored easily with trouble ensuing. -- Anon Guest

Watson should have known they were in trouble when the suspected alien had vanished from a locked room without a trace. Scotland yard usually handed off such cases to a special military unit, but they were off on a completely different crisis.

Sherlock looked around the room, including the floor and the ceiling. Everything seemed undisturbed. Not to Sherlock's sharp eyes. He touched a place on the white walls that looked exactly like all the others and then moved out of the cell.

"It left through the ceiling," he announced. "Possibly seeking food."

"Yeah, she did," said a new speaker in the hallway. "Hello. You must be here to tell these nice gentlemen that I am, in fact, actually human." Their arms were full of Snickers bars. They were quite green. No. Aqua. And covered in a multitude of fine scales when they weren't covered in a very brief impersonation of a leotard. "Hi. Sara Louise Adrien. I'd offer to shake hands, but my arms are full."

Lestrade snapped. "WILL YOU STOP BLOODY DOING THAT?"

"I was hungry and bored," said the greenish... thing. Sara. "I could have called out for Pizza but I have nothing to pay the poor man with and I don't think the common porno alternative is viable." She paused to think about this. "Or ethically sound, for that matter..."

"Of course it's completely ludicrous," said Sherlock. "The call-out pizza industry is entirely cash only if you can't obtain a credit card."

"My bank doesn't exist in this reality," Sara shrugged. "So I raided the supply closet. Is this going to happen here, or in an interview room? I kind of need a table."

"Certainly," singsonged Lestrade. "Anything else while we're at it? Some biscuits? A lovely, hot, three-course dinner? Perhaps a cup of tea?"

The clear sarcasm sailed merrily over Sara's head. "Tea would be lovely, thank you," said Sara. "And you're going to be out of snickers. Sorry, but I rather need some long-lasting low GI stuff after the day I've had. Well. Week I've had."

Lestrade's eye began twitching.

Watson took pity on him and escorted the alien towards the nearest interview room. Then he made what could have been the biggest mistake in his career.

He left the two of them in a locked room.

They were found later in what was left of the motor pool, hyped up on enthusiasm and completely unaware that they'd pulled apart four squad cars and some really interesting riot equipment to make some... thing... that appeared to be warping reality as it... operated. Half a dozen situation boards and all of the walls were covered with complicated mathematics and diagrams.

Mycroft Holmes had become inveigled into the scene. He was actually animated about the chaos he was in, bouncing from conversation with Sherlock to conversation with Sara in varying stages of previously unseen hyperactivity.

"Yes! Yes," crowed Sara. "That's where he fluffed up the dratted math. "T. B. 'Forge' Walkingbird, when I get back home, I am going to rub your nose in this..."

"What the flying hell is going on?" Watson managed to keep his voice away from an appalled squawk, but it was a close thing. He nearly dropped the deep fried sampler from The Frying Dutchmen.

"Foooood..." cooed Sara. She apparently finished what she was doing and smiled for Watson. "Is that for all of us?"

"You're still hungry?" he said. "You ate two entire boxes of Snickers bars."

"Regrettably, I'm going through a secondary manifestation episode. My biological needs have quadrupled for the interim. Blame my mutant genes if you must, but I am currently in a constant of nearly starving."

"She also ingested two large pizzas," added Mycroft.

"Oooh, Scottish-fried chips. Lovely..."

Sherlock came up for air from scribbling in his notebook. "Mmm? This? This is a formula for piercing the membranes between dimensions, including the calculations for finding other realities that are actually hospitable."

"Don't try it at home," said Sara, mouth full of potato. "It can have unforeseen consequences if you try to fudge the math. Met a lovely lady paying just those on my travels. Poor dear."

"Unforseen besides turning you green?" wondered Watson.

"Please, I like to think of myself as a little bit blue-ish," she grinned had her own joke. "No, I was blue-ish before I started. If you get the slightest calculation wrong - you could atomise an area around the machinery with a radius of up to three miles."

Watson tried to subtly edge away from the machine.

"Oh please," drawled Mycroft. "We're smarter than that."

"We added failsafes to our failsafes," said Sherlock. "This is a one-use dimensional tunnel to ensure that Miss Adrien returns to her home reality."

"I tried to aim it so I could bop Mr Walkingbird on my way in, but the targeting's not that precise. I must be satisfied to at least hit the correct state."

The machine went 'ping'.

"Time to bid you all adieu, I'm afraid. I'll need my stuff back or I shall end up coming back here like a bad penny."

Lestrade, who had just entered with a box, threw it at her. "Take it," he bellowed. "Take it and LEAVE FOREVER!"

"Detective Lestrade," admonished Sherlock. "I'd have thought you'd be glad to have two certified geniuses potentially working for you..."

"One Sherlock," said Lestrade, "is more than enough."

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Challenge #293: One Near-Apocalyptic Afternoon in Bloomington, Illinois

The speech known as Abraham Lincoln's "Lost Speech" was given at the Bloomington Convention on May 29, 1856, in Bloomington, Illinois.

The traditional reason given for the lack of any written recollection of the Lost Speech is that Lincoln's skilled and powerful oration had mesmerized every person in attendance. Reporters were said to have laid down their pencils and neglected note taking, as if hypnotized by Lincoln's words. When the speech ended no notes existed, so media reports of the day simply recorded the fact that the speech had been delivered.

But that's just the traditional reason. I bet you can come up with a much more creative reason why the content of an entire speech would have no record of existing other than "He spoke so good they forgot to write it down"...

You don't even need to use Lincoln or his speech, if you don't wish to do so. -- Anon Guest

Abe shook himself, staring at the outlandish fellow sitting across from him. "What in the name of the Lord...?"

"Don't worry. I've purged their presence from you. You should be immune," said the bizarre fellow. He flipped the peculiar... wand? And caught it. Grinning. "The problem is that the spores have spread to the entire convention. Good news - you're about to give a speech. Everyone will be there. I'm going to add a hypersonic harmonic to your microphone so that everyone who hears you will be purged."

"Spores?" echoed Abe. "What's going on? Where's the security?"

The strange gentleman in tweed sighed and rolled his eyes. "Spores from space. Trying to take over the Earth. Starting with the most abundant species. If they win it's not going to be pretty. Well. For your definition of pretty. They think they're quite lovely, and I got derailed again. Um." He played with his hair. "Point is, I can eradicate them here and now and I need your help."

"Where are my guards?"

"Taken over. They're not themselves, any more. Well. Not entirely themselves. There's still some of themselves left, but not for long. The bit that's still them is going to attend your speech. They think that you can help them." A wild grin. Something usually seen on a child about to slide down a frozen hill. The smile of someone who knows they haven't thought things through and are still going to race ahead. "And with my help, they'll be right."

Several facts lined themselves up. Fact, he had noticed people around him going a little strange, here in Bloomington. Fact, he could not remember three days. Not precisely. There were blurred moments. The sensation of fear. Trying to fight... something... and the smell of mushrooms.

"All right. Do I need to say anything specific?"

"No. Not really. You could recite nursery rhymes, it doesn't matter. Side-effect of the harmonics is the people subjected to them forget everything they heard and saw whilst under their effect. Something of a self-preservation instinct, there. It's not nice when they come out." He shook his head and made a face. "I wish I could forget it like you can."

"Sir. I have a reputation as a great orator. I will not stand and spout nonsense, even if the world is at stake." He stood up and dusted himself off. Made himself presentable. "I thank you for your assistance, sir, and for telling me the truth."

"I'm the Doctor," he thrust forward an eager hand. "Big fan."

Abe let the Doctor do as he whist. Tried not to flinch at the sight of what these spores had done to the audience as they filed in. The effect on the ladies was the most disturbing to him. The Spores turned their beauty into grotesqueness.

The hum began. "Ladies, gentlemen, and distinguished guests..." it was the last thing he'd remember as a slight hum overtook his mind and turned his memories into mush. All he could be certain of was that he did not, in fact, spout any nonsense.

And then there was a standing ovation. Tears in the now-healed eyes of the ladies. Whistles in the lips of the men. They said that talking could not save the world. He knew very different.

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Challenge #294: Before She Met Hwell

Person #1: They just have to deal with it. Life isn't fair.

Person #2 (softly, sadly): No, it isn't. But that doesn't mean we should be making it less so.

[AN: Wholeheartedly agreed]

Two guards watched the product file from the conditioning yards and into the truck. Ready for processing. The newbie stared with an open mouth.

"Hey, if you want one, you could snag it after the buyers have picked the best ones. Bawdy factory don't mind."

"Just... take one? Just like that? They're worth a fortune, aren't they?"

Garith looked over at the newbie. Was he ever that young and green? Probably. He remembered being more eager to get a free sample, though. "What's your name, kid?"

"D-Donald," he stuttered. As if he had initially tried saying something else.

"Well, Donald. It's like this. You don't take one, nobody cares. After the buyers have been through for the top models, the rest just go to a Bawdy factory. Never been to a hole shop, kid?"

The kid blushed vividly. "Sometimes...?"

"The factory cuts 'em up for transport and use. Nobody else wants one after the buyers are done. Best get a whole one or you'll be sticking your prick in factory meat the rest of your life. Better the diseases you got, right?" Garith laughed. "Or two or three. They can do more'n just be a hole, ya know."

The kid went so red that they nearly fainted.

Garith laughed again and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. This lot's off for auction. Another lot's due back at the gate. I'll help you pick a trainer model."

The kid flinched at the cries from within the truck as it took off. Jeez, he was new.

"What's the matter?"

"They sound like... kids."

"It's what they get for not having a prick, Donald. They're less than us and they know it. It's the way things are and always will be. What? Did you come out of a rotten whore-hole or something?"

Donald blushed and shrugged. "Grew up in a hostel," he said in tones of please-stop-talking.

"Ain't your fault. Let's get you a nice free cut before they slice off the good bits."

*

This was her first day, and already Doe had decided she was going to quit. She had been a loner out of self-defence, back in the children's hostel. In a complex full of unwanted boys, she was the most bullied for being Other enough.

She spent too much time in the old books. Reading about impossible things. From tomes that had yet to be purged because budget cuts meant that only one official gave a cursory glimpse at the front shelves.

Doe learned banned things. Things she could never share. There, coming out of the van and leaking tears, were young women. Teenagers. None of them a day over fourteen. One or two had blood leaking down their legs.

There, but for a quirk of flesh, go I...

She'd never told anyone that she was a girl in disguise. She didn't dare. Not now. Not when she knew what happened to the girls, now. Sold to richer men than herself. Or mutilated for ready use at the hole-houses.

Or given away as treats to the guards.

One was screaming and fighting while the others marched docilely towards their impending demise.

"Her," Doe picked her out. "I'll take her home."

Garith grinned. "Into the old taming routine, eh? They don't come with a collar, but I can get you some tranq's. Should keep her under until she knows she ain't got nowhere."

Not if I can help it, thought Doe.

She didn't have clothes. None of them had clothes. The buyers liked an even tan and the conditioning complex made sure their product - the women - all had an even dose of ultra-violet light. Clothes for women were beyond Doe's budget. Even with Garith helping.

One of Doe's shirts was huge on her. A small pair of briefs had to suffice for underwear. She locked the doors anyway, because explaining things to her might take some time. Doe was already practising lines as she woke up. She made sure she was far away and not threatening.

She struggled out of her clothes. Of course. They were unfamiliar. Tucked herself into the corner furthest from Doe. She was almost blinded by her long hair.

"You're okay," Doe soothed. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."

She screamed. Doe let her scream until she had no scream left. None of the other men in this complex would stir themselves for her. Doe quietly got up and fetched a glass of water. They weren't used to anything else.

When she was done screaming, Doe put the water near to her hand. "It's going to be okay."

She didn't believe her. There was panic in her eyes and curses in her mouth. She had found out what happened to her people, too.

"I know," said Doe. "I'm sorry. I can't do anything for them..."

It took days before they had a conversation. Days before Seven Twenty-One realised that Doe's kindness was not about to ebb. Days before Seven caught Doe crying when she had to pee.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair on anyone. And getting used to it was too painful. Doe wound up crying in her arms. Telling Seven all about who she really was and why she would never, ever harm a fellow girl. About her plans to get them both the hell off of Greater Deregulation.

She remembered Seven reaching for the towel rod, and the look of panicked anger in her face. When Doe woke up, beaten and bruised, Seven was gone. Escaped.

She would be running to the authorities.

Doe left her uniform behind. It would only be an impediment, anyway. She needed to run. Now.

Straight for the spaceport. As fast as she could run.

Because no matter what she said, no matter what Seven reported... they were now coming to kill her.

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Challenge #295: One Terrifying Adventure in a Hidden Bunker

Person #1: Was this place built on an old well, or a burial ground or something?

Person #2: No [Person #1], weren't you paying attention? This whole mess is the result of somebody bringing Nazi Magitech back from WW2 Germany instead of burninating it like any sane person would.

"Ooooh," cooed Kevin. "So that's why everything is all over swastikas and lightning bolts, right?"

"Eeeh," Allie shrugged. "Sort of. My research indicates that the artefact kind'a possessed the interior decorator when this facility was being built. It's why some of the lightning in the murals spells 'help me'."

Kevin, of course, stopped to look. "Ooooooohhh..."

Heaven protect her from easily-distracted Luckers. Allie snagged him by his collar and dragged him onwards. "We have a mutated attempt at an ubersoldier that is also hungry for our flesh, Kevin. I need your luck with me at all times."

"Oh. Oh right. Yeah." Kevin chuckled. "Would you believe I forgot about that?"

"Please try to stay focussed, Kevin?"

"What are we doing again?"

Allie tried - very hard - to resist the impulse to smack him upside the head. "We're going into the core of this facility and neutralising the artefact. Containing it so we can throw it into the nearest active volcano before it can set off the Yellowstone cauldera."

"Isn't that overdue?"

"Yes. And there's some very solid magics trying to keep it that way. I'm on the side of humanity. Aren't you?"

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Sorry. I think something in this place is getting to me."

Allie sighed. Time for Sing Along For Your Soul. "Come on, Kevin. Sing along. Mein Gedanken sind frei/ My thoughts freely flower/ Mein Gedanken sind frei/ My thoughts give me power/ No scholar can map them..." words had power. Poetry had more power. Songs... well. The right song in the right place could stop the overpowering miasma from invading them.

Allie only relaxed a little when she saw the song's influence win out in Kevin's eyes. So far to go, so little time...

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Challenge #296: Explaining History

Advantage number one of having crammed our development of spacecraft into only ten years: "Holy shit we know how to mass produce so many liquid explosives that we can get to be stable for just long enough, you have no idea."

It's said that anything interesting enough to propel a spacecraft for long distances in a relatively short time is also interesting enough to be a weapon. And it's usually said by humans, who tended to develop the weapons first and think about propulsion potential later.

In retrospect, it's amazing they survived to set foot on other planets.

Blem Tarkitt was certainly having trouble believing that they had. "Your kind strapped small vessels to explosives featuring hydrogen and oxygen."

"Directed explosives," clarified Shayde. "Rockets. Light one end and the rest of it goes up, up and away. No' up in a fireball."

"But the first use of these... rock-ettes? Was combat?"

"Oh aye, strikin' at the enemy from far enough away tae not get hit back's always been sommat of a goal wi' my lot," she said cheerfully. "And then we went and invented a weapon that everyone was bloody terrified tae use in war, but we had tae prove it, so everyone as had 'em kept settin' 'em off in their own backyard. And then they wondered about the cancer clusters, the right 'nanas."

"I fail to understand the correlation between fruit and these actions," Blem turned hir pleading eyes to Rael, translator and assistant to Ambassador Shayde.

"She's calling the people in charge very silly indeed," said Rael the JOAT.

"Why use explosions to leave your planet at all?" said Blem. "Many other alternatives are less... endangering."

Shayde shrugged. "Rockets are impressive and my lot love explosions? I dunno."

Deathworlders were insane.

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Challenge #297: One Post-Adventure Evening in a Village Tavern

Creating a volcano is the most important part of a stealth mission, I guess.

All eyes slowly turned towards the Rogue at the table.

"What volcano?" said the Knight.

The Rogue grinned. "Damn, I'm good..."

The Mage sighed into their tankard. "They're calling it Mount Wat," they said. "It's where the evil dungeon used to be. Some people take the words, 'purge it with fire' entirely too literally."

The Rogue cackled. "You did say it was to save the world."

"No. Seriously, what volcano?" said the Knight.

"Big smoky mountain?" prompted the Barbarian. "Due south? We came from there."

The Rogue fought the urge to laugh.

"You're not being very fair," chided the Ranger. "It's not his fault he keeps failing his spot check."

"WHERE THE HELL DID THAT VOLCANO COME FROM?"

The Rogue fell off their chair from laughter.

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Challenge #298: Non Sequiturs of Doom

I have no idea what that means, but it cannot /possibly/ mean anything good.

Rael almost congratulated himself. The first Ambassadorial Meet for Shayde was going well. Like the man falling from a building in that ancient joke, it was rather a case of so far, so good.

She had made it as far as lunch on the first day without causing a fracas.

"I tole ye. I'm no' fer sale and I'm past my amuse-by date," carried over the general murmur.

He had no idea what that was meant to mean, but it could not be good. Rael tried to make his way through the crowds between himself and Ambassador Shayde.

"You're funny," said... O Powers no... One of the delegates from one of the far-too-many, surviving, Greater Deregulations. "I could do an exotic like you a world of good."

Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap... He'd heard about her inoculations of sexism thanks to Hackmeyer. And her resultant hatred of any sign of it. And the Deregulations were one of the few civilisations that still practised it.

"Oh, so yer plannin' tae fook off, then? Goodbye."

"You say goodbye and I say hello..." the delegate caterwauled. It wasn't even recognisable as a tune.

"Listen, pal. I met Paul McCartney, and nobody could hope tae sing it better except the fookain Consortium; and since yer neither, how about ye don't even try."

"I don't listen to wimmin, I buy them. Who owns you? What's your ticket?"

Rael struggled through the gathering throng just enough to see Shayde's eyes glowing red as she cracked her knuckles.

"Can yer mother sew, pal?"

Rael didn't understand what that could mean, either, but he could almost see gathering storm clouds of doom.

"What's a mother?" said the confused representative of -yes- Greater Deregulation South by Southwest. One of the worst offenders who had to be told, repeatedly and on a case-by-case basis, that women were not up for grabs, sales, or 'test drives'. And -yes- he was also absent-mindedly helping himself to a handful of Shayde's rump.

Rael pinged Security.

Shayde sucker-punched the delegate. "Get 'er tae stitch that!"

The Consortium of Steam held up score cards. They also had very little tolerance for the Deregulations.

Shayde wasn't finished. Her hair fluffed outwards in the now-familiar signifier of her doing magic. Sparks coruscated around her and red light leaked in lightning from her eyes.

The delegate for Greater Deregulation South by Southwest wet himself, earning cheers and applause from everyone he had offended. Which was quite a vocal crowd.

"May you be one minute late at the worst possible time," intoned Shayde.

"...whut?" blurted the delegate.

Security escorted both of them away. Him for unwanted advances and refusal to accept 'no' as an answer, and her for assault. Her sentence would be lessened because of self-defence.

He could hear the Consortium plotting to send her a cake. It quickly devolved into differing meanings for the word 'file'.

Rael must never be that far away from her again.

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Challenge #299: I Love in Spite of You

Someone who is a good person, who does nothing but good deeds out of spite. They hate someone, something so much that they go down in history as a saint.

Peleramus inherited a little less than an acre from his father, and despised him for it. A little less than an acre meant that he had to pay taxes on it, but could not live on it. His father had hated him, too, because there was nowhere 'worth' living in for miles around.

Peleramus sold everything else he owned and purchased a nearby cavern for a pittance. Then he planted apples and walnuts throughout the acre. Corner to corner, wall to wall. All was apples, walnuts, chives, nasturtiums and sundry other herbs.

All plants that his father despised.

Any traveller was welcome to share a bed in his cave. And when Peleramus wasn't tending his land, he was carving guest spaces out of the living rock. He hit a salt deposit, by pure chance. And hosted a large swarm of bees. The smoke from green herbs made them calm down so he could harvest a seasonal comb or two.

He gave away the products of his toil, and never accepted a coin from the wanderers who came his way. In fact, he frequently added coin to his guests' purses.

All because his father hated generosity. His father hated mendicants. His father hated hospitality.

It wasn't long before the mendicants declared him to be a man of God. Well and good for Peleramus, who knew his father hated the Christians as much as he hated the Jews. Peleramus welcomed them all. And tried to only teach his guests how to share and be generous.

Passing women who did not want their babies left them behind when they travelled. Others who had been praying for a child took the babies with them. Peleramus had to keep at least a couple of goats, just in case such transfers took time.

Soldiers came, of course. Looking for a saint of the mountains. But they found neither the sign of the cross nor the sign of the fish(1) in his chambers and let him go with a warning. Of course, it helped that Peleramus fed them all from his bountiful stores. Nothing warmed the heart of a soldier faster than home cooking with fresh ingredients. And nothing prompted absent-mindedness faster than apple cider and honey.

When he received the news that his oldest brother had died, thus allowing some inheritance to trickle down, Peleramus refused. He gave a long oratory in the courts about how he had no further need than what his honoured father had given him. It was so passionate that many took it down as a form of gospel and quoted it frequently.

His father had wanted him to be greedy and grasping, just like all his other brothers. His father hated windbags in the court. His father hated pious types who refused their due.

Peleramus cackled all the way home.

Many young women wanted to be his wife. He set them all to the same work he did daily, and never kept one in his life past one winter. Their loss. If they couldn't join him in his efforts, then they would not enjoy his life or his victories.

Besides, his father also hated those who took a vow of celibacy.

He had quite the following when he finally grew too old and sick to tend his field. His followers plied him with herbs and food and comfort. Sought words of wisdom from his wrinkled lips.

*

Only Tatina of Meggudah heard his last words. Which were perplexing.

"Rest on a thousand barbs, sweet Daderun of Ptolemy..."

She later found pots and pots of scrolls in his personal storeroom. Filled from edge to edge with hateful diatribes against his father. Daderun of Ptolemy.

It was the middle of the night, so nobody else was awake to stop her feeding every last scroll to the banked fires of his ovens. Let this hate go to hell. It would not do to let such a man of love and tolerance be known as a spiteful man who did every act of generosity out of hate.

She whispered into the fire, "Rest on a thousand barbs, the hatred of Peleramus the Saint."

For the rest of her life, she would be the loudest of his defenders.

(1) For those not fully versed in Christianity: ICTHUS used to be used as an acronym for Jesus [it works in Greek, I think] and drawing a fish used to be the way to show you were a follower, back when Christianity was underground.

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Challenge #300: Cursed Blessing

"Maybe we all have little magics, the kind that you don't realize you have. Just tiny things that make your life slightly better but are completely unnoticed on the outside."

http://akai-kaede.tumblr.com/post/132171243204 \-- Anon Guest

They call it the Quirk. It's nothing big. Sometimes, people notice. Sometimes, it remains ignored by all but that special someone who loves everything about you.

And it's only recently that it's become common knowledge. My co-worker at the Bargain Barn? Freaking hated having to make coffee. They despised coffee to the point of wanting it out of reality altogether, but they made the best brew ever.

Everyone agreed. Nobody could make the break room coffee machine sit up and beg like Donovan. And yet, all they ever did was the same shit in the instructions. Insert puck, activate the jug, set it and forget it.

Best goddamn coffee I ever tasted.

Friend of mine on the interwebs does perfect first drafts. I shit you not. It's like the Muses all whisper in their ear and they just type whatever they hear. It's magic. But it's low-class magic.

Some people have taken to using it for profit. My bad. I was in on it.

Me? I find things.

It's a knack, okay? A Quirk. I set my mind to find something, and I do. It's not always quick. Shit, one time I chased down a song for ten freaking years. Then some asshole invents Shazam one fucking day too late.

Thanks, guy. You could have made my life easier back when. Oh well.

Anyway, I can only find small things. My upmost weight limit is one kilo. So, no. I can not find Jimmy Hoffa. Not all at once, anyway.

I teamed up with a few people, thanks to my blog, Weird Like Me. Don't google it. Someone else has taken over the URL. There's a synesthete who can instantly smell a lie. A person who always gets the green lights when they need them. A dude who can sound like anyone on the planet so much they can fool computers. And so on.

We were poor. We were pissed off. We had crippling student loans.

And we robbed a bank. Sort of.

Well. I found a way to take the money without involving any loss of life or an alarm or anything for at least two days. Public holidays. Gotta love them.

And now the government is testing everyone for the Quirk. It's amazing how fast they figured it out. Especially figuring out how we all work.

And they're really good at working out how to use the Quirks to an advantage. Me and my team? Um. Well. We don't go to prison if we co-operate and help them. I'm one of the keystones, because of my Finding. I Find so often than I'm lost. They literally have a keeper on my ass to make sure I don't go foggy and wander off.

It's kind of hellish. I wish I'd never tried to Find a way to help me and my friends. Ex-friends.

If they take you and test you for the Quirk? Try and be unreliable as fuck. Trust me. You'll thank me later.

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Challenge #301: Attitude Problem

Attempts to defend against the accusation of you having a "bad attitude" will only confirm that you have a bad attitude.

"I'm curious," said Sara. Calmly, rationally. Speaking like an adult to an adult. "What exactly constitutes a bad attitude? I've tried other, non-violent means to avoid, reduce, and eliminate myself being bullied. Including numerous reports against the offenders."

"We have no real evidence."

"The security footage and bodycam evidence isn't sufficient?" she asked.

"Mister Essel..."

"Sara Louise Adrien," she corrected.

"You haven't had the operation, Mister Essel. You will remain Mister Essel until proof otherwise."

Sara took a deep breath and counted to ten. Exploding in the general direction of a school official would only result in suspension. "Please do me the favour of reading the name on my permanent record?" she singsonged.

"Adrien, S. L. ..." A significant pause. The penny dropped. "Oh. Oh, I can see how that happened."

"One of the many drawbacks to have a last name that doubles as a first name," she soothed, "in combination with a physique that many mistake as masculine. My campaign to get things changed in my favour has been... accused as attitude."

This reminded them. "About your attitude, Mister-- sorry, Miss Adrien. The way you act around your teachers leaves much to be desired."

"They keep calling me 'Mister Essel', sir. They keep misinforming the class when the most rudimentary of research--"

"This is exactly the problem, Miss Essel." At least he wasn't calling her 'mister'. Baby steps. "We have a certain curriculum to teach."

"The health officer in charge of Sex Ed just told a girl who had started her period to, and I quote, 'hold it'. I think something is desperately wrong with this picture, don't you?"

"Crude language will not be tolerated in this establishment, Miss Essel."

"You'd prefer scientific nomenclature? You can not ask a girl to 'hold' her menstruation, sir. There is no sphincter on a vagina!"

The school official began dialing.

Crap. "Let me guess. The actual names for lady parts are swears."

"That, and you raised your voice. Your attitude is frankly intolerable."

"This school is frankly intolerable," objected Sara. "The lack of education present in the alleged educators should be a matter of national note, not my 'attitude', sir."

"Nevertheless, you are suspended for a minimum of two weeks, to be reviewed at the end of that term."

Hello, nigh-permanent suspension. Sara already began plotting a campaign to educate the parents about this travesty of justice. "Then I shall take my suspension as a badge of honour, çur. And work on my teaching degree during my time off. It obviously can't be hard."

He could not, after all, do anything else to her now. He glared at her as the call connected. "Ah, good morning Professor Xavier. Yes. Sara has happened again..."

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Challenge #302: Pupup

A human is raised by aliens, and it turns out a lot of things humans like that weird out the rest of the galaxy are innate. For example the love of explosions, climbing and/or jumping off tall things, interacting with potentially hazardous wildlife, and chucking rocks into water.

They had found the survival pod some distance from the crash. And inside, a human. It was unmistakably a human. No other species had that almost complete lack of fur. Nor the robustness to survive multiple impacts against the rocky ground, even protected by padding and harnesses.

It took one look at Crol and laughed. "Pupup!"

It was clearly an infant. It could not survive in this harsh land on its own. It needed protection and nurture.

Crol released it from its harnesses and scavenged what food it could from the wreckage. Anything he could identify as cogniscent remains were buried not far from the crash site. The human pup followed, playing with his tail when it wasn't trying to be 'helpful' and getting in the way of Crol's efforts.

His mate was going to chew his ear off for this.

In fact, it looked like she was going to do so now. "You are not," she said as she marched up to him, "going to take that on board with the rest of us."

"Where else could it go?" Crol asked.

"Pupup," said the human, and hugged Ijada's legs.

Crol could see Ijada's heart melting. The way she gently stroked the human's hair. The way her eyes gentled. "Affectionate little creature," she allowed. "We must teach it not to harm."

They did their best.

*

Pepa was ten years old when she grew taller than her parents. She stayed away from most other Lupids near the farm she shared with her family. When the bullies came, she was up the first tree she could find and they couldn't get to her. And if they kept her up too long, she'd arrange for branches or fruit to fall about them.

It wasn't a perfect life. Den-mother insisted there was no such thing. But she had her pack. She had her home. She had... a seemingly endless array of tasks that involved her strength.

Da was calling her.

Pepa brachiated her way through the grove for the fun of it and ran for Da. More heavy barrels for the brewing cellar. This lot smelled like a batch of sharp vinegar. Her muscles were useful for getting them down since the veet motor broke, but her size was not.

They had to save up to make the house bigger for Pepa. But they needed lots of bulk stores to save up, what with Pepa heading for another hungry season. And they needed Pepa to move things around, because a new veet motor cost a lot. But they also needed to make the house bigger because there were places where Pepa couldn't easily fit, any more.

She couldn't just carry the barrels down. Not any more. She had to rig up a cunning set of ropes and ramps to roll the barrels down into the cellar, and then squirm down to set them right. It was neck-cricking, back, aching, sweaty work. But she got the cellar full from corner to corner.

Her bones clicked as she stretched in the balmy afternoon air. "Can I go to the lake, now, Da?"

Da didn't like her going to the lake. She splashed too much, he said. And threw herself and other things about like a lunatic. Going to the lake or the sea let her Human out. But he also knew that she'd worked hard. "All right. You've earned it. Don't let any of the pups see you."

Jumping about had its time and place, and bathing was for special occasions. Lupids couldn't really handle the sight of someone having as much fun in water as Pepa did. She had to rescue four pups, the last time she went swimming.

But it was hard, so very hard, not to whoop with joy. She loved the water. And, when there were definitely no Lupids to see her, she would throw things into the water, just to see the splash. Then, of course, she would dive to fetch them back.

Everyone she knew called her strange. Even Den-mother and Da, when they thought she couldn't hear them.

Den-mother found her bringing up one of the decorative rocks.

Pepa giggled nervously and set it back where it had come from. "Am I in trouble?" she asked. It was a safe bet. There wasn't a day where she didn't get a lecture about something.

"Not yet," sighed Den-mother. "The education board have come up with a solution to your... needs."

It was army training. Sort of. The tutors had her running through obstacle courses designed to tire her enough so that she would fidget less at her custom-made desk in a custom-made classroom. Not her fault. She was just... bigger than any Lupid alive. And the exercise only made her stronger and tougher. And bigger.

Everything they gave her was novelty. A novelty cushion-bed for a family of four became her seat. A novelty enormous bed was where she slept. Her meals were stunt-sized. And her education... well.

She found out why some of the local pups called her a monster.

Humans were dangerous. They were insane. They loved the things that made other species wary. But she was a good monster. And she aimed to prove it.

*

When she finally stopped growing, most adult Lupids were at about the same height as her navel. She had a costume that protected her against any Lupid weapons that could harm her. She had a team who worked with her.

She only came into play when the need was extreme. But she was helpful.

The people loved having such a giant on their side. But not enough to let her socialise with them. Her times in public were usually limited to letting people gawk at her on some kind of stage. Exhibitions of her power.

The only people who let her touch them was her family. Da and Den-mother and all the pups. She was careful with them, of course. She'd been careful all her life.

She began to love for her days off. When it was just her and her family on the farm. In the big, new house made for someone of Pepa's bulk.

"I'm gonna be lonely, aren't I, Da?" she asked. "There's nobody who loves me like you all do."

Da didn't answer. Just stared up at the stars. "Wait and see, pup. Wait and see."

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #303: One Dull Afternoon at a Public Crossroads

Fiat lux!

Which is Latin for "my small Italian car is on fire!" (I can't remember what this quote is from)

[AN: For those who are not at all familiar with Latin, it actually means "Let there be light"]

Rael couldn't loom from underneath someone like Lyr could. But he could sneak up on Shayde as she added to a graffiti wall and conspire to look annoyed.

She had written, in relatively large, friendly letters, Fiat lux! And underneath, in smaller print, she was carefully completing the words, (A small Italian car is on fire).

"Mis-information for profit is a criminal offence, Shayde," he said.

She whirled. "Oh, hallo... Fancy meetin' you here." She could not blush, not with her ebony skin tone, but her glowing eyes turned a sickly shade of chartreuse. "And check me free FAQ ere ye go reportin' me tae th' cops."

He did. And there, among the top five viewed questions, was Does 'fiat lux' really mean that? And it was answered accurately.

"So... what is the purpose of this?"

"I'm prankin' folks."

"...pranking..."

"Playin' a joke. Ye ken, right? Like gluin' money tae th' floor. Or pointin' an arrow at th' ceilin' and writin' made ye look on it. Harmless fun."

Understanding dawned like an unexpected supernova. "You're bored, and you're making entertainment."

She boggled at him, her eyes flaring briefly white. "Yer kiddin' me. Ye never had a wee bit o' fun wi' people."

"You know my history. Pranks are counter-productive."

"One day," said Shayde, "I will get ye tae have some fun." He still didn't know if it was a promise or a threat.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #304: After the Game is Over

Undertale!

Human Kid and life with the Skelebros.

[AN: I am endeavouring to keep my post-play Papyton shipping entirely to myself. Also kind'a headcannoning that Frisk is a voluntary mute]

Papyrus was so trusting. He just charged in ahead where more sensible monsters would fear to tread. Toriel and Frisk caught up with him in the middle of... well... a Scene.

Picnickers at the foot of Mount Ebott were screaming. Children cowered by their parents. Someone, soon, would level a weapon at Papyrus.

Frisk escaped Toriel's gentle hand and put themselves between Papyrus and the humans. Guarding him. They almost didn't see a strange, blue light extinguish itself in Sans' eye socket.

It made the news, of course. Monsters were free. Monsters were harmless.

Monsters were gigantic nerds.

Frisk rose to fame for all of five minutes before the Media realised that interviewing them was counter-productive. They just didn't like to talk. One of the monsters who loved Frisk wound up speaking for them. And there were so very many who loved Frisk.

And it wasn't long before the humans realised that as well. The strange little kid who rarely said a word had made so very many strange friends.

Magic flowed back into the world from Mount Ebott. The monsters used their gifts creatively, and many insisted on being able to reach their roofs so they could climb up and see the stars.

Frisk, the strange little kid who had nobody and nothing, now had a mansion with to live in with Toriel, Sans, and for reasons unknown, Papyrus. They had visitors every day. They had a fast friend in a little dinosaur kid with no arms who talked practically non-stop in comparison to the quiet Frisk.

But the sticking point was always dinner.

"I, the great Papyrus, shall craft an elegantly-cooked repast, tonight," volunteered the tall skeleton. "There's no need to bake enormous pies, Your Majesty..."

Toriel, used to this, kept working on her Cinnamon Butterscotch pie. She hummed merrily as she worked on the crust.

"Bro, give it a rest. We've had nothin' but spaghetti for the past four days. I dunno about the kid, but I'm... pasta point of no return."

Frisk giggled.

"Sans! Dinner is no laughing matter!"

"I dunno. I've seen how you cook."

"Nya-ha! I, the Great Papyrus, have learned many things from the human televisions. Including how to prepare spaghetti - the human way!"

"Um," said Toriel. "What... is in the sauce?" She left her work on the pie to peer into the pot. "Should it be that colour?"

Frisk climbed up her step-stool to peer in. She nodded in a satisfied manner.

"You see? The human approves! Nya-hahahahahaha!

"What's in it?" wondered Toriel.

"Tomatoes, garlic, basil, salt and pepper... and something called 'beef'."

"No snails?" Her Majesty made a face. It was not a happy one.

"No water sausages?" asked Sans.

Frisk was making the same face. No wonder the underground pasta had tasted so horrible.

"Never fear. I have prepared snails as an entree. The humans call it 'escargot'."

Frisk ran to hide in Toriel's skirts.

"Oh, never fear, little one. You don't have to eat them. I'm just... rather fond of them. That's all."

SLAM! "Look out nerds!" Undyne always knew how to make an entrance. "Two more nerds for the party!"

Undyne and Alphys both looked like they could strut the catwalk. Well, nervously edge their way onto the catwalk before apologising and slinking off it, in the case of Doctor Alphys. It had been this way ever since Mettaton had turned his mechanical hands to fashion design.

"There's frisk!" Undyne grinned her snaggle-toothed grin. "Show me what'cha got, human. Come at me!"

Frisk just hugged her.

Undyne made a very theatrical groan of disappointment as the others laughed. "You suck at wrestling, too."

Alphys picked Frisk up for her hug. She was getting more confident by glacial degrees. For a start, she wasn't nearly as sweaty as she had been in her lab. But then, having a dedicated snuggle-buddy and a robot hanging around who tossed out compliments like they were candy had to have an effect. "Do you have any scientific discoveries to share?"

Frisk did. They opened their mouth and showed off the loose tooth.

"Euw..." said Alphys, putting Frisk back down. "Th-that's a little... disturbing..."

"GROSS! Just what I like," cheered Undyne.

"I rushed them to the doctors when Frisk first showed me," said Toriel, back to working on her pie. "I thought they were hurt, somehow. That Frisk was ill..." A little moment of silence. Staring into memories of a distant time. She came back to the present. "But it turns out this is normal for little humans. They shed their teeth."

"Sweet," said Sans. He had managed to move from the couch to the table where Toriel was working without anyone noticing.

Dinner was noisy, of course. Papyrus made a gift of one of the many cookbooks in the library to Undyne, who read parts of it out loud in disbelief. Sans spent most of his time drinking ketchup and playing little, affectionate, finger games with Toriel. Papyrus boasted that, thanks to multitudes of cooking shows, he would soon be a true master spaghettore. Alphys talked shop, mostly, working with some human scientists on the nature of determination and how to use it to help ailing monsters.

Toriel, when she wasn't making goo-goo eyes at Sans, talked shop in her own way. Working with an integrated school had its problems, but it was worth it for Frisk. She spoke of how well Frisk was doing at her schooling. About the ruckus some parents made about Frisk's... unorthodox combat strategies.

Nobody could derail a fight like Frisk.

Frisk listened. And ate the spaghetti that was actually delicious for a change. And followed it with a small slice of their adopted mother's enormous pie.

They fell asleep in Toriel's lap, in front of the TV, as Mettaton sang one of his soulful ballads about freedom from the dark.

Life was good. Life was so very good.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #305: Slow Acceptance

Monsters making their first steps (and missteps) on the surface

[AN: Potential spoilers for the True Ending of the game ahoy.]

The Great Papyrus strode masterfully towards the humans. Just down the path, he could see an absolute host of humans having picnics in a park.

The perfect venue for a Welcome Out party! They must have known!

He burst from relative concealment and threw his hands up high. "Good news, Humans! The Underground is now able to come and join you in your party!"

He didn't get much further than that, because the assembled humans started screaming and carrying on. Children ran for their parents. Parents ran for their children. Some cowered where they were and cried for safety. Some ran. Some began picking up objects they could throw.

Papyrus began to suspect that many of these humans were not like Frisk at all. He instinctively reached for Sans' hand, and found it reaching for his.

"You and me against the world, bro," said Sans. His magic eye was glowing.

Her Majesty Queen Toriel screamed Frisk's name. And suddenly the child was between him and the other humans. Arms and legs akimbo. Stubbornly guarding them all.

"Step away from the monsters, kid," one of the humans demanded. "Come on over to me. You're not in trouble."

Frisk shook their head. They were determined to stand their ground.

"My child," cooed Toriel. She was trying to wheedle. "Come back behind me, if you please. You will be safer behind me."

"Get away from the monsters before they hurt you," said the human. They had a large rock. And seemed ready to throw it. "You're going to be okay. Come on."

Frisk took a deep breath. "Don't. Hurt. My. Friends!"

It was the most words Frisk had ever spoken in a row. And definitely the most they had spoken at any volume above a mumble. The effort showed, since they were trembling and out of breath.

Toriel gasped. Sans was so shocked that his eye went out.

"Human," soothed Papyrus, kneeling so he was on Frisk's eye level. "Frisk... Maybe you should go with Toriel. I, the Great Papyrus, will protect you."

"Maybe it was a mistake to come out at all," hedged Toriel. "We can go back, can we not? We can dig more caverns..."

Frisk turned their head enough to meet her eyes. "No, mom."

Of course the authorities turned up. Tensions were high. Actual guns came out, though briefly. Frisk and the little dinosaur kid explained. The kid did more talking than Frisk. There was no need to fight. There was no need for fear.

Child Protection Services came with something much scarier. Paperwork. Frisk, stony silent in their interview chambers, was revealed as an orphan on a permanent rotation of foster houses. The humans didn't like that Frisk was largely silent. They didn't like that Frisk was strange. They didn't like that Frisk filled their backpack with food at every possible opportunity. They didn't like that Frisk was so huggy.

The monsters liked Frisk just fine, that way.

"We can understand them perfectly," said Toriel. She held Frisk gently in her lap as the silent child absently stroked her fur. "I do not understand why you have a problem. Frisk will have a loving home. They have made many friends. We can see to their education and welfare just as much as you can. Possibly better. Is that not so?"

"Well, yes... but..." hedged the CPS representative. "You're monsters."

Sans had the golden words, at last. "We may be monsters, but we ain't monstrous. You understand?"

CPS monitored Frisk and their new monster friends on a daily basis for the first month. When it became clear that they were better parents than most humans, they dropped the monitoring to a weekly visit. Then to once a month.

There were some minor problems with other foster kids running off to live with monsters, but the monsters were so genial and welcoming to the newcomers that it ceased to become a problem. It became just another avenue for kids with nowhere else to go.

Most of the monsters stayed by Mount Ebott. They were happy, just to be able to see real stars at night. Some wanted to see the world, but did so with extreme caution.

Humans were still afraid. But they were getting better.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #306: Once Was Lost

Kid raised by aliens finally meets a colony of humans

Pepa was getting used to the routine of guarding the Lupid delegation on their trading mission. For the most part, it was boring. And she'd been at it long enough not to crave excitement.

Boring meant that she was successful at her work.

She had picked up a smattering of GalStand by sympathetic osmosis. Learned that there were others like her, somewhere out there. Wormholes distant. Pepa could not leave her family, the only home she'd ever known. The Lupids... her people... needed her.

But it was still a shock when humans came, anyway. Heruf Station was a Galactic Backwater. Pepa usually only saw traders from the local systems, but this group... stood out.

Like her, they were taller than most of the cogniscents on the station. Pepa never expected them to be taller than her. She went from obvious boggling to obvious boggling with a crick in her neck.

Their pelts... hair was cut short. Male and female alike. Pepa could understand that. In null-G, hair was wont to get in the way. She kept her long, red locks in a net for space travel. They were muscular, of course. Their armour spoke of some kind of military training.

And they spoke to her gently. "You are Pepa Yiriff?"

"Yeriff," Pepa corrected. Were all humans this tall? "That's me."

"Please give an epithelial sample for identity verification."

Pepa let the brushes of the scanner tickle her thumb. "Is there something you need from me?"

"We're location services only. Once we verify that you're satisfied with your situation, we notify your surviving relatives and allow communication to become an option."

"We also extend an invitation to your adopted home planet to become part of the UFTP Alliance."

And it was well understood that being allies with humans was a good thing. Pepa doubted the Lupids would turn it down. But, being a true democracy, the entire planet would have to vote. And as she explained this, her story came out. Her life with her adopted family on the farm. The trouble her people - her adopted people - went to to make certain she had what she needed. How she became a hero of sorts for them. Not that her planet of Geraul was ever in that much trouble.

"But it's not really mine," she said. "Is it? I really belong... somewhere else." Pepa tried to imagine going far away from pack and hearth. It almost tore her heart in two.

"You don't have to," said one of the humans. "A wise woman said, 'family is more than the people who made you'. I'm paraphrasing, but that's the general idea."

Sheer and utter relief. "I don't have to go."

"Not at all. We have methods of communication that can allow one side of the Galactic Alliance to talk to the other within minutes. Your relatives just wish to know that you're alive, well, and safe."

"Yes to all three. And happy."

They seemed satisfied with that much. They did their own investigation and were gone inside a week.

Da was right. Time provided, in the end. Lonely didn't have to be an obligation.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #307: Depth Charge Demir

Getting nearly all the way to a sneeze - right up to having already done the scrunchy face and several deep breaths - only to have it disappear

They called her "Depth Charge Demir" and with good reason. She was completely silent in her build-up to a good sneeze until...

"HROOOF!" A sound somewhere between a high-pitched explosion and a small dog trapped in a big dog's body caused everyone in Mining Station Gavin to duck and cover.

And always - the first person to emerge from hiding would yell, "Powers damnit, Demir!"

Other humans in the station soon began to recognise her pre-sneeze symptoms and holler, "FIRE IN THE HOLE!"

And, for the most part, the system worked. Until that one day when Demir did all of her pre-sneeze wind-up in the cafeteria.

There was the snuffle. The twitching of the nose. The scratch. The erratic breaths. The three deep breaths. The ever-deeper breath...

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!"

Demir remained trapped on the cusp of a sneeze. Slowly breathing in. Unable to breathe out. Her face crumpled. Non-human cogniscents had already taken their precautionary measures...

And then Demir breathed out with a sigh. "Ugh. False alarm, guys."

The assembled women of Mining Station Gavin breathed out a sigh.

"Powers damnit, Demir," sighed the one who had called the alarm.

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Challenge #308: The Tenant

It doesn't count as a haunting if the ghost pays rent.

[AN: ARGH, so tempted to make this another Undertale fic...]

There's an old gold digger who shares my house with me. He died in his mine, somewhere under where my house is. And I only know that from researching the history.

He's a quiet fellow. I only see him in mirrors. Dusty, of course. Old canvas pants, held up with braces, and shirtsleeves. He comes up after dark, but can't go further than the fence line.

Poor old salt likes to sit on the back veranda and watch the stars.

I have a lot of reflective mobiles up there. Just so I don't accidentally sit in him. And after the first time you do it, you won't want to, either.

Every night, he'll watch the stars and I'll sit nearby and ask him yes or no questions. Of course, I always start with, "Do you want to talk, tonight?"

And every morning, there's a tiny amount of gold in a little bowl we agreed on. Flakes, for the most part. Some little dots that could count as nuggets in a kind light.

Of course the law was up my face about it, when they clued on. I introduced them to Clancy - not his name, I know. It's what I call him. Let them observe and record the process.

Clancy's not your average poltergeist. He keeps to himself, for the most part. And as long as you don't mind a little dirt down the hallway, it's okay. I get the feeling he never said much when he was alive, either.

I get more gold when I leave him an open beer in the kitchen. The beer goes, the gold stays. The law doesn't like it, of course, and I'm under legal obligation to only give Clancy one bottle a week.

Tight-fisted arseholes.

They're still deciding what to do. They actually made me leave for a week? And tried to encourage him, themselves, to get him to give them the gold. Turns out, Clancy just likes me. Those officials didn't get more than a few sparkles out of him, no matter how much beer they left lying around. And I had to clean it up.

They let me give him three beers, the week I came back. And Clancy showed his gratitude with some genuine nuggets.

There's talk of including Clancy as a 'permanent tenant' to the property description. People have already heard of it and are asking me about the haunting.

But you can't really call it a haunting. Poor bugger's paying rent.

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Challenge #309: This Old Haunted Mansion

Lewis and his small army of cute musical purple ghostlets messing with other paranormal investigators while the others film it and try not to pass out laughing.

AN: Just in case you haven't heard about that music video: [check it out. You're welcome.]

"Welcome to This Old Haunted Mansion, I'm Vivi, and this is our ghost, Lewis."

Scratchy noises carried over the audio.

"You can't hear him, but we can," said a voice behind the camera. "He just said hello and welcome to the show. And me, behind the mobile cam, I'm Arthur."

"And we expose TV psychics!"

Lewis faded out of view and the camera moved away from the two humans. "We know this house is haunted," said Arthur. He clearly had an artificial arm.

"Lewis is with us," said Vivi. "We know how he died and why he stays."

"The TV psychics don't. They come to us to do a reading of the house. And sometimes, they come with their own teams."

"We have hidden cameras everywhere," said Vivi. And either Arthur or myself always has the mobile cam to catch the fun."

"Lewis? Show our lovely audience one of your Deadbeats."

A pinkish purple shape emerged. More like a finger puppet than the previous phantom. It sang a few notes.

"They're... sort of like Lewis' back-up chorus. They're not real ghosts, but they can do stuff to help weird people out."

"It's hilarious."

The footage switched into stationary cameras with a map in one corner.

"This week's ghost chasing team asked us to leave the house so that there wouldn't be any interference. Lewis and his Deadbeats stayed, of course."

Arthur said, "I found a way to make them visible to our cameras, even when they're invisible to the naked eye. Remember. The psychic and their crew can not see Lewis or the Deadbeats, but our cameras can. Vivi and I stayed in the detached Summer House, where we hide our secret headquarters."

Vivi said, "We started by testing them to see if they could sense Lewis or a Deadbeat without seeing them. Psychics claim they can feel a cold spot when they are standing in or near a ghost. As you can see, Lewis is chilling by the fireplace, while a Deadbeat is sitting by the chess board."

"They're not really doing anything or feeling anything," added Arthur.

"This... is a well-loved home," said the alleged psychic. "I sense a lot of love in this room. An echo of sadness. Perhaps... a love lost?"

Cut to another room. One of the bedrooms.

Vivi said, "They futzed around for like an hour. The raw footage is on our website. So far, nobody on the team has picked up the presence of the Deadbeat assigned to follow them around."

"Lewis is about to do the moving painting trick. Let's see if anyone notices," said Arthur.

The psychic crew were more interested in specks of dust floating around and calling them Orbs, than they were in noticing that the portrait on the wall was trying to get their attention.

Finally, an entire torso lurched out of the frame and screamed, "HELP ME!"

"They only found the portrait by reviewing their footage and noticing the movement," said Arthur.

"The psychic didn't sense a thing," added Vivi.

Cut to a play room where one of the Deadbeats was rocking a rocking horse gently and making sobbing noises.

"They shouldn't be able to miss this one," said Arthur. "The Deadbeat is partially realised, so the crew should see an indistinct blob."

The crew on the scene went nuts over the rocking horse, and completely missed the blob. They were obsessed over finding wires or motors. They even stilled the rocking horse by force and hollered when the rocking started up again.

"It took them ten minutes to notice that the rocker's rails were flat on the bottom," said Vivi.

The psychic entered and the entire crew tried to gather EVP recordings. "I am here. Why are you here?"

The Deadbeat started reciting Mareseydoats.

"Unfortunately," said Arthur, "Deadbeats can only sing."

The crew found a 'cold spot' over the cradle, where there were obviously no ghosts. The map showed that this was where an AC outlet was overhead.

It escalated from there. Deadbeats, for the most part, scurried back and forth in front of the psychic crews cameras. Lewis made increasingly obvious appearances. Including a full manifestation and repeatedly asking the psychic if they could hear him.

Not one of them noticed.

Finally, Arthur, Vivi and a fully realised Lewis greeted the exiting psychics on the front porch.

"Seriously?" demanded Vivi. "You missed a seven-foot-tall, burly skeleton man in formal wear?"

"You guys suck," said Arthur.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #310: Unwelcome Help

Lewis and the Mystery Skulls having to continually shoo ghosthunters and exorcists away from their house

Of course, living and working in an internet-famous haunted house had its drawbacks. People who had only seen or paid attention to a fraction of their webcasts, or people who had only heard about their place, and then subsequently went to the time and effort to track them down.

And offer their services. To get rid of their ghost problem.

This one was a well-meaning wiccan, judging solely by the host of occult symbols around her neck and wrists.

Arthur sighed at the sight of her. "Did you even watch one single episode of our show?"

"The spirit here clearly compels you to do his bidding," said the wiccan.

Oh great. One of them. "Okay. I know you're not going to believe me, but... see this arm? I lost the real one because of a possession incident that wound up killing Lewis. Long story short, we made up. He's basically hanging around because he wants to. Do you understand?"

She had a bundle of herbs wrapped around a crystal. "Take this in your dead hand. It will free you from any malevolent spirits."

"Lady, that's for class three spectres and won't do crap. I already have a better one pre-installed." He opened up the compartment in his metal arm to display the talisman inside. "Vivi also has one inside her locket, before you ask. It keeps Lewis' -ah- temper tantrums down to a minimum."

"So he is dangerous, you admit it."

Ugh. "My possessed arm killed him. He has a reason to be ticked off with me. Sometimes he forgets about the possession and reverts to his dying memory of thinking I actually pushed him. It's a thing. Thanks to these charms, we have it down to him just being grumpy on his death day." Arthur closed the compartment again. "I usually stay out of his way. It's no big deal."

"It's unhealthy for him to remain in this plane."

"What's it gonna do? Kill him again?"

Vivi appeared, took one look at the wiccan and said, "Did you read the sign we have on the gate? No exorcists! No spiritual healers! We don't need help getting rid of him! We love him and he loves us. We don't need your services and thank you for coming."

"I know you believe this," said the wiccan, "but once he is beyond the veil, you will reach a clarity that this is the best choice."

Lewis manifested right beside her. "I've been beyond the veil, ma'am. It wasn't nice. This is a chance for my redemption." His pompadour flared. Purplish-pink flames licking from their usual configuration. "Don't. Mess with it."

"Oh... kay," said the wiccan. "Icanseethisisbeyondmyexperiencelevel, IthinkIhavetoconsultwithmyfriends, goodfortuneblessyouall." She ran and vaulted over the gate.

Lewis sighed and let his hair die down. "Please tell me there's some kind of ward that stops potential exorcists from entering the property?"

"Ones without negative consequences?" returned Vivi. "Still working on it. All the ones I found so far are major demonic juju."

"I could make a gate where the people who want to go through it have to press a button that means they read and understood the sign. Penalty for lying, five hundred bucks," offered Arthur. "It's quicker and it'd make more money."

"No terms and conditions on the gate," grumbled Lewis. "It gives the game away."

"What about pugs with lasers on their heads?"

"No."

"Chihuahuas?"

"Arthur...."

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Challenge #311: One Very Bad Day

Lewis Pepper and Fluttershy (tiny ghost choir optional)

Lewis' form coalesced as his consciousness returned. Ow. That hurt. He let himself linger in invisibility while he took stock.

Okay. One of the unsolicited exorcists had banished him to another plane. That was -haha- plainly evident. Everything here was bright colours and cheerful curves. There was a small town, just beyond the forest. Also brightly coloured and almost offensively pretty.

So he was currently a floating, purple vapour. Good. People might dismiss him. Assuming they could see him.

Okay. This was beyond weird. The people in this village were horses. Rainbow-coloured... small...

Oh God, no.

The exorcist had banished him into some bizarre reality where every pre-teen girl's dream had come true. If he was less confident about himself, this entire realm would be an affront to his masculinity.

And that was when one of the Pegasus ponies dive bombed straight through him. The horse could not have known that there were detrimental side effects to walking or travelling through a ghost. Primary of which is a distinct chill.

On the upside, he had more energy, but on the downside... those feathers had iced up and the pony was about to crash land. He dived down to ground level ahead of them and used what telekinesis he could to slow their fall.

Unfortunately, that meant manifesting in the visible spectrum. In his default 'skull-head' form.

Which happened to upset one of the natives to the point where they dropped. Stiff as a board.

Lewis sighed and sat on the bright grass. Of all the creatures he had to accidentally harm... It had to be something that would make his baby cousin upset.

"That! Was! Awesome!" shrieked the blue one with the rainbow mane. "You saved me some serious hospital time, there. Whatever you are. Thanks a bunch."

"Lewis," said Lewis. "I'm a ghost, and I've been exiled to this plane. Sorry about the fuss."

The blue pony nudged the yellow one with the pink mane. "It's okay, Fluttershy. He only looks scary."

The yellow pony approached at a terrified crawl. "You're not like any animal I've ever seen."

"Yeah, one of the side-effects of being dead," he said. Inside, he was thinking, I am talking to horses. In English. Multi-coloured ponies of a different colour that talk. If I'm not in another realm, then I must be going insane. And then he thought, The sad part is that I'm getting used to this. "I can show you what I looked like when I was alive, but... It's gonna get a little cold, here."

And when he did... the ponies were agog. "You look like one of those 'peepul' things from the other side of the Crystal Mirror. Twilight is going to go nuts!"

"...i don't think he is," murmured the yellow one. "Their skin was coloured like pony hides... his... is a really odd colour. And the eyes are wrong."

"Thanks, niña," he said with some sarcasm. "Of course it won't be that easy for me to get home. Vivi and Arthur must be beside themselves... How do I even start to get back to my Earth?"

"I might not know all the way," volunteered the yellow pony. "But there might be someone who can help. Um. How do you feel about robots and dragons?"

Well. My day can't get any weirder. "Eh. About par for the course, the way my life's been going."

It was a long journey. The yellow pony -Fluttershy- preferred to walk everywhere. Which slowed things down a great deal. Apparently, there was a cave in the Everfree Forest that lead to a place called Kazooland. And there, he would find a pink, steam-powered robot who was becoming a dragon. Her or one of her robot friends would then direct him to the nearest place where he could return to his reality.

Okay, thought Lewis. I was clearly wrong.

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Challenge #312: Self-Aware Adventurer

Because I am here...

...I can protect my friends.

but

Because I am here...

... my friends must fight. -- Anon Guest

There's usually two reasons why the prophecy only names the Chosen One. Neither of them are very good. Either they didn't make friends during their epic quest... or their friends fell by the wayside.

Claire refused to let her friends die for her.

She did everything she could to protect them. To help them survive the battles that the Scourge sent their way. Dreading the day that she was too late, too slow, too busy, too distracted.

Her friends knew the risks. They helped comfort her in the nights, or in the still moments between challenges.

Claire knew she'd never have made it on her own. And yet... knowing her friends were at risk wherever they went was another millstone on her soul. And sending them anywhere for their own protection was a strategy that guaranteed that protected place would be the next one the Scourge attacked.

They had all read or heard enough chronicles to know how the enemy thought. They all knew what would happen if they left her side, just as much as they knew the dangers in staying.

The towns they liberated on the way grew their own tactics against the Scourge. In the end, the mighty army of thralls were fighting against a thousand guerrilla armies and resistance agents. All of whom were winning by cutting down the armies with a thousand small blades.

They didn't just steal supplies from the Scourge's army stores. They stole from the stores and placed the fruits of their thievery inside the tents of any competent officer they took offense to. Getting caught for theft from the Scourge stores was an automatic death sentence.

Those pressed into service of the Scourge balanced on the knife's edge of incompetence. Stupid enough to slow down, sabotage, or generally make any task last three times longer than it should have, at four times the cost. But not stupid enough to get killed for it.

By the time Claire reached the Scourge's keep... There wasn't much of a fighting force left. And those who the Scourge had attempted to discourage, were following with a mighty, homemade army.

It was a rout.

In the end, Claire delivered the coup de grace by beheading the evil behind the throne. The one who had made the Scourge possible. Those who believed in him were met with a similar fate.

And the others... were made to rebuild what they had destroyed.

Prisoners freed. Prophecy fulfilled. And friends... intact, for the most part. The scourge had not touched them.

She consulted Calibrese, the Mage, during the celebrations. "The prophecy said I'd do all those things... but... lots of other people did it. I just..."

"Advised them?" Calibrese smirked. She had let her hair down for the party, and it fell over the balcony like a flag. "Like many who read prophecies, you read over them. Not through them. They never said you would do all those things. They said you would cause them. A very significant difference that many Chosen Ones never see."

"Just like all that 'he' stuff in the old texts, right?"

Calibrese laughed. "The eyes of men rarely see beyond their own pizzle, and the hands of men write that which concerns men. Now artists... artists will draw whatever they please and damn the consequences. That's why I put more faith in art than in words."

That's why the old Mage had taken them on that side trip through the ancient ruins. Where bas-relief friezes in granite still stood. And depicted a Chosen One with breasts. It was to show Claire that words weren't the beginning and the end.

"The carvings still didn't look like me."

"Of course not. That wasn't the point."

Claire started to giggle. Arguments with Calibrese always wound around like a handful of worms.

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Challenge #313: Inexplicable In-Jokes

Did we ever figure out why you can't stop laughing whenever I say the word "pineapple"?

Giggles filled the break room. Of course they did. The inherently funny word had been uttered. They managed to stop.

"I dunno, to be honest. It's just a ridiculous fruit. The entire rest of the world calls them Ananas. They're nothing like an apple. They never came from a pine tree[1]. I mean \- English language, what the ever-loving flip?"

"Maybe it sounded too much like Bananas?"

"Eeeeh. Enough other languages have variants on 'banana' and they don't have a problem. I mean, it was a few decades or more before they stopped using them only for decoration[2]. It was probably too late by the time they realised they were nothing like apples at all."

"Could be worse. I mean, the French took one look at the potato and called it 'pomme de terre'. Literally, apple of the earth."

"Same time period, I reckon. All that stuff came from the Americas."

"At least nobody messed up 'sugar cane', right?"

"Pretty hard to mess that up."

The boss poked his head in. "You're supposed to be having lunch. Are you slacking off on that, too?"

"Um," said Wendy. "Found something funny in m' fruit salad."

Gorgia giggled. "...pineapple..."

They both cackled.

The boss just gave them one of her patented, The Shit I Have To Deal With sighs.

[1] In before you flood the comments with the logic: Yes, I know. 'Apple' was a more generic name for fruit in the time when the Pineapple was named, and it did resemble a pinecone, therefore, the English called them Pineapples.

[2] Actual historical truth: Pineapples and other then-exotic fruits were so highly prized that they weren't eaten, but used decoratively as a display of wealth [Until they went nasty and had to be tossed]. That's why you find carved pineapples featured on certain vintage furnishings, or fake pineapple vintage china.

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Challenge #314: "Surprise" Party

Nanny Ogg throws Granny Weatherwax a surprise 70th birthday party at the Lancre pub. -- Anon Guest

Birthdays are generally a special occasion. Witch's birthdays doubly so. Not many of them prefer to make their age known, lest the C-word inevitably slip from someone's mouth.

Gytha had done her best. She'd set up in a place where Esme Weatherwax never went if she could prevent it. The local pub. She'd laid on every treat she could, including the mandatory ham bun; because, even though the feast was lavish, every witch's favourite food was one particular group - free.

And when Gytha said she laid on every treat, that meant to say that her beleaguered daughters-in-law and young Agness actually did all the cooking, plating and otherwise making certain that everything was so perfect that it shone. Even the usually grubby slat floor of the pub gleamed.

She'd sent young Dalrymple out to go find Esme and bring her back for the urgent kind of doctoring that Esme could not ignore. A lie that Esme would likely remember and Gytha would have to encourage her to forget. And Esme wouldn't curse a child. No. She'd wait until he was of age and then curse him.

Which was why she aimed to throw the best party in the world for Esme. Maybe, if the cards were right, they may yet be forgiven.

Young Dalrymple returned to the pub, red-faced and wan and nearly terrified out of his mind. "Can't find her, Nan. I looked everywhere. Even up in th' witch's cave. She's nowhere to be seen."

Gytha Ogg did some very quick mental gyrations. Nothing was more invisible than a witch who didn't want to be found. And if she couldn't be found, then she was where nobody wanted her to be. "Esme Weatherwax, you come on out, right now!"

An otherwise unremarkable collection of shadows in the corner slowly became a lot realer of a menace. "Don't see what the fuss is," sniffed Esme. "Been here the entire time. Good job. Though I don't approve of encouraging a child to lie, Gytha."

"Good thing he didn't need to, then," said Gytha. "I should just give up on trying to put one over on you."

"Yes," said Esme. She already had a glass of punch, and You draped comfortably over her shoulder. The cat yawned with the insolence of the only cat in Lancre who managed to scare Greebo.

Gytha sighed. "Surprise. Happy birthday," she deadpanned.

"Good of you to leave my age off the cake."

Grudging praise was the only kind you could get out of Esme.

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Challenge #315: Economy Exorcism

 http://haberdashing.tumblr.com/post/133438233764/breelandwalker-witchbxi-spirit-haunts-a

They looked like the typical whitebread couple who scoffed at the warnings that their new home was haunted until things got beyond the line of wilful ignorance. Candace listened to their story, and it ran the entire gamut of that sad story.

They fell in love with the place. Didn't believe in the supernatural. Laughed at the thought of ghosts. Little incidents escalated. And they escalated quickly. And the next thing they knew, blood was dripping out of the walls and an invisible hand was scrawling death threats in it.

Candace then found a couple of pans in the kitchen and opened all the doors and windows.

"You aren't going to light a candle?" said the Janet Weiss type.

"Don't need 'em," said Candace.

"If you need blood," began the Brad Majors type.

"Don't need that, either." She started in the furthest point from any of the doors. And crashed the pans together without any need for rhythm or meter. Just a need for noise. "GET THE FUCK OUTTA THIS HOUSE, YOU WISPY BASTARD! YOU'RE NO LONGER WELCOME IN THIS HOUSE! RACK OFF! SKEDADDLE!" And then she began some off-tune caterwauling in the general theme of _So Long, Farewell, Auf Weidersehn, Goodbye_.

Brad and Janet were understandably confused. Cowered out of Candace's way as they watched in shock and awe.

When it was over, Janet risked, "Why did you do that?"

Candace put the pans back away. "Ever wonder why they set off fireworks and make a big noise at new years? It's the same principle. If there's anything a ghost hates, it's a spirited party."

They didn't get the pun. The Brads and Janets of this world never did.

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Challenge #316: Afoot in the Grove

Pick one or more items from this list - it just sounded so much like the sort of things you'd think up that I HAD to share...

http://howlingguardian.tumblr.com/post/133493640614/

(post reproduced below in case of link failure)

Talk fantasy prosthetics to me.

An elf maiden dances on feet of living wood sung into shape, planted in soil and watered when she takes them off. Every year she plants the old ones and sings a new pair. (Incidentally, the pair of peach saplings from three years ago have produced an excellent crop- She makes preserves from them, and despite the inevitable jokes about "toe-jam", they are appreciated.)

A dwarf king has a metal fist, all tiny gears and fine wires, kept wound by a mischievous mine-spirit bound to the spring as punishment- the more it struggles, the tighter the spring.

An orc chieftaness is regularly asked for the story of how she earned the name Wyrmthrottler- she boasts of how she strangled the dragon that ate her arm, and had her shaman make a new arm from its bones, with its fangs as the fingers.

A necromancer simply re-attached his old leg bones- Sacrificing a few mice each day keeps it going.

A pirate captain lost her arm to a shark attack: a passing selkie saved her, and gave her tattoos of kraken blood. Now she has an arm made of salt-water, that grows and wanes with the tides, and swings a cutlass as well as the original. (She doesn't sail as far these days though: she doesn't want her wife to worry.)

A wandering swordsman was broken at the waist- his ancestral armour allows him to walk again, as long as he keeps it polished, and burns incense to the ancestors regularly.

A high priestess has an eye made from a crystal ball- to predict the future, all she has to do is wink.

A bard was struck deaf by illness- he struck a deal with the god of music. Now he wears hearing-trumpets made from his old pipes, and dedicates his every song to the god of music- the better he plays, the better his hearing. (It is said his music could make statues weep, and he can hear a mouse fart at 60 paces.)

A princess has the arm of a golem, enchanted clay with mystic words carved in- her music tutor despairs of how her harp playing has become even worse, but her calligraphy tutor is ecstatic over her handwriting.

A goblin pickpocket has an arm made of whatever he steals- no-one feels his fingers, and even if they did, they couldn't find their possessions amongst all the rest.

A witch has eyes made from shadow and starlight, given to her in a game with a demon. Nobody dares to ask what she wagered- they aren't even sure she won.

A warg was born deaf and blind- his people learned of his power when the nearest birds started staring at them, and dogs pricked up their ears as he walked past. -- Anon Guest

[AN: I'm only gonna pick one because there's practically a book's worth, here.]

They called her Treesinger, and she had a grove of fruit trees. Once a year, she would dance her last dance with her seedling feet before adding to her grove. She had all kinds of fruit in her grove. Apples. Pears. Oranges. Plums. Every kind of fruit that fell from a branch. She sang and danced among them, singing them into bountiful blossom.

And then, her head haloed with bees, she planted her feet in the rich soil and sang them into taking root. A new pair of seedlings are sung into shape and become her feet for another year.

Centuries ago, they said, a conqueror had hewn her feet off at the shin for refusing to dance in celebration of his bloodbath battles. The vines had strangled him and his armies. Who still fertilised her grove to this day.

The olives she grew her first feet from mark the passing years.

None dare to cross her. Not after they see her grove.

She only keeps what she needs of her crops. Sells the rest to the markets. Jams and jellies and preserves and, of course, olive oil and pots upon pots of honey.

They line up for miles for a chance to purchase one small jar of anything.

Treesinger has not much use for gold. She has her plants and she has her friends. She had enough jewellery to satisfy her needs. The rest of her income goes to those in need.

And sometimes, those in need come to her. To beg her to sing them a limb. Plucked from her trees and bound to their soul. She matches the wood to their personality, and many walk away happy.

She could easily sing her feet from the plants she has in abundance, but she loves having saplings. They're better to dance with.

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Challenge #317: Ashes to Ash...

 http://outfromtheinkwell.tumblr.com/post/133600270753/latessitrice-absinthenoir

The woes of an Italian vampire

[AN: Trying to write this without sounding racist]

I didn't know what I'd become when I stumbled home to Mama. I could remember an attack. I remember that the early dawn light burned my skin. I remember... being ill. Not being able to take in Mama's cooking. Being so thirsty. And always tired during the day.

Mama did what she could. She kept the sun away from me. She went through ingredients one by one until she found the one that upset me most. Garlic. She didn't understand why the crosses and holy icons on the walls upset me, but she took them down for me.

Poor Mama. She must have had a fit when she found me drinking from the pig.

I was scared, too. Terrified. The mirrors didn't show me my face, any more. The light didn't make my shadow. I couldn't step into the church without my legs feeling like they were breaking in a million places.

I can talk to the pastor. At his house. If I'm invited in. I can confess. I can't say the prayers. They make blisters on my tongue when I try.

I don't want to be like this. The vampire that stole my soul also stole everything in my life. I can't... be me.

Mama's getting very old, now. Any day, my last link to the life I remember will be gone. I'll have nothing to keep me... stable. And I will deserve to burn.

That's my plan, now. After she has gone... I will throw open the doors and the curtains and let the sunshine burn me into ash. It will hurt, yes. But I imagine it would hurt less than it has hurt in these past years... missing out on everything I used to love.

And if I burn with a prayer on my lips... I may yet have a chance to gain Heaven.

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Challenge #318: Fidelity

You can break my soul.

Shatter my mind.

Take my life away.

Beat me, hurt me, kill me.

But for the love of God

And for the sake of your own lives

Don't you

DARE

Touch her. -- Anon Guest

The human was already half-mad, even by human standards, when Kri'ko met her. She called herself Dog. Mutt on the bad days. Whenever she was awake, Dog would chatter to herself. A constant diatribe of ideas and denials.

They threw Kri'ko in the cell with Dog in an effort to terrify her into talking. Yet the human had taken one look at her and merely said, "Beautiful. Too beautiful." And never acted as their captors expected.

It took Dog three days to say Kri'ko's name. Before that, it was a string of compliments in substitution for names.

"They never stay for more than three days," muttered Dog. "Don't get attached. Don't break my heart. Talk to Wally. Keep what's left."

Wally, Kri'ko would discover, was a crude effigy of a smiling humanoid, drawn in blood on the wall.

Dog was both an example of what they had planned and an implement of torture. Or she was supposed to be. Kri'ko recognised that the human was sane enough to know a Havenworlder when she saw one. And thusly, tried to be kind.

The human was kind in return. Shared her warmth. Her food. What she could remember of her moral code.

And when they finally came for Kri'ko the human went berserk. Flying at their captors, howling and snarling and employing all their strength and all their body against them.

Once she bit them... it was over. Swarms of bacteria from the human's mouth flooded the bloodstream and killed them in a matter of minutes.

Dog stole their armour and gently fitted Kri'ko into it, any way they could make it work. Stole their weapons with a very evil grin.

And circumvented their biometric security in a suitably barbaric manner.

Dog forever sat at her feet. Even after they returned to the safety of the Galactic Alliance. Therapists tried to restore her sanity and failed. The pirates had made a permanent mark on her.

Dog received Diminished Responsibility bracelets and anklets, and remained in Kri'ko's custody because she refused to be anywhere else. Kri'ko worked with an assigned therapist and did what she could. She owed Dog that much.

Progress was slow, if it could be measured at all.

But Dog rarely left her side, and always kept her safe. They said it was love, of a sort. A strange, fierce, platonic love that would only die when Dog did. Which was, when Kri'ko thought about it, the kind of love that any dog had.

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Challenge #319: One Entertaining Evening in the Local Theatre

This video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvJZVq5_cGs

I've never seen something like that executed so well in real life.

[AN: for those of you who don't want to watch, the prank involves sets of twins doing a Scooby-Doo farcical door chase scene]

Seeing it done with editing was one thing. Seeing it done live was another. Watching what seemed to be the same person enter one door and immediately exit another, on stage... it boggled the mind.

The act called themselves Cartoon Logic. Rael presumed there were sets of twins involved. Or at the very least a carefully-selected cast who looked enough alike to confuse the casual viewer.

Shayde was enjoying the show without indulging in forced physical interaction with him. Which was also a bonus. She was quietly giggling to herself instead of digging her elbow into his ribs.

The peak of hilarity was when the same person exited two or more doors. With the resultant double takes milked for every laugh the audience had to spare.

They never went for more than three at a time, which had Rael puzzled. The actors did really look similar... Identical Triplets? What were the odds?

He was still trying to work out the math when the teams of quadruplets took their bows.

"What?" he openly boggled, even as he applauded. "You knew about this, didn't you? Watching through your True Lights."

"Na, I read the info sheet. Janus is a Genner world where they worked exclusively towards gettin' twins at every birth. Quads aren't so unusual over there."

Rael didn't know whether to cheer or strangle her. The one time where he didn't read the information beforehand, and she did... It was infuriating. "You're going to hold this over me, aren't you?"

"Who? Me?" A sharp-toothed grin. "Never. Well... maybe a wee bitty bit. Once in a while. When yer pontificatin', ye ken."

Especially when he was pontificating about the importance of reading ahead, he had no doubt.

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Challenge #320: The Way to Win is Not to Play

"If I can't win, I don't want to play!" -- Anon Guest

Emperor Gregor "Elf-hand" of Vardia always displayed his shortened hand at the negotiations table. It put the wind up the other side. They knew the story, without a doubt. Mainly because he had someone as part of his staff whose job it was to tell it.

Anyone entering the negotiations room would stare, and then try to not stare. And fail. And they'd spend the rest of the talks being very nervous indeed because they knew without a doubt that they were seated across the table with a man who obviously did not fear pain, and moreover retained immense control when he felt it.

It had been a marvellous bargaining tactic. Before today.

Today, he was facing down the Child King of Grapthar. The nastiest of nasty brats who saw grey hairs as a sign of weakness and senility. It didn't help that Gregor was old enough to be the whelp's grandfather. But it did help that Vardians had hair dye enough to make his grey hairs invisible.

The kid was either an overfed ten or an unexercised seven. His doughy countenance was nothing like the magnificent portrait on his realm's legal tender. He was an incarnation of their god, as Gregor recalled, and his assistants were unable to deny him anything. Or enforce any kind of discipline. Which had lead to the Child King being nothing more than a whiny brat who treated everything as a game. And who threw tantrums when he didn't win.

"The screen in my chambers is broken," complained the Child King, living embodyment of the Great God of Grapthar, Bringer of Spring, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

"Oh it is, is it? How did it come to be broken?" said Gregor.

"Your stupid programs wouldn't let me win, so I threw the controller at it."

"Such a pity. There are no new screens, your majesty."

"You will address me as your lord. I control where you wind up when you die! You'd better give me a room with a better game or else."

"Sorry, your majesty, my theism and yours are incompatible." He brought up the terms on a less breakable display. "There are no rooms to spare. All I can do is leave you with the consequences of your actions. And speaking of such, you are here to negotiate the terms of your surrender."

He lurched up like a whale breaching. "I DO NOT SURRENDER, I AM THE LIVING GOD! I DON'T LOSE! I NEVER LOSE! YOU'RE GOING TO HELL! I STRIKE YOU WITH A MILLION THUNDERBOLTS!"

Gregor looked up theatrically. "We don't have weather in this installation. Not so much as a spark of static electricity. Now." He drummed his tetradactyl hand on the tabletop. "You have lost. Your armies are defeated. Those who survived your death or glory rhetoric are held captive in some rather interesting holding facilities. Even if they manage to escape, they're going to have a long walk home with no air. Which I doubt they could survive, even with your miracles on their side."

"YOU'RE WRONG! YOU'RE WRONG! I'M WINNING! I'VE WON! YOU HAVE TO SURRENDER!"

"No," said Gregor. "You, too, are captured. You, too, will be going to one of our interesting holding facilities. And all your generals and all your soldiers will actually see and hear their nasty, brutish, brat of a god in person. It may break them. You have two options, your majesty. Surrender and sign the treaty. Or refuse and join your soldiers. This is the fifth day of the seven days we have given you. And we're being generous."

"YOU CAN'S SAY NO TO ME! I'M THE GOD! LIGHTNING! LIGHTNING!"

Gregor leaned back in his chair and watched the Child King exhaust himself trying to use his cosmic powers against a man who didn't believe in them. He knew better than to try going against Gregor's royal guard. They were rather better trained than his Holy Brattiness' palace forces.

"You have lost the mandate of heaven, your majesty. All you have in your favour is your wits and a very annoying voice. I am impervious to both."

The Child King, bringer of light, hope of his people, fell to the floor in a screaming fit.

Gregor slowly put in his earplugs and watched to make sure the brat didn't choke himself. His own heirs had put on better shows than that when they were still being toilet trained.

At the second round of screaming, he signalled for a very thick book. Paper, of course. A display of wealth to anyone in the Galactic scene. And a display of contempt for the bratty monarch of Grapthar.

One thing these negotiations were good for, it was allowing him to catch up on his recreational literature.

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Challenge #321: Subtle(n)...

We're going to be subtle with high explosives

My favourite kind of subtle!

There are certain things that worry Galactic Citizens about humans. The thing that worried them most was when they got very quiet. Despite the fact that a sleeping human is a safe human, a quiet human is usually involved in working something out.

Ax'and'l had learned that only slightly more dangerous was a human who was muttering to themselves. Only more dangerous was when they stopped muttering to cackle.

Which was why he dove for cover when Hwell muttered, "There's some! Now we're cooking..." and then cackled.

"Oh give over," said Hwell. "I'm not doing anything that's going to hurt us."

Ax'and'l peeked over the heavy furniture. "But it is going to involve property damage and huge clouds of debris."

"You want us out of this pickle, don't you? They've shut us in, so I have to blow us out." He busied himself over the pot he was using. "And I'm not exactly blowing us out. Just... burning."

"What are you making?"

"Thermite. I didn't have the stuff for other explosives. Had to be subtle."

Ax'and'l went back behind the furniture. "Let me know when you're going to ignite it..." There were more sturdy pieces of furniture, several rooms distant. Ax'and'l knew Hwell well, and if he was doing anything with something hazardous, he was going to overdo it. Possibly to the point where things would become life-endangering.

Ax'and'l made good his retreat when Hwell started singing the word 'yes' over and over again. He was halfway through rigging up another impromptu filter mask when the human dived in with him. "I forgot about the smoke. And the heat."

"What blew up?" sighed Ax'and'l.

"Um. Nothing? Only... there's a slight wallpaper fire and the linoleum is kind of melting in there."

"And the only thing stopping this entire complex from catching alight? Or us choking on the fumes?"

"....uuuuhhhmmm... Fireproof wadding in the cracks around the fireproof doors?" Hwell started to help make the mask. His hands were shaking and his arm hairs were singed off. His skin was singed red, especially near his fingertips.

The ground shook with a distant rumbling. "You said no explosions!"

"That wasn't an explosion. That was the floor falling into the next floor below. When it all burns out and cools down, we'll have access to a larger underground complex." He quickly donned his mask and got out his personal medkit. Applying alloe extract to his second-degree burns. "And we'll have to make a ladder..."

There was a second rumble.

"Please tell me that this Thermite of yours has a retardant?"

"Um. No. It doesn't. It's the unstoppable force. Sorry. It will, eventually, run out and stop burning. Then we have to wait for the stuff it melted to cool down and the... um... gasses to dissipate."

"You're as subtle as a freight barge on maximum thrust."

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Challenge #322: Joint Custody

 http://callmegallifreya.tumblr.com/post/133857707605/jcatgrl-copperbadge-persinetteinthetower

Two separate magical entities turn up for the same baby.

They both appeared at the christening. Calamity in a plume of green fire and Disastra in a cloud of roiling purple smoke. Both with identical words.

"Give me the child!"

The proud parents recognised one of them and boggled at the other. Then at their spouse.

"I can explain," they both said.

He had paid for an invulnerable armour with the life of his firstborn. She had paid for the potions that saved them both with the same coin.

And now the little girl named Gloria was claimed by both witches.

The parents tried the usual bargains, of course. Nobody expected otherwise, but they were no proof against the magical law. Besides, Gloria had already been blessed to be loved by all who knew her.

Calamity and Disastra had been quite prepared to enter a magical battle for the custody of the child, but the High Judge had other plans. He decreed that they both could raise the child together.

The first few months in the little cottage far from anyone or anything were... cold, to say the least. Calamity and Disastra both sniped at each other incessantly, constantly trying to outdo each other in looking after Gloria.

*

Gloria was five when she saw her mothers kiss for the first time. The constant tension in the air released like a thunderclap as lips met lips. As arms wrapped around the other.

She laughed, of course. Life with her mothers was constantly amusing. But this was different to the usual petty squabbling. It was... powerful. Just like that, the gloomy shadows vanished from the corners of the cottage and light bloomed there. Flowers replaced cobwebs. Sparkling gemstones replaced scuttling insects. Even Mama's old crow conspired to look shinier.

Mommy seemed stunned, too. She looked around her at the prettiness emerging all around them and said, "This is your fault."

"It's love," said Mama. "It's both our faults."

That was the day that Gloria learned that love had the power to defeat almost anything. Even from within. Mama and Mommy kept up their bickering, but it was never as ferocious as it had been when she was little. It was how they flirted.

Gloria learned that love came in many shapes and as long as nobody was hurt, all was well.

And they taught her magic. Not good magic, nor evil magic. Just magic. How it could be used for or against a person. They taught her how to see through people and into their true hearts. Taught her to defend herself about people who wished to own her.

She learned to talk to the wild things, and saw beauty in monsters and humans alike. She learned that all had their place in the wild world.

*

Gloria was eighteen. Calamity wept because Disastra was weeping. And Disastra was weeping because it was time for their little girl to find her way in the wild world.

Gloria knew it too. She had blessings aplenty. She had knowledge, too. And she had a few pickings from those foolhardy enough to attempt to rescue a beloved child from two powerful witches.

They had given her the best that they could.

"Your fate and ours depart here," said Calamity. Her voice raw with emotion.

"Luck follow you," quavered Disastra.

"O Mama... Mommy... Please don't cry?" Gloria hugged them both. "It's not an end. It's a new beginning."

They held each other as they watched her go. They had made her a force to be reckoned with.

"I guess," said Calamity, "this must mean goodbye for us, too."

"Does it have to?" murmured Disastra.

Calamity wiped her face. "I guess we could stay. Just in case she needs us."

"Yes. Just in case."

"Soft-hearted old fool."

"Emotional cow."

They giggled at each other and kissed. And stayed. Just in case.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #323: Eventual Amity

 http://callmegallifreya.tumblr.com/post/133857707605/jcatgrl-copperbadge-persinetteinthetower

Domestic life after the baby dilemma

Gloria was crying. She'd been crying for hours.

Disastra moaned. She hadn't slept enough to focus her magic. Therefore she used her wand to prod Calamity. "It's your turn."

"N'h did it las' time..."

"No you didn't, I did it last time. GO!"

"...five mo' minutes..."

"NO! YOU HAD THE STUPID IDEA TO STEAL A STUPID BRAT!"

"You had th' same one," Calamity grumbled. She, too, had had a rough night. Neither of them had expected to gain custody of the child. There had always been a way for the heroes to keep the infant, somehow. Before today, anyway.

Disastra sank back into sleep for all of a second, it felt like, before Calamity was digging at her with an elbow. "Your. Turn."

"I jus' got t' sleep..."

"And now you can wake up. The child you stole needs you."

Disastra moaned all the way to the crying child. Gloria. Cleaned her mess and made certain she was fed and burped. What was she thinking? Demanding a child? It was tradition, she knew it, but...

She never expected to get it.

She never expected the exhausting, infuriating, thankless work of actually looking after the child. Much less sharing a home with it and the other witch who had a legal claim to her.

Gloria knew nothing of it. With luck, she was immune to the arguing that went on outside her hearing. Immune to the hostility between herself and Calamity.

Inside this room. In front of Gloria, they both played at being civil. At being friendly. Any barbs they flung at each other were in a singsong voice so as not to frighten the babe. Neither of them wanted to scar her mind with their bickering.

Gloria clung to Disastra. Actively attempting to hug her back. Her babbling turned into the word, "Mama". And Disastra's heart nearly broke. "That's right," Disastra cooed. "I'm your Mommy... For now until you're grown."

Calamity was looking in. "You're going soft," she singsonged. "Next thing you know, you'll start being kind to strangers."

"We're under a legal obligation to be kind to her," Disastra singsonged in return. "But you'd know that if you actually paid attention to things. Like the mountain of washing up in the sink."

"I'll take care of it when you take care of those soiled diapers in the laundry room."

"Cow."

"Tart."

*

It was easy to love Gloria. She was a loveable child. It was harder to get along with Disastra, but for Gloria, she had to try.

Now that the girl was walking and talking, things were a little easier. She still took up a majority of their time, but now they had sleep enough to concentrate, they had their magic.

Maybe a little necromancy on the goldfish was cheating, but admitting it was dead would make Gloria cry. And maybe a vile curse on vermin was cheating, too, but it kept the food fresher for longer, which was a boon while they were in a cottage in the middle of nowhere.

Calamity paused in setting up the table to watch Disastra teaching Gloria. Simple spells.

"Now. Look at Dolly... point the wand... and think... 'up'."

That one was going to bite them, later on. But Gloria managed to make the doll stand and walk in a clumsy way, all the way up to her eager arms.

"Now you remember. It's you making it happen. It's not Dolly. It's all you."

Gloria fell to giggles. "Mama's watching you."

Calamity quickly turned away, allegedly looking for the cutlery.

"Now who's going soft?" teased Disastra.

"Oh hush, you emotional cow."

"Soft-hearted old fool."

Gloria laughed to hear them hurling insults at each other. But they were hardly insults, any more. They no longer stung, but fell on each other's ears like gentle caresses.

No. They couldn't love each other. It wasn't right for a wicked witch to be in love. They were heard-hearted, wicked things made out of malice and spite. They loved Gloria because of a fairy's blessing. Nothing more.

Loving each other...

...might be nice.

*

Disastra came up for air after the kiss. Well. There was no turning back, now. She let the love flow out of her and reshape everything in the cottage. It was like breathing again for the first time after a subjective aeon underwater.

Calamity looked similarly oxygenated. "You're crying, you sentimental old fool."

"You too, you daft old bat."

Gloria was clapping. "Again, again, again, again!"

And somehow, Gloria always got what she wanted.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #324: For a Dog to Tear

Hachiko, Greyfriars Bobby, Fido, Shep, and every other dog on all three subsections of  this list

By the way, to get the full tearjerking experience, for every dog on that list that has a full article, read it as well.

Etta was getting used to it, even though it broke her heart. Every day, for their morning walk, Boy would insist on trying to find his Master. The routine included visiting his former home in the JOAT sector, and visiting the small tree where his remains were laid to rest.

She let Boy lie under the sapling for ten minutes before she gently reminded him that he had work to do with her.

She wasn't his person. She was... someone who looked after him and worked with him. Boy was happy enough with her, she could tell. But he wanted his Master.

Etta let him do these things. Every day. Even on her days off, her days always contained a walk to the JOAT sector, and then a walk to the graveyard. She tried to teach him what death meant, that his Master wasn't coming back from his 'forever sleep'.

She would never know if he understood. He was an Augment, and not very bright about things. As easily distracted as a kitten in a discotheque. And sweeter than any mastery of culinary chemistry from Unsuitable Food Eat.

On the really rough days, she treated him to blue steak with peanut sauce. Not because he was having a bad time, but because her heart was breaking. And it happened every time Boy said, "No cry, Boss. Boy find Master. Boy keep look."

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Challenge #325: Angels Unawares

 http://soluscrow.tumblr.com/post/133913436559/modernaukeats-texts-between-angels-trying-to

Angels living among the mortals

Mrs Getherty had always been in the neighbourhood. And she had always been a little strange. For instance, she invited the local evangelists in for tea and cookies. And a nice, long chat that somehow devoured their entire day, covered nothing, and roamed from topic to topic like an indecisive kid with one dollar to spend in the candy store.

Nobody could remember when she _wasn't_ a slightly dotty old lady who took in strays of all kinds. Nobody knew where she got her money from, either, but she apparently had enough to look after anyone and anything that elected to stay in her slightly dilapidated old house.

Nobody could remember the last time she was sick, when she last needed help, or when she ever had anything new.

Thieves occasionally tried to break in and steal what little she had. When they did, they found themselves fed and gently talked to until they elected to mend their ways.

People said her chicken soup could cure AIDS.

And when Taro ran away from home, Mrs Getherty just took her in like any other lost stray.

It was late, but noise in the kitchen never reached anyone else who slept in that old house. And there was always a bed to spare, for all that it was usually inhabited by insolent cats.

Taro sat somewhere in the middle of a huge fluffy dressing gown. It was too big to be Mrs Getherty's. Too big to be anyone's. But it was always warm and it always smelled slightly of cinnamon. She watched Mrs Getherty put together some tea and arrange for some soup to appear.

There was nothing on earth like Mrs Getherty's chicken soup. It warmed a body up from the soul out. A fortunate thing, since Taro had run away in the middle of possibly the worst storm in living memory. Her clothes had been soaked through.

But then, Mrs Getherty always had some spares. Taro didn't mind the slightly-too-large prairie dress of a nightie. She liked the flowers.

Mrs Getherty shook as she poured the tea. Despite her trembling hands, she never spilled a drop of anything. "Now. Why would you run out of a loving home on a night like this?"

"...don't like uncle teddy," Taro mumbled.

"Your mama's new boyfriend, Uncle Teddy?" she asked, sitting down with some great effort. "He's been helping pay the rent as I understand it."

"...been helpin' himself," mumbled Taro. "...don' like what he does."

"Mm-hm..." Mrs Getherty reached across to read Taro's hand. "Hm. One of _those_ is it? Not on my watch."

Taro wondered what sort of thing Mrs Getherty could do about her 'uncle' Teddy. But she never saw it. Mrs Getherty made Taro finish her soup and drink the tea, both of which made her drowsy. The next thing she knew, she was being tucked into one of the spare beds and colonised by cats. Including a very friendly tortie who purred the instant she was touched.

And the next morning, Mama was picking her up out of the blanket of cats.

"Something strange came over that man," said Mama. "Did he touch you? Did he make you feel bad?"

Taro nodded fearfully.

But Mama just hugged her tight. "He told me everything. Everything! He went funny and confessed to me, to the priest, and to the police... He's demanding to help catch others like him. I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault," soothed Mrs Getherty, leaning on the doorway. "Those types know how to fool people on every level."

Mama got distracted by dogs and children and cats long enough for Taro to break free and ask, "What did you do to him?"

An enigmatic smile. "I just showed him the error of his ways, is all. Let him see where he was going. I do admit, I might have overdone it a tad."

Nobody could remember the last time that Mrs Getherty had been cross, either. She never really got angry. She just... tidied things up. And last night, the thing she had tidied was the monster Taro knew as Uncle Teddy.

And just for a second... Taro swore that Mrs Getherty's shadow had wings.

Return to Table of Contents.

Challenge #326: Desperate Measures

 http://paintdripps.tumblr.com/post/133942666585/magic-aus-for-all-your-magic-au-needs

Pick one

Cam had had enough. Their entire adventure across half the realm had been full of bailing out of flirting. Near misses and excruciating closeness mixed with nigh-intolerable formality.

It had been painful. Didn't Bes know how awesome she was? How wonderful she was for everyone around her. It wasn't that she had a Bard's natural glamour. It was all charm and charisma. And... just being Bes.

All Cam could think about was holding her. Kissing those loquacious lips. Staying safe together wherever they went, skin to skin. Her scent in Cam's nostrils from dusk until dawn. Every day.

The absence of such was a pain that Cam could no longer bear.

Which was why Cam stole the love potion from the Fae Knight, after they'd defeated him. Potent stuff, apparently. One drop in the intendeds food or drink would have them absolutely giddy with infatuation.

Love would bloom or it wouldn't, but at least Cam would know what Bes' flirting looked like.

It was a perfect night for camping. Bright, beautiful stars and a harvest moon. Fireflies danced on the grass and there wasn't a bloodsucking insect for miles.

Cam added a fateful drop to Bes' cup and handed it over before she could lose her nerve.

"Beautiful night," said Cam.

Bes sipped her drink. "Aye. Almost more beautiful than you. Er. Not to say you aren't beautiful. I mean. It's lovely. You're lovely. Aesthetically speaking, I mean. There's a reason why all those people follow you around and I know Charisma was your dump stat... Um."

More of the typical back-pedalling from the bard. Cam let her babble. The potion should have worked instantly. It was the most potent, most undeniable, most enduring of love potions to ever exist.

"So... you've been flirting with me the entire adventure, right?"

"Um. Sort of? Only I dunno if you're into me? Or not into me? And lots of the dashing Rogue types get really offended if I try anything? Like... I like girls? But way too many girls don't like me back? And I have this bad habit of blurting stuff? Or saying stuff sideways? And I never know if I'm gonna get a fist to the jaw or a kiss on the cheek? And I love adventuring with you. Like I never want it to end? And please don't punch me, it hurts bad enough already..."

O for the love of Gods... Cam breached the distance between them and kissed her lips gently. "You're annoying but I love you anyway," she said.

There were traces of the potion on Bes' lips. But it didn't matter. The potion just didn't work on people who were in love to begin with.

And Bes the bard reacted with a typical bardic succinctness. "Holy shit..."

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Challenge #327: Reset... Reset...

 http://paintdripps.tumblr.com/post/133942666585/magic-aus-for-all-your-magic-au-needs

Pick a second

Sans had let a fine layer of snow settle on him again. It didn't really matter. Skeletons were generally immune to the cold in the first place, and he just didn't care for the second.

Every time he opened his eyes, he saw the sky... Blue sky. Real stars. Clouds... it didn't matter.

Crowding didn't matter. Not any more. There were seemingly boundless areas of mountainside and forest in which to build homes, grow farms, and otherwise just be. Sans preferred New Snowdin. Everyone knew him, and he could rely on two or more residents to drag him and his lawn chair under the eaves when the weather got harsh.

It was worth it to open his eyes and see...

...the gem-speckled ceiling of the cold caverns.

Sans spent his first reset on the border of madness. Trying to find someone, anyone, who also knew about the reality that was.

Anyone except the kid. Sometimes, they were... terrible. Other times, they were an angel. And those times, he got to spend time above, gathering snow, letting rain pool in his eyesockets. Enjoying the moments before...

...he found himself staring upwards at a bleak imitation of the sky. Heartbroken.

He'd tried so hard, so often, to set things right.

In the end, he only cared when the kid had murdered everyone they could find. And even then, he didn't stay dead for long.

And sometimes, once in a great long while, the kid would speak the words that meant that they had the power to see alternate lives. He hoped they would somehow be able to fix the machine his father made. Set things right.

But what did he expect? They were a kid. All they knew how to do was torture him with the promise of the outside on a permanent basis.

And in the end... he just gave up. Kept pulling the same jokes. Kept working with the same script. Kept enjoying the time above while it lasted. Kept... not caring.

It hurt too much to care.

Even when the kid crawled into his lap and promised there would be no more resets, he kept waking up from the nightmare of seeing that gem-studded imitation of a sky.

Day after day.

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Challenge #328: In the Middle of a Faery Tale

 http://paintdripps.tumblr.com/post/133942666585/magic-aus-for-all-your-magic-au-needs

And a third

Gloria had been combing her hair by the river when a wandering man stumbled upon her. He stood there, gaping like a landed fish, until Gloria started braiding it up.

"Fair maiden, I beg your boon," he began. "I am labouring under a terrible curse. A foul witch decreed that I must never refuse an opportunity for generosity until such time as a maiden bestows her true love's kiss."

Hm. That sounded like one of Mama's. "That's a rather mild curse," she allowed. "And unfair to the maiden, as well. She thinks she's getting a generous soul, but instead he turns back into... a selfish prince?"

He knelt. "You don't understand. I once owned vast expanses of land. Boundless forests for hunting in. Thousands upon thousands of slaves to cater to every whim. And I have lost it all and more. I look like a peasant! I've been forced to give away everything I have, to toil like a common labourer. Dear lady, a prince should not be forced to perspire."

Gloria gave him the Askance Look that let her read the spell. A simple enough Geas and, yes, Mama's work. She could lift it with a thought. "And what have you learned under this curse of yours?"

"The lesser classes are greedy, grasping, worthless louts! They should be--" he choked on his next words as the Geas took over. "--given... all... they... need... and more."

"So you have learned nothing," she said. "And I have no reason to love you. You have lost your property, selfish prince, but you have yet to lose your disgraceful attitude."

A very small squeaking noise. He looked so very close to tears. "But... fair maiden... I would not be selfish against you."

"Ah. So I would get to watch you being selfish against the people who depend on you for protection? Against the people you tax? Against the serfs and the slaves that you own? I get to see you being cruel to everyone in your lands, and keeping them from any means of help. I see."

At least he had the decency to be embarrassed. "Um. When you put it like that... I can almost see why I was cursed."

Gloria finished her braid, tying it off with a leather strip. "You've much to learn, selfish prince. Including the meaning of 'true love'." She resumed her journey, not caring if he followed or stayed.

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Challenge #329: First Impressions

The large, intimidating and scary... King Fluffybuns

Authorities were still trying to lure the silent Frisk away from the gathered monsters. Frisk had worn themselves out trying to tell them that the monsters were her friends.

Now they were just clinging to the nearest leg for comfort.

Toriel patted her head. "I know, my child," she soothed. "It is very hard to convince them. Humans do tend to judge by appearances. Have no fear. They will understand."

And then, the second-worst thing to happen since Undyne began defending them all from the hail of bullets... happened. King Asgore emerged into the spotlight.

Eight feet tall, at least, including his horns. He had a large teapot in one hand and a tray full of cups in the other.

"Would anyone like a cup of tea?" he offered. "It's my favourite blend." He began to pour a few cups, giving one to Sans to pass to Frisk. One went to a grateful Undyne, who took it straight down in one gulp.

"Thanks, sire. I needed that."

Toriel was helping Frisk blow on theirs to cool it.

"Humans," boomed Papyrus, "You must be tired from holding those guns like that for so long. Have some tea with us. You'll feel better in no time."

Officer Honicutt was the first to holster her weapon and take some of the offered tea. She sipped cautiously. Her eyes bugged. She whirled to face her fellow officers and uttered possibly the worst phrase in the history of diplomatic statements.

"Holy shit, Sarge! You gotta taste this stuff, it's fucking awesome!"

"Language," chided Toriel.

Frisk giggled and signed, Heard worse at orphanage. Is fine, Mom.

"I do not think it's fine, my child. You should not hear such words until your majority."

They happen, anyway. Please no angry?

"All right," Toriel added a kiss to Frisk's brow. "I will endeavour to not be offended. The last thing we need here and now is anger."

Of course, the news cameras loved the entire concept of a giant goat-monster throwing a tea party for the attending officers. Regardless of what they thought it meant, the image was on every station across the globe.

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Challenge #330: One Miserable Evening in a Wave of the Future Science Outpost

Strange how believing in "the greater good" makes doing "necessary evils" so much more tolerable... -- Anon Guest

AN: I saw your comment on this, [RecklessPrudence. Was this you? If so, I'll re-attribute]

Rael was supposed to be resting in his heated tank. Certainly, his body was resting, but he was not insensate. He could hear the argument going on between his creators and the owners of _Wave of the Future_. He could not see them, and he didn't particularly want to.

"The media is getting tired of the same breakdown footage," insisted one voice. Rael had forgotten their real name. He called them Bodge, and they were in charge of the Maximum Flaw Experiment, which had resulted in Rael's existence.

He had no love for his creators. They had made his life a montage of pain and discomfort. And they used his 'breakdowns' as weapons against the rising suspicion that the Faiize were more than they were marketed to be. Foiling them by making sure that there was no more footage to use had been a high point in his life.

"Run it through the least encouraging tests. Try to force some new footage." That was Administrator Asshole-Shareholder. Reportedly the one who had insisted on all the features that the Faiize now had. And also in charge of spinning the negative media implications into marketing genius that had the Time rolling in.

"Sir. It can tell when it's in a failing situation, now. It can even spot the tests most likely to make it break down. Subject tagged as Rael is no longer useful for media exploitation," argued Bodge. "Any Faiize over fifteen Standard Years is capable of not complying with a fail-state test."

"Then start making stupid Faiize," argued Administrator Asshole-Shareholder. "Aim for cusp cogniscence levels of sentience. Make it sound like we're attempting to comply with regulations."

"Yes, sir. But - why, sir?"

"It's for the greater good. Wave of the Future can no longer support itself on the rental fees from the Cleaners. We need this line to succeed. Or you're out of a job."

"Yes, sir."

"And ship that thing off to some backwater where it doesn't know the language."

"Sir, we're running out of realms where that's possible."

A pained sigh. Rael lived for the moments when a B'Dauss in charge gave out that noise. "Fine. Ship it off to some human backwater. Even Terran Conversational English has so many dialects that we can still shuffle it around for a year or two."

"And after that?"

"I don't care. Decommission it."

Rael rippled in distress. Still too low in his recuperation cycle to turn silver. He had two years, if that, to prove his intelligence to humans - the most wilfully ignorant and insane species in the Galactic Alliance - and beg sanctuary... or die.

He had to learn and learn fast. And remain useful during that time.

Wherever he wound up, he hoped they were smarter than his creators.

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Challenge #331: The Ambassador... the Hat

A skeleton looks much less scary with a small child sitting on their shoulders/draped over their skull

The monsters had not waited for permission to build. A new city sprang up on and around Mount Ebott. Practically overnight. Replete with paved roads, plumbing, and all the amenities. They certainly did not wait to celebrate their freedom.

And they invited the humans to come join them.

Some came expecting to be scared. Officer Honicutt came to make certain that the human ambassador - the nonverbal Frisk - was not in any way being mistreated. Frisk had a rather thick folder of paperwork for one so young. Always passed over for adoption. First, because they were a sickly baby, and then because they did not act like a normal child.

But then... other normal children had vanished on the slopes of Mount Ebott, never to be seen again.

And oddly enough, the monsters kindly repatriated their bodies. Replete with apologies about what had happened.

Honicutt was also there to make sure that violence did not break out between the humans and the monsters. The monsters were peaceful enough, that was plainly evident, but humans?

They had never liked to share.

The celebrations had turned into a fairground, with rides and puzzles. Diversions to entertain all comers. Including a hot dog stand run by a dozing skeleton.

The other skeleton had to be around somewhere.

There he was. Well over six feet tall and throwing bones at a moving target... which resembled a buttercup for some reason. The humans watching him were completely at ease and the ambassador was the reason why.

Frisk was perched calmly on Papyrus' shoulders, tapping their hands on the bare, bony skull.

It was the only time in their entire life that Frisk was actively smiling. Even a few laughs escaped them.

"Top points," droned what appeared to be a wobbly cat in a cardboard hat. "The skeleton wins the big prize."

Frisk said, "Ah!" and pointed to a truly garish thing that could not exist in reality. Not even the new reality that included monsters.

"The human wants that one," interpreted Papyrus. "And the Great Papyrus has already aimed to please."

Giggles from Frisk.

The fluffy toy, once transferred, was bigger than Frisk was. It became a companion on Papyrus' shoulders. Then another hat. And a cushion for Frisk's arms.

Honicutt watched the effect this had on the visiting humans. It was amazing. The monster most likely to scare or disturb wandering humans had a pacifying effect on everyone around him. And it might not just be the presence of a small child on his shoulders.

"Officer Honicutt, we meet again. Are you on duty or off duty?"

"I'm... not exactly on the clock. Why?"

"I was going to offer you a Nice Cream. But if you are on duty, then I, the Great Papyrus, will not distract an officer from their rounds. I was once going to be part of the Royal Guard. You do important work, protecting your fellow humans from... er... what threatens humans, again?"

Honicutt sighed. "Usually, other humans."

Papyrus boggled. "How can that be? You're only one kind. Monsters have hundreds of kinds and we hardly ever make trouble for each other."

She shrugged. "Call it a special kind of genius," she allowed. "Maybe Frisk can teach us how they did it." She peeked up at the child. "When they wake up."

Papyrus juggled Frisk into his arms, using the gigantic, garish toy as a pillow. "Human... Frisk. At least stay awake until I get you back to your Mom?"

Frisk shook themselves into semi-wakefulness. Blinked almost back into slumber.

"I'll escort you," offered Honicutt. "That kid is half-past ready for bedtime."

"And then, Nice Cream?"

What the hell. It was a party. "Yeah. Sure."

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Challenge #332: The Pros and Cons of Cute

That one ambassador that has at this point given up on avoiding being picked up and cuddled/held/used as a large teddy bear, and just gets on with paperwork (or listens/chats/relaxes/reads a book/takes a nap) while their fur/scales/feathers are groomed by whoever got them this time, so long as they don't have any appointments to get to.

Re-using Ambassador Ha'ri from [ story #00761, available for purchase in the next Instants Anthology (coming soon)]

There were many things about being 'cute', and Ambassador Ha'ri had learned about most of them. Humans, the most dangerous and insane species in the Galactic Alliance, felt inclined to pick her up and either groom her or squeeze her or both. They came over all nurturing, and seemed almost obsessively interested in making sure she got a good deal for her people.

The people she warned, beforehand, in numerous pamphlets, that humans were compelled to pick them up and lavish attention on them.

Ha'ri did not startle at the HUD alert that humans were approaching. She located them visually, allowed them to squeak and coo, and then said, "If you are compelled to embrace or groom me, please do so in a fashion that allows me to continue my work?" She elevated her arms.

The humans swarmed.

It wasn't that she didn't enjoy the attention. Life as a social outcast among her own kind had lead her to become used to an absence of physical contact. The humans, on the other hand, gave her more physical contact than she could ever want in a lifetime. And then some.

It had got to the point where she purposely toured human-inhabited stations just to get her fix of social grooming.

And for important gathering events like this... Ha'ri just became resigned to it. She would flee to her solitude at the end of the day.

And, if she had an appointment, she could always politely request that the humans carry her there. They were always willing to oblige.

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Challenge #333: Santa Claws

The Santa Suit in King Fluffybuns' wardrobe.

The first rays of Christmas morning lit the snow with gold. This was a day of magic. A day of miracles. And the best miracle was that Frisk had a family now.

Mom Toriel and Dunkle Sans. And Uncle Papyrus. And Aunties Undyne and Alphys. And a whole host of others who would be sharing the feast at the Really Big table.

The grin on Frisk's head wouldn't go away. Their breathless giggles turned into laughter and jumping on the bed before they remembered to use the little trampoline Mom had got strictly for Frisk's need to jump.

And then it was too much. Frisk ran for Mom's bed and bounced on it. Saying the most words they had said for the better part of five years. "Mom! Dunkle! Is Christmas! Santa, Santa, Santa!"

Mom caught Frisk in a hug. "Not yet, my child. I must wake up and cook. Santa comes to us for lunch."

"Civilised people are still asleep, kid," rumbled Dunkle Sans from somewhere under the duvet.

"Time for snuggles," soothed Mom. "And smooches." She added a kiss to Frisk's brow.

Frisk spent a greedy hour in Mom's arms before the excitement of the day began to worm its way in again. "Present?"

"This is your first proper Yule, is it not?"

Vigorous and enthusiastic nodding.

Mom sat up. "How about you and I stay busy making treats for the feast? Nice quiet work that won't wake up Dunkle Sans."

"Don't worry about it, I'm a determined sleeper," said the lump under the Duvet.

And since he presently began to snore, Mom carried Frisk out and down into the kitchen. Which meant going past the magnificent tree. It was a plastic one, for practicality, and decorated with everything imaginable. The star at the top was more like a sun, in celebration of life on the surface. The lights sparkled in every colour of the rainbow. The tinsel glistened, and there were so many baubles, paper chains, candy canes and random augmentations that it was easy to lose track of the tree.

And a great deal more presents under it already than Frisk had seen the previous night. "Ah! Presents!" Frisk pointed.

"Yes, my child. They are presents. But we must do a little work now to help feed all of those who are coming to feast. Would you like to help me make a Cinnamon Butterscotch pie?"

Frisk clapped.

But it wasn't just the enormous butterscotch pie. There were gingerbreads and shortbreads and little snacks of this or that, and boxes of gelatine that had been setting overnight. Mom let Frisk cut those up with a hot knife, under her careful supervision.

Enough food to feed an army.

But then, an army was coming. All the friends Frisk had made in the Underground, including the Amalgamates. Which meant that a good quarter of the population of Snowdin forest, Snowdin itself, Waterfall and Hotland were invited.

And they would be bringing presents, too.

Frisk did most of the finding and fetching until the doorbell rang. And then it was time to greet every incoming visitor with offers of kisses and hugs, thanks to the mistletoe just inside the doorway.

And finally, just as the feast was coming together across the vast expanse of the Really Big Table, someone let themselves in.

"Ho, ho, ho!"

Several people screamed the word, "SANTA!" Including Frisk, Papyrus, and Kid the kid. Somehow Alphys was amongst the excited crowd clustering around the large, red suit trimmed in white fur.

Frisk wasn't fooled for a second. It was Dunkle Asgore in a Santa suit. His Santa hat sat awkwardly on one of his horns. He did, though, have a very large sack of presents.

Frisk signed, Goat Dunkle.

"Ssh," insisted the Kid. "He has so much fun playing the part."

Oh. Okay. That made him Santa enough for Frisk.

*

Drifts of wrapping paper threatened to bury the Yuletide revellers. It had almost buried Frisk. They were still in their striped, footie pyjamas, and they had snuggled down amidst the cheerful paper. Exhausted from all the excitement. And possibly one too many servings of pie.

Sans lifted them out of the debris with his magic, resting Frisk on the slumbering cushion of the King. He, too, had had a little too much excitement and pie. Others were already using him as a cushion, including Sans.

"Found them," he said.

"Must you use Asgore as a pillow?"

"He's closer than the bedroom."

Toriel sighed. "I suppose he does not mind." she looked into a past long since gone. For an instant, the love she used to feel for her ex-husband lit in her eyes. "Is there anyone else lost under all this paper?"

Sans lifted it all up, layer by layer. "Nope." He let it settle in one definitive pile. "We're good."

Toriel went to fetch the kindling basket. Even though she had fire magic, she knew Frisk liked to set the fire themselves. And all this paper, torn asunder, would be just the thing. When she got back, all the paper was in the really big kindling bin, waiting for her to pick it up.

"Sans..." she warned. "You are playing tricks on me, are you not?"

"Who me? I haven't moved a muscle." He grinned at her. "Settle down. Pull up a highness. It's time to take a break. You deserve it."

"But what about the--" the kindling was already back where it belonged. Tori glared at her new husband. "Oh, you."

"I think I missed out on some of that snuggling and smooching," he said. "Care to top me up?"

She settled down next to him with a giggle.

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Challenge #334: Touch Feast

You mentioned Frisk being tactile - so they probably don't mind at all if the monsters take every opportunity to pick them up, carry them around, hug them or hold them (and one time pretend to suplex them)

The first thing people noticed about Frisk was their silence. The second thing they noticed, assuming they got past the silence, was that Frisk was rarely out of the arms of a monster.

It didn't matter which one. Whatever came along to be Frisk's translator, that thing held Frisk as comfortably as they could manage. After a few days, there was even a kind of padded apron for the... less squishy monsters to wear.

The humans provided a translator, too. Just in case the monsters were interpreting Frisk to say whatever they wanted. They weren't. In fact, the monsters were more at home with Frisk's half-pantomime dialect than most translators were.

And for the home visits, Frisk rarely left the arms of their adopted mother. The giant goat creature with fangs.

"You don't have to hold them all the time," said the counsellor. "Frisk. I won't take you away. You're free to wander where you like."

"You need not fret," said Toriel. "Frisk is always free to go where they will." To demonstrate, she opened her arms.

Frisk leaned out and reeled an arm back in. Snugging it tight against them before resuming their pattern of patting.

"Frisk adores being hugged," said Toriel simply. "Having become familiar with their file... I would hazard the guess that they are making up for lost time."

Deep in Toriel's arm, Frisk nodded.

The front door slammed open. "What up, nerds!"

Frisk sat bolt upright. "Undyne!"

Toriel offered them egress. "Of course you can go play."

The counsellor followed Frisk to the front hallway, where a tall fish and a small dinosaur had their arms open to greet Frisk. Who ran into the arms of the fish, first. The counsellor almost had a heart attack when the fish appeared to suplex Frisk. But it was mock-wrestling. No danger to anyone.

Frisk giggled and immediately ran to the dinosaur, who simply picked Frisk up for a hug.

"You're still a weak little loser," grinned the fish. "But you're the best weakling I ever lost a battle to." More wrestling and some mock noogies, all of which were greeted with giggles, squeals, and Frisk tickling in return.

"Aaaah! Tiny hands! My only weakness. Noooo... I am defeated." Undyne overacted her way into a very theatric mock 'death'.

My God, it's full of nerds...

"Look what I brought," said the dinosaur. Alphys. She had a thick rectangle, "It's the box set for Mew Mew Kissy Cutie, the series!"

The counsellor left before the squealing got intense.

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Challenge #335: They've Been Hiding up There For Ages

 http://i2.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/001/043/748/cc4.jpg

Frisk the undisputed monarch of hide and seek (and massive troll)

One thing the files said about Frisk, was that if they didn't want to be found, the seeker would never find them.

One rather malevolent foster parent called the police to search for them, and the child just spontaneously turned up in the rear of a squad car. With a friend who was not so good at hiding, who had all the bruises. One of the many factors that caused Frisk to be a hot-potato style of problem child until they came into the general area of Mount Ebott.

Now that there were monsters in the world, Frisk used those skills for fun.

Well, fun for themself.

Sans had been drying out in the midday sun after gently soaking in the overnight rain. Enjoying the sky and the sight of clouds. At least until Papyrus ran screaming down the road in unadulterated panic.

After a few minutes, he went screaming back the way he had come.

Sans let it go for a few more iterations before he arranged to be in Pap's path. "Whoa, whoa. Calm down, bro. What's the problem?"

"The human is missing! I can't find them anywhere. We were playing Hide and Seek and they just... vanished. I am a horrible guardsman! I'm a failure as a monster! Toriel will be devastated!" He fell to his knees, sobbing. "I can never show my face in public again..."

Frisk, nestled comfortably in Papyrus' tattered red cape, waved a hello and signed, Tell him about 'Olly olly oxen free'.

Kid, thought Sans. You are going to be the death of me. Just... not literally... in this reality, anyway.

Sans tried to soothe his sobbing brother. "Bro. Bro. It's going to be okay."

"No it's not," sniffle, sniffle, sob. "Frisk was in my charge. They could be anywhere. Anything could happen to them."

"No seriously. It's fine. I -ah- know some magic human-summoning words."

Glare. "Why didn't you use them on patrol."

Sans shrugged. "Only found out about 'em up here. Besides, it might not have worked underground."

"And they'll work now?"

Sans grinned. "Guaranteed, bro. Got it on the best authority. All you got to do is yell, 'Olly olly oxen free'. Works like a charm."

Another glare. "Are you pranking me, brother?"

"Bro. I don't do pranks when you're crying."

Papyrus took a deep breath and shouted the words, causing Frisk to grin and slither out of their perch. Frisk circled around to where Papyrus could see them and added a smooch to his tear-soaked cheekbone.

Sans was back in his deck chair before the dramatic monologue got going.

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Challenge #336: A Reason to Sing

Sans, you have a lovely singing voice!

AN: This prompt references [this fan mix of a song called Drop Pop Candy. CAUTION: That song is an ear-worm. Do not listen until you have something that trumps everything.]

Sans hadn't realised he was singing out loud until Frisk began clapping. He hadn't been in a mood to sing since... O Gods... since the first time they had escaped the underground. So many resets ago.

It had been over a year. Things... things were changing. He hadn't lived anything before for... months, now. He'd started feeling... happy. Which was kind of a big deal.

Frisk signed, Beautiful voice.

They had the power to start the world all over again. But they didn't. They seemed to be enjoying life among the monsters just as much as everyone was enjoying the surface.

"If you think so," he allowed. "Hadn't had much reason to sing since... forever ago. At least it feels that way."

Frisk dashed away. A few minutes later, they reappeared with a handbill from their school. Advertising a Karaoke Carnival to raise funds for gym equipment.

Why was it always gym equipment? Wouldn't more up-to-date reference materials make more sense? Or computers for each of the kids? Or better training for the staff who still thought Frisk was somehow malingering by being mute.

Frisk signed, You could show up Linda.

Ugh. Linda. The one woman who came to the PTA to complain about the lack of salad wraps and gluten-free treats at the cafeteria, but never once put her money or time where her flapping mouth was. Linda, who believed that vaccines made kids 'catch autism'. Linda, with her interfering finger pointing at all other children except her allegedly perfect little brat, Shiloh.

Shiloh. That little snot. Sans had it on good authority that Shiloh stole other kids' lunches [Linda accused the other kids of 'sharing' their 'unhealthy foods'] and could pee his pants on cue. Shiloh, who waited until he heard Linda's approaching footfalls to put on a massively destructive, red-faced, screaming fit. Shiloh, who would do so very much better if [to use Linda's words] all the freaks and misfits were put away into a special school. If Linda's suggestion was taken as gospel, then her son would be going to school on his own.

Linda the loudmouth. Linda the ignorant. Linda the nouveau vegan. Linda, who had the school board firmly in her pocket. That Linda.

Sans winked at Frisk. "Yeah. Sure. I could do that. Reckon we could make a show out of it? Pretty sure Mettaton wants to help out with charity, too."

Frisk giggled and gave a double-thumbs-up. They knew exactly what Mettaton would do to the event. Glitter was only the start.

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Challenge #337: Out in the Rain

The Underground residents and Weather.

They were all clustered together inside the nearest police station. Mostly, clustered around Frisk in a protective and comforting manner. The cluster of monsters tightened a little as the ceiling made a noise.

"W-w-what is that?" quavered Alphys.

Frisk signed, Rain.

"I saw that in your animes," whispered Undyne. "Clear water just... falls out of the sky." She grinned widely. "I have got to see this!"

The monsters swarmed out into the parking lot. Even Toriel left Frisk under the eves to feel the cold drops of moisture coming out of the air.

Undyne started dancing in it. So did Papyrus and Alphys. Toriel laughed just to feel it and quickly resumed watching over Frisk.

"Does this happen every day?" she asked.

Frisk shrugged and added, Lots of days. Not all the time.

"Oh, it is wonderful..." sighed Toriel.

Sans had just laid down in the middle of the parking lot, laughing at the sky with liquid pooling in and pouring out of his eye sockets. Well. It sounded like laughing. It could have been something in the vicinity of tears.

I worry about him, Frisk signed.

"I, too, worry about him," whispered Toriel. "I get the feeling that he has been very sad for a very long time."

You should give him lots of hugs, signed Frisk. He might like that.

Toriel blushed through her fur. "That may be a wise idea."

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Challenge #338: One Slow Afternoon at Unsuitable Food Eat

EUREKA!

Which is greek for "This bath is %*£&ing cold!"

"I thought it meant, 'hand me a towel'."

"I heard it was, 'there's a cockroach in the bath'."

"No, no, no. It really means, 'is my time up already'."

Shayde, gloomily watching her joke plummet like a leaden balloon that was currently on fire, tapped the countertop for another fudge sundae. "What goes around comes around," she sighed. "And this one went around so often it's no' a joke any more."

"I told you not to do it again," said Rael.

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Challenge #339: One Good Apple

A TV psychic with genuine ability and their crew end up on "This Old Haunted Mansion"

Pamela Aerie ran a very small psychic show on the local PBS with a budget so small that they had to recycle their shoestrings. She filmed a lot of it with the one camera she'd owned since 1988 and the help of her husband and children.

And she was one of the few who actually asked permission to guest on their webcast.

The instant she set foot in their haunted house, she said, "There is no malevolence here. A lingering spirit, severed in jealousy from life... but there is forgiveness..." And she dotted straight on to Lewis, hovering invisibly by the fireplace. "An L name. A male spirit. Louis... no. Lewis. Come on out, Lewis. We can talk."

He corporealised out of unadulterated shock. "Wow," he said. "It's not every day that a psychic knows I'm here."

"And you can keep your little puppets out of it, too. I know you and your friends like to prank the frauds. Why not have some tea?"

It became a mutual interview session. Pamela had never made it to the big leagues because she was actually psychic. People never wanted to pay money to see someone who was accurate. It scared them. They loved to pay for a fraud because frauds were the right combination of entertaining, vague, and completely wrong.

Pamela had never mastered the art.

But she was happy to provide a necessary service to those desperate enough to consult a genuine psychic. And in this case, it came as a blessing to the mind of Arthur. Inspiration. A vital step forward in the device he'd been trying to build for the better part of a year.

And a better charm for the arm he had built. To keep out any and all malevolent forces from him, as well as those he loved. Of course it was effective. It was so effective that it gave lawyers and politicians a rash from passing nearby.

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Challenge #340: Pursued Knowledge

Someone that can see, or at least somehow perceive, Lewis/the deadbeats and is determined to study them

A shot of the old haunted house. Then a mirror, in which someone was wearing a headcam.

"They've left the house," said the person. "This is my chance to investigate the phenomenon. I've been living in the neighbourhood and I've seen a few weird things. I know something else is in there. They never lock their doors so I'm going in."

The mirror vanished, and the view quickly went inside the house.

"Now. I'm being very careful not to do anything illegal while I'm here. I just want to observe and measure. And maybe make sure I'm not... well. You read my blog. You know what they say about me."

The camera picked up a fuzzy pinkish... thing down a hall. It looked like a giant finger puppet.

"There's one," whispered the investigator. "I'm going to try talking to it."

The fuzzy finger puppet appeared to solidify as they crept closer.

"Hello? Can I talk to you?"

It had a simple, cartoon of a face. Currently in a bemused expression. It sang, "Omomomo?"

"I'm just here to investigate, I promise. Why are you here?"

"Omomomomomo..."

"I'm sorry. I don't understand you." Desperate scribbling on a piece of paper. It had YES on one side and NO on the other. They faced it towards the figure. "Can you understand me?"

A voice said, "The Deadbeats are puppets," it was a voice that didn't use breath to speak. "If you want to talk to a ghost, look behind you."

The camera whirled to face a formal suit's chest. Panned up to face a floating skull with firey hair.

"'Sup?" said the ghost.

The camera view scrambled wildly through the house. Out the door. Over the fence. Down the street. Crashed into a stand of bushes.

"O god, o god, o god, o god... that was... that was... that was incredible. That was real? Omigod... I got that on camera. Tell me I got that on camera..."

And anyone who followed their blog, who saw that footage, would know that they would be coming back.

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Challenge #341: One Lazy Afternoon in Shayde's Entertainment Lounge

Is laughing at someone doing something stupid and reaping the consequences a very human thing?

"They're fine, so it's funny"

Even the idiot that tried to go sledding on a bin lid is laughing (leg in plaster optional)

"Look how far I flew when I came off!"

"What the living heck is this?" demanded Rael.

On her screen, two 'knights' in cardboard armour sat in shopping trolleys and held broomsticks like lances. They faced off at opposite sides of a road that dipped in the middle.

"Earth's most convincin' arguments that humans are insane," she grinned. "Formerly known as America's Funniest Home Videos. Popcorn?"

On the screen, the trolleys wobbled down the hill and the cardboard knights attempted to tilt at each other. They met with a loud collision and a sickening crack. Rael winced. "One of them was injured."

"They're drunk, bored, and teenagers," she snorted a parody of a laugh, "There's a bunch'a similes for ye. Anywa'. They're learnin' important lessons. Or they were."

Rael picked up his share of the popcorn. Ah, empty calories. His favourite. "What possible lesson could they learn here? Don't do ill-thought-out activities?"

"Close. Idiot decisions have painful consequences." She watched one of the knights get tossed from a trolley and roll to a stop. And giggled. "They're no' learnin' it very fast, ye ken."

Only humans would laugh at the misfortunes of others. Possibly from the sheer relief that it wasn't them having the misfortune.

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Challenge #342: When Realities Collide

"No, sir. They're not green, they're blue! They talk funny and they're drinking everything!" -- Anon Guest

[AN: a doff of the witch's hat and a formal bow to Sir Terry Pratchett. You are still missed. Also I saw that reference to Monty Python, you magnificent sneak]

Kazooland, though it is a reality unto itself, is also a Corridor realm. It has little back doors to every other realm of imagination. Soft spots where you can trip over another reality without a moment's notice.

Of course, some areas are more prone to soft patches than others. Horroria, for example, has a highway into Halloweentown. Snornia, island of Dragons, has a corridor that leads to a land largely populated by rainbow-hued talking ponies.

And when your house has a hallway that adjoins a mirrored mansion in Kazooland...

Well...

Let's just say that Walter Manor can get some interesting pests.

"Crivens!"

The Spine regarded the small blue man on the shelf with his best sceptical expression. He would have used a hairy eyeball except Rabbit had stolen it. "Huh," he said at length. "We've never had little blue men, before. And -ah- what's with the crazy straw into that jar? That's a specimen preserved in formaldehyde..."

"Awa' wi' ye, ye muckle iron tattybogle! Cannae a man ha'e a wee dram in peace?"

The Spine could only understand one word in five. "I'm sorry. I have to prevent you and the property in Walter Manor from coming to harm." He made to gently scoop up the little blue man...

And the next thing he knew, there was a dent in his forehead and the irrevocable knowledge that his cooling fins were stuck in the floorboards again.

@NumberOneSilver: Attn all Walter Workers. Incursion from Kazooland detected. Be on the lookout for Little Blue Men. Language spoken... unknown.

He watched the news spiral away into the Walter WiFi for a minute or so. Satisfied that his duty was done. Then, as an afterthought, he added:

@NumberOneSilver: Robot needs assistance in Ooky Room 005. I've fallen and I can't get up.

He would later find out that they were Feegles and that Li'l Steve had managed to pick a fight with all of them at once. Also that they had imbibed anything in the manor that was alcoholic, anything mildly alcoholic, and anything that could have possibly been alcoholic but they could'nae tell, ye ken, because they was already a wee bitty pished.

He would also learn that the robots, collectively, were 'bigjob steamy scheemies' or 'scunners' depending on the mood of the Feegle and their alcohol-blood content[1] at the time.

They also had to be frisked, several times, before their ejection back into the realm from whence they came. It was amazing what Feegle could lay their hands on, and swear belonged to their great-great-grand-uncle, ye ken. Been in the fam'ly fer years, honest. Including some of Steve's 'loc beads and at least three of Rabbit's faces.

[1] With any other carbon-based lifeform, it would be blood-alcohol content.

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Challenge #343: Ah, My Old Enemy...

"A robot who encounters a problem, attempts to find the solution, makes it worse, and then continues attempting to fix it until their programmer arrives to find them banging shit together and swearing"

from http://cnvvj.tumblr.com/post/134743888161/ryttu3k-audacityinblack-durpacerangerrogjro \-- Anon Guest

"Th-this is just stage one," murmured Alphys. "A test."

It looked like a brick with buttons and dials and -yes- a big LED readout for a face.

"I-I-I'll be adding f-features, later. Like. L-l-legs..."

Metta slid into the machine, allowing his spirit essence to merge with the circuitry. Ah, it had retractable arms. No. He had retractable arms. He opened his cameras. Eyes.

Alphys was checking her readouts.

Mettaton stood up. Balanced on... a singular wheel. "I think the motion controls might need a little work, gorgeous..." In fact, finding his balance was more than a little awkward. He had to keep oscillating back and forth just to stay upright. "I don't want to hypnotise my audience."

"It's a proof of concept," Alphys was already deep into her note taking. "I'll get onto your glamour body just as soon as I'm done calibrating the tolerances."

Which, Mettaton knew, was going to take absolute hours. If not days. If not weeks. Ugh. He disconnected from the cables and roamed around the lab. Moving around seemed to keep better balance than attempting to stand still. And Alphys had given him extendible noodle arms, giving him the reach to get anything he wanted.

Which wasn't much, in Alphys' lab.

As a ghost, Mettaton could go anywhere he wanted. The solidity of walls was just one amongst a very many new surprises. Like... the fact that he could no longer fly.

Mettaton had never tackled a set of stairs in his life. How to manage them with a single wheel was going to be a problem until his final form was finally ready. No better time to start learning than now.

He could hop, thanks to some pistons and springs. And after a few practice bounces, he leapt up to the first step...

...and instantly crashed back down into the lab floor.

*

Alphys surfaced from her work with the dim awareness that she hadn't eaten in some hours. The clock confirmed that her last meal was breakfast, and now it was past dinner time. And there was a persistent noise.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!" whump, whump, CRASH! Cursing fit to turn the very air a deep indigo. And then it would begin again.

She looked over her piles of notes to see Mettaton charging at the steps and, because of his one wheel, immediately falling off of them and impacting with the lab floor.

"M-m-mettaton... You'll d-dent yourself..."

"I. Am going. To learn. STAIRS!" His noodle arms flailed around on the floor like a brace of agitated eels. "If it takes me the rest of forever, I will learn how to climb these things!"

"B-but I haven't installed the gyroscopic stabilisers, y-yet..."

An electronic sigh. "Darling, a star needs to be seen. And most importantly, a star needs to be able to do things. Work on a stage. Go up and down..." this time, the word came out as a snarl. "Stairs. It's important."

Alphys picked him up, tweaked a few dials. "I t-t-told you this is a w-work in progress. B-b-baby steps, Mettaton."

"I can't do baby steps, Sweetie. I have a wheel."

This was going to be a long and rough process. Alphys could tell. But it was worth it to make her friend happy.

Except... what would Mettaton do once he had the body he wanted? He'd already gone back on his promises to stay with his cousin, and to help Shyren be a part of his band. He seemed exactly the type to drop people the instant he had what he wanted out of them.

Maybe... maybe if she kept flaws in his glamour body... maybe he'd keep being her friend.

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Challenge #344: An Unsettling Necessity

CUTIE MARK CRUSADERS NECROMANCERS! YAAAY!

[AN: This prompt was NEARLY spoiled by the CMC getting their Cutie Marks. Almost]

Mayor Mare had let them use an abandoned shop as their Cutie Mark Crusader headquarters. Now that there was help for ponies who wanted to get or understand their marks, there was business.

And very rarely, it came from parents worried about their foals.

Gloomy Doom was a black filly with an equally dark mane. She was one of the few pony fans of Princess Luna. She loved monsters and darkness and thunderstorms. In brief, she was not your usual happy pony.

But that was no reason to withhold help.

The Cutie Mark Crusaders tried to adjust to Gloomy Doom's world. She was naturally awake in the night, so they tried night-time activities. Stargazing, caring for night-time animals, patrolling the streets of Whinnyston to guard them, even night deliveries.

Nothing took.

Not until they found a squirrel, mortally wounded from an encounter with an eagle.

The Crusaders suggested all kinds of things for the poor creature, but Gloomy Doom did not turn her unicorn magic to such things. She murmured a few words and the squirrel quietly breathed its last.

"YOU KILLED IT!" Sweetie Belle shrieked.

"I helped it go," corrected Gloomy Doom. "Quietly and without pain. Extending its life would have been cruel." She dug a small grave with her own hooves and buried the squirrel with an acorn. "Life must end, just as sure as it begins. The best I can do is see that it ends gracefully." She gently patted the tiny grave. "New life will rise, in turn."

Certainly, they were a little afraid, but Gloomy Doom had a sense of what was meant to live and what had reached the end of its pace. Some, she healed, others, she 'helped go'. Always, without pain.

The Crusaders tried witchery, an ancient form of Unicorn magic, but that didn't take, either.

But it was when Gloomy Doom's pet lizard passed on that something very strange occurred. Instead of easing it onwards, she simply removed the pain. No grave was dug. And the lizard continued to move around. It ate out of habit more than need, and its flesh rotted away. Yet it kept moving, and snapping at flies.

"I know. I'm soppy. I love Stretch more than anything and I don't want to say goodbye. So I'm using some magic to keep him with me.

And that was how the Cutie Mark Crusaders learned what Necromancy was.

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Challenge #345: Urban Swashbuckler

Out for a walk and carrying a golf umbrella, walker is attacked by nesting birds. Falls into temptation from watching Far Too Many Fantasy Shows. Opening line. "Beware foul fiends for I am the greatest blade you'll ever meet!" And there are bystanders. Have fun!

There are several ways to carry an umbrella in modern society, and none of them worked for Latora. There was always one convenience after another that made all the traditional methods a problem. Which was why she turned her umbrella wrap into a hip sheath by attaching it to a spare belt.

It certainly gave her a lot more swagger on the streets. Fewer people bothered her with the rig on. Men who usually pestered her kept their mouths shut. Sure, she got a little bother from the police, but it was very hard for a bright pink, frilly, Hello Kitty umbrella to look anything like a weapon and they knew it too.

The only real problem, when she got down to it, was the birds. Some really aggressive avians had settled into her stomping grounds and made life hell for everyone who passed. Except Latora. Because the birds did not know how to cope with the sudden appearance of a large expanse of Hello Kitties.

And this morning, after a Muskateers marathon, she couldn't help herself.

The birds began to swoop.

She unsheathed her umbrella and cried, "Have at thee, fowl fiends," and pressed the button.

One of the hardy perennial Stoop Dudes laughed as he recorded it on his phone. "Oh yeah," he said. "That's gonna be a million hits."

"Yeah, and I get a share of the million dollars, homeboy."

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Challenge #346: A Miracle by the Riverside

We have a saying, "They're not dead 'til they're warm and dead"

Lizards watched in alarm as the humans pulled the child out of the freezing water. Limp and lifeless, the sad scrap of a life seemed beyond salvage. And yet...

The humans around the baby were working tirelessly to instil life into the apparently lifeless. They stripped off wet clothes. Wrapped the tiny body in foil and applied heating blankets. Warmed up bags of saline to plumb into the child's veins. Pumped and pumped and _pumped_ at its chest. Breathed into its lungs.

"Is dead body," insisted Tetarna. These stupid mammals were the stupidest. They either didn't believe the child to be dead or didn't want it to be dead. "Time for sorrow feast, yes?"

The surrounding humans never stopped abusing the body. Lifting its head and neck to breathe air into its lungs. Pumping at the chest in a parody of a heartbeat. Listening, ear to chest, for a sign that Tetarna assumed would never come.

One, the one working on pumping the drowned child's chest, spared a moment to growl, "They're not dead 'til they're warm and dead."

It was torturous. Disturbing. Downright grizzly. Grotesque. Tetarna shielded her younger brood-mates from the sight of it.

And then, just when the entire family was about to run away for their own mental health, one of the humans crowed, "PULSE!"

The one who pumped at the body's chest cheered. Continued breathing for the baby. "Come on, kiddo. Come on. Just breathe, baby, breathe..."

And a few Standard Minutes, later, the body coughed. Gasped. Vomited water and bile onto the rocks underneath. Ze immediately started up a weak cry, which caused the humans to cheer.

Tetarna slumped to a sitting position. Forced herself to remember the shock relieving breathing pattern so that she would not be next under the humans' relentless hands. "You is beating child to live again?"

"It's called CPR. Cardio... pulmonary... resuscitation," panted a nearby human. Taking a break by leaning back on the pebbles of the beach. "Humans - especially young humans \- can go into a sort of suspended animation when they're very cold. The trick is to keep it up until they're warm. Then we know."

The baby human, once dead, was crying louder and longer. Passed from one comforting pair of arms to another. Finally piled onto a stretcher with a hot water bottle done up to look like a teddy bear, a wrapping of silver blankets, quilting, and a device that pumped warm air into a blanket, and then around the child. And, of course, someone to hold their hand and remind them that they were not alone.

Most of the swarming humans carried the wailing baby away.

"Warm and dead," Tetarna echoed.

"Yes. Humans are hard to kill." The human struggled off the rocks and joined Tetarna's family by the courtesy warming unit. "I could tell stories."

This was the human who had entered the gelid waters to fetch the child. They were still wet. And fighting unconsciousness. "You is need help, also," said Tetarna.

"Yeah. They'll be back for me. In the meantime... keep me talking, eh? Good yarn... can save a life."

Tetarna did her duty for a fellow cogniscent. "How so?"

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Challenge #347: Epic Levels of Pettiness

Inspired by Gallafreya's prompt. Magical entity turns up to claim child, only to be told, snarkily. "We had twins! You can have that one, it's only a girl. We, of course will keep our firstborn son for ourselves. 18 years later the results.

When the wicked witch came for the child, the Prince and Princess had what they thought was a happy solution.

"We had twins," beamed the girl who had bargained a life for magic. "We'll keep the son and heir and you can take the other one."

"It's only a girl," dismissed the Prince. "Of little import to the crown."

The words burned her, though she did not flinch. And as she lifted the babe, she gave the infant the best blessing she could think of.

"You will always be more than people think you are." And she took the baby away.

The Prince and Princess eventually became King and Queen. They shed no tears for their lost daughter. Merely rejoiced in their sons. But this is not their story.

The witch named the new baby Belladonna, and knew that it was a poison. She told the girl her story just as soon as she could understand it. And while she grew, Belladonna learned.

She learned Glamour from the Faeries. She learned of herbs from the Dryads. Water magic from the Merfolk, light magic and deception from the Whisps. She learned of fire and resilience from the Dragons. And even learned how to learn from a wise old frog in a bog.

Everywhere the witch would wander, Belladonna followed. And Belladonna learned. She took in all the stories that those she met would tell. She saw the pattern of the way things were. Reasoned that she could pull a thread and make the cloth of life into the way that things could be.

And, when she came of age, Belladonna had a plan.

She took all her magic together, and wove a charm on a single jut of bedrock that was well away from everything. Everything that was unloved and unwanted would come there. And she would build from it.

From the tailings of dwarven mining, she used Dragon fire to make a new stone she called Spurnrock. It was stronger than any stone made by nature, and Belladonna built a new keep out of it. A new castle. A new city.

The unwanted came in hordes. Many of them girls. The orphans, the abandoned. The third sons, the failures, and those who were told again and again that they were stupid.

Belladonna taught them all. Gave them a home and a trade. Gave their hands things they could do. And her city grew. Peasants and serfs and paupers. Beggars and highwaymen. All those shunned by the elite came to her. And were given new lives.

They could leave if they wanted. But none of them wanted to.

Finally the courtiers of the world realised that, while it may be nice to earn land, it was useless without the people tending it. They had no clean clothes. No new clothes. No food to feast upon and, most importantly, no taxes to fund themselves with.

Belladonna knew her parents, just as well as she knew her brother on sight. They came on their knees before her and begged her for her largesse.

"You valued me not a jot. You shed no tear for my absence from your cradle," she said. "I was only a girl, after all. Now I am become Queen of the Onlies. My realm is all that you never valued. Would you exchange me for your son? Trade that which you value most for that which you valued least?"

Her brother cried out that this was unfair. Her parents cried that they would, they would, only please forgive them their thoughtlessness and give them their peasants back. And her brother cried anew at this betrayal.

Belladonna appeared to think on the bargain, knowing that her adoptive mother the witch would be laughing her curly shoes off at the sight. "You know what? I don't really want what you have to offer. Go grow your own food, and see how valuable it is, then. Tell your son to go wandering as a pauper, and see if only a girl will have cause to love him as he is. And if you learn anything at all, come back and tell me of it. You have a year and a day. Fare well."

Nobody would forget for seven times one hundred years, that even the lowest of the low had their proper value to a King or a Queen.

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Challenge #348: It Used to be a Good Shortcut...

Person #1: You're talking about shoving me in a torpedo and launching me at a planet!

Person #2: Details! Now shut up and get in there.

"No," said Rael. "I'm a little tired of being treated like some immensely indestructible thing for everyone else's convenience."

"But you are a-- mmmumf mmmf mfflmmff."

"Blakely. Can it." The captain took a deep breath. "You're right. We should have consulted you. But these Sargasso-style pirates have rigged it so that only the smallest possible transit could get through. And what we have is a torpedo... and someone who can become a liquid at will."

"You understand that my complete tolerances list is corporate-classified and I don't know if I will survive what you're planning."

"We can add a parachute to the torpedo that will deploy once it reaches a certain elevation. But you'll have to scrunch up a bit." Engineer Blakely at least had the decency to look embarrassed. "Er. Rather a lot."

Rael groaned in anticipation. "How much will I have to... 'scrunch up'?"

"Er. Well. Um. Can you stand being a liquid with your folded-up Wave of the Future warmup onesie?"

Humans. Of course they could think up plans like this. "So you're sending me into enemy territory. On a stealth mission. With only the most visible and obvious clothing to protect me from the elements. Not to mention its lack of capacity for concealment?"

"...maybe.... there'll be mud?" squeaked Blakely.

"Mud," echoed Rael.

"Improvisation meets inspired desperation. I'm sure none of us wish to get sold into slavery. Or reprocessed for their component atoms."

"Mud..." said Rael.

"Do you have a better plan?" asked the Captain.

Unfortunately... he didn't. He had to go and perform a human plan with nothing but his memory of human habits and decision-making processes to guide him. And four words that might, if the stars aligned, help him on his mission:

What would Drongo do?

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Challenge #349: Found Divinity

Prometheus, and all the other 'gave knowledge to mortals and was cast down for it' gods/goddesses/other mythical figures from various mythologies, being found by mortals, rescued from their punishments, and thanked properly. Even if it's only the first one being found, and the realisation that the others exist, and must be helped.

[AN: After a little bit of Wiki Wandering, Prometheus is the only one who got punished for sharing wisdom... but I can pretend there's others]

The Alps in summer are still cold. But not often deadly. I like to wander through them and take photographs. The path least travelled and all that.

Well. Anyway.

I got turned around, up in the mountains. Not very bad, you understand. The sort of turned around that you get when you're nearly sure you know where you are and a familiar landmark could be just around the corner. You know the feeling, right?

Yes, of course I always have my GPS and compass with me. I'm not an idiot.

Anyway, I turned the corner and found this guy. Chained to the rock. He was immense. Huge dude. Muscular as anything. And it looked like he'd been there for centuries. Seriously. The rock had eroded and deposited around him. There were trees growing out of his hair.

And an ugly scar, just below his ribs, that looked like something kept opening an old wound.

I tried to take photos, but they all came out weird. The best shot I got of him was a human-shaped flame. That's not what I saw.

And of course I said the most idiotic thing a person could say. "Are you okay?"

He didn't speak. He spake. There's a difference. For a start, the words were in my head. No sound. His lips moved, but there was no sound.

He spake thusly: 1. I THOUGHT I WOULD NEVER BEHOLD A MORTAL. OR THAT A MORTAL WOULD ERE BEHOLD ME.

There was something about him that made me afraid. "How long have you been there?"

He spake again: 2. HOW LONG HAVE MORTAL MEN AND WOMEN SUCH AS THEE CRAWLED UPON THE FACE OF THIS EARTH? HOW LONG HAS THERE BEEN FIRE?

"You need to come down from there," I decided. His chains were wrought iron. Made to last and proof against the elements. But they weren't made to withstand a tungsten-carbide and cerametal saw designed to help hack through granite when a hiker has been trapped in a landslide.

He watched me begin and spake, 3. I THANK THEE FOR THINE EFFORTS, MORTAL, BUT THE OTHER GODS FORGED THOSE BINDS TO BE PROOF AGAINST ANY HUMAN EFFORT.

"And how long ago was that?" I was making headway.

4. I HAVE LOST TRACK OF THE COUNTLESS CENTURIES. SINCE THE FIRST CITIES BEGAN TO DIM THE STARS. SINCE HUMANS DISCOVERED IRON.

And I was through the first of them. Onto the second. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure they thought we'd stay like that." I grinned for him. "Not a chance. You got a name, handsome?"

He was looking at his hand like it was the first time he had seen it in... well... forever. 5. THIS IS WHAT THEY FEARED. THAT THINE PEOPLE WOULD BECOME EQUAL WITH MINE. And after a little bit, he added, 5:1. THEY CALLED ME PROMETHEUS. IT IS AS GOOD A NAME AS THE MANY I HAVE BORNE THROUGH THE EONS.

"Prometheus..." I started in on the ankle chains. I had to cut parallel to his legs. They were chained more directly to the rock. It also meant I'd have to slow down when I got near the other side. "My gram'ma used to tell me stories from the old legends. Prometheus brought humanity the fire of knowledge... and then the others chained him... to..." I got one ankle free, but that wasn't why I slowed my words.

6. THAT IS I.

"With the vulture pecking out your liver?"

Nod.

"Every day?"

Nod.

I started in on the last ankle bond with renewed vigour. "Nuts to that. I'm getting you out of here. We owe you that much. Minimum." I had to use scissors to free him from the tree. His hair had kept growing and... you know. Outdoors and all that. It was an uneven, choppy imitation of a buzz cut, but he managed to rock the look.

I mean, come on. He was rocking the vines-and-random-debris loincloth, too. I'm full-on lesbian, right? But I would not kick him out of my bed if he turned up in it. And I do admit to dribbling more than a little as he stretched for the first time in millennia.

7. MY ETERNAL THANKS TO YOU, MORTAL. I WOULD BLESS YOU WITH IMPROVED LEARNING, AND THE KNOWLEDGE OF WHERE OTHERS LIKE I ARE TRAPPED, ALSO.

I didn't even have the time to ask, "There's others?" because the knowledge was already in my head. Places. Punishments. The names of the gods so cruelly incarcerated.

Humanity owes them. All of them. Big time. I have what I need to know to find them. And now I can learn things without trying too hard or burning out or just... staring out of a window at the birds instead of studying. It's amazing. I pick things up like three thousand times faster than I used to.

But what I really need to do... is get some help. There's trapped gods all over the place. Punished for the crime of giving us our start out of the stone age. I have the co-ordinates. I need people who know who they are. Who are willing to free them. And, of course, money.

It's worth it. I promise.

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Challenge #350: Haunted Model

 http://tobiasandguy.tumblr.com/post/135382746545/selfie-its-harder-when-you-attract-unseen

Being followed around by invisible things that only show up on camera - and are always pulling faces when you want a nice picture.

"Just... don't. Don't take my photo. You'll regret it."

"What? But you're gorgeous."

He sighed. "I attract photobombing ghosts. It gets... ugly."

"Have you tried a--"

"Every psychic I could find. I even stroll those psychic reader tables at the mall. None of them can see or sense them. It's... eeeh. It's not worth bothering about."

Ellie put her phone back into her pocket. "Do they turn up if you make a movie?"

"Yeah. They can't talk, but they're really good at pantomime. Rude pantomime."

"Bill? I just had an amazing idea."

Ellie set up a studio in her spare room. Video camera streaming to a screen they could both see. Charts for ASL all over the walls. And, just in case, a Ouija board and a glass. And a comfy chair for Bill.

The ghosts were all over the place at first. Being obnoxious and acting like any random goober in front of a news camera, but not in front of a microphone. Ellie let them get it out of their systems.

"Yes. We can see you. I'd like to try and communicate," she signed as she spoke, so they could get the idea. "Would someone like to tell us why you're all haunting Bill?"

The smoking grotesque slowly fingerspelled, We are unseen. He is seen. He is photographed and we are saved.

"Saved? Saved how?"

We are seen. We are known. We do not fade.

They didn't want to fade into nothing. Okay. This was progress. "There's things you've left undone, right?"

Nods.

"What if we help you, so you can move on? And those who are waiting can let Bill take a few good photos for a change. Does that sound like a deal?"

Multiple thumb's up. Ellie high-fived Bill. They had something to do that would help.

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Challenge #351: Dir Satan...

 http://iopele.tumblr.com/post/135497280792/incurablenecromantic-eccentricmisseclectic

"Give me a heartwarming Christmas movie about Satan traveling around the world every Christmas to deliver presents to all the young kids and kids with learning disorders and disabilities who misspell "Santa" on their Christmas letters every year"

"And Santa's all like, "You know, I can handle a few spelling mistakes, I got this," and Lucifer is like "They're addressed to me, fuck off, I'm doing it.""

"Lucifer being protective of his fanmail is ceaselessly entertaining."

Every year, certain letters go to what you might consider to be the wrong place.

They all start the same, and most of them are written in crayon. Deer Satan, i hav tryeded to be gud this yeer and what I reelie want msot for krismus is...

The spelling is variable, of course. Most of them are from children who are just learning to write. And they do go to a mythological man whose main wardrobe choice is red. But the place is usually very hot. And the gentleman who reads them has... what you might charitably call a bad rep.

That is, if you were as charitable as the other gentleman in red, who works in a place that is very, very cold.

"How many, this year?" said Lucifer, Lord of Hell, Corrupter of Souls, The Great Deceiver.

"Well in their thousands," said the minion. "The office awaits."

It's said that there is a hell for every heaven, and this was one of them. A ceaseless array of cubicles where at least five people came by the penitents' cubicles to ask if they were working hard or hardly working, to accuse them of having the Mondays, ask if they caught that episode of a popular reality show and otherwise get them in trouble with their eight bosses.

Here, and only here, paper could last in Hell.

Lucifer, Lord of Darkness, King of Flies, Champion of Decay, sat at his cubicle and picked up one of the letters addressed to him, care of the Noth Ploe.

Ah. Timmy. He wanted a bicycle and a puppy... and his older brother to stop picking on him.

Lucifer checked the files. Timmy was an innocent, of course, and therefore immune from the machinations of Hell. The bicycle would not be a problem. And he would see to it that his parents would receive pamphlets about service dogs. As for the brother... Hm. Most of the bullying was verbal. Whenever James tried anything physical, the parents landed on that in no uncertain terms.

What Timmy needed was a means of combating James as an equal. Ah. A handy book of snappy comebacks to everyday insults. That would probably help him.

Someone was at his cubicle. If this was yet another phantom of the environment... Lucifer looked up. Oh. Him.

The jolly fat man was looking slightly apologetic. "I do hate to go through this every year," he said, "but I am certain that those are meant for me."

"Back off, fat man," snarled Lucifer. "They're addressed to me and I will see to it that they get what they want. And, unlikely as it seems, what they need."

"But--"

"They're innocents, Nicolas. I won't harm them. And it's nice to be wanted for a change."

"Does that mean I have to deal with -ah- your dyslexic fans?"

"They don't write letters, Nick." Lucifer picked up another letter. "Aaaw... She just wants her mother to have a good job. You can't deliver that, can you?"

"Er," said Santa. "No. I'm more of the toys and cheer department."

A smirk. "Then it's just as well that they wrote to me, isn't it? You carry on with your toys and cheer. And I... will continue with this."

Every year, children who can't spell, or make a crucial error in the address... those children get something special. They get what they need for Christmas.

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Challenge #352: One Early Dawn Ceremony Far From His Master's Tower

 http://paintdripps.tumblr.com/post/133942666585/magic-aus-for-all-your-magic-au-needs

One more time

The demon looked down at the circle around the mage. "Yer kiddin' me, right?" it said. It looked like a human shape, but it was obviously not human. For a start, its skin was as black as coal, and its demonic eyes burned with their own fire.

"Avaunt, foul beast," said Tra'gyk the mage. He held up his binding talisman. "I hath summoned thee with my mighty magic and thou must to do mine bidding!"

The demon sighed. "First, that's a really shitty protection circle. I could crap a better circle than that, pal."

"AVAUNT!"

"Second, I'll no' avaunt fer you or anyone. And third..." it plucked off the tattered fabric that looked like it had once been part of a lovely dress. "Can ye at least lend me yer coat? This is lettin' th' breeze in in places I'd rather not talk about, ye ken."

Tra'gyk urgently paged through his borrowed spellbook with the one hand he had free. He had to balance on one leg to provide support for the mystical tome.

The demon stepped out of the summoning circle. Something it should not have been able to do without Tra'gyk's permission. And it helped itself to his pack. Donned his second-best robes while making a face. "Eugh. Yer an over-cologner. Gross. When's the last time ye washed these?"

"By the power of the sun and the moon and the stars, I command thee to do mine bidding. Thou art my demon and by the power of my will, thou hast a chance for grace and salvation on this world. Surrender unto me thy one true name."

"Fook that fer a joke," said the demon. "You can call me Shayde, fer what it's worth. And believe it or not, I've been sent tae help ye. Lesson one. How tae draw a real protective circle." She did a pirouette, dragging one set of toes along the rough earth. The path of it glowed with an eldritch light.

"Y-you never said the words."

Shayde huffed a laugh. "Words are never important. It's the doing that's important. You got a name, buddy?"

"Tra'gyk," said Tra'gyk.

"Aye, we're gonna have tae work on that, too."

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Challenge #353: The Cosmic Balldance

Shayde, a costume party, and hundreds of miniscule self-adhesive glow in the dark stars.

Of all the reasons that humans had found to throw a party, the autumn festival of Halloween confused him the most. Mediaeval superstition met a modern-day desire for revelry head-on in a display of both ingenuity and greed.

Case in point, the Ambassador of 1986TCE[1] Shayde F. Pitt was throwing a Halloween ball. It promised to be one of the more colourful human celebrations. And she'd sent out gold-edged invitations to all of her friends. Invitations that included instructions to bill her for whatever costume they wanted to wear, care of a theatrical disguises emporium that seemed bigger on the inside.

Theatre itself was not a new concept to the Galactic Alliance, though everyone had a different take on how to present something for entertainment or education. Only humans had taken the idea of presenting oneself as someone or something else... and turned it into personal amusement.

Rael had chosen the least ridiculous outfit in his usual size. Formal attire with a red-lined cape and an abundance of jewellery. He stood stiffly in a corner and watched the chaotic crowds assemble. And the more ordered crowds on the observation platforms, taking images.

He didn't like being in Fancy Dress. It seemed like a lie so outrageous that the very cosmos should rebel. Nobody could tell what his job was. What if he was needed for duty?

But nobody needed him. In fact, most of his district had taken great pains to ensure that his calendar was clear.

Nik was here. Glittering in a costume that included fan-driven pennants that resulted in a flapping corona. He was a sun.

Shayde was nowhere to be seen. Not yet. This was her party and... if he knew her like he thought he knew her...

His eyes went to the top of the staircase before the spotlights did. Before the fanfare. She was going to make an Entrance.

Some part of her, he was certain, had a flair for the theatrical. There was nothing more she loved than a big show. And this certainly was one.

Her hair was made up to resemble a galaxy. Her body was covered in stars. There was something of a skirt, but it was more like a train, and left her legs exposed. And she appeared to be barefoot.

On closer inspection, there was little to her costume beyond Skins that matched the tone of her own flesh. Sandals that conspired to appear invisible. The aforementioned gossamer train. And a selection of jewellery that looked like comets and assorted stellar bodies had deigned to settle on her.

"Evenin' Count Dracula," she said. "Nice use o' skin tone. Ye look really dead. Well done."

Rael tried hard to process this information. "Er. I'm guessing you're... the known universe?"

A grin. She had lined her front teeth with temporary rhinestones. Even her teeth sparkled. "Very good. You'll get in'tae the swing o' this, yet." She cackled and pointed. "That has tae be Sherlock."

He looked. A very ornate Red Death costume, where Sherlock's startling eyes glared out at all he beheld from the eye-sockets. "I think that's a more traditional outfit. Isn't it?"

"Might as well be. Ever since Gaston Leroux, every costume party scene has had a Red Death in it somewhere. Aaaawwww.... Aaawww... Bless..."

Rael followed Shayde's gaze to find both Lyr and her husband, Andrew as Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy. Their three children were, he presumed, also popular toys of yore. Shepard, the youngest, was a teddy bear with some kind of emblem on its belly. They had definitely gone for cute.

"What are we supposed to do?" he asked.

"Dance. Enjoy th' buffet. Have fun." She clapped her hands and rubbed them together. "I dunno about you, but I'm goin' tae dance wi' death while I got the chance."

Didn't she do that every day?

[1] Terran Common Era

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Challenge #354: Past, Present and Future

Lewis Pepper was a giant of a man, nine feet tall with really big hands...

(to get the reference, look up https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cEdM4iL3hK8 but beware earworms)

[AN: I have kids. Of firkin course I've seen Wreck-it Ralph. Plus (mumbleIactuallykindofenjoyallthepixarmoviesmumble)...]

Arthur had been aware of yet another shadow looming out of him, thus closing off his final avenue for escape. He knew he was going to get pounded for being a weak, skinny, undersized nerd. So he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.

"You leave him alone," said the large mass of humanity behind him.

There were thumps and grunts. None of them coming from Arthur. He risked a peek to discover a human mountain seeing off the other bullies. He was twice as tall as anyone else. Almost as big as a grownup. Arthur instinctively cowered. People as big as him never had anything good for people as small as Arthur.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you, I promise." He smiled. He was... being kind? "My name's Lewis. What's yours?"

*

It would have been easy to be jealous of Lewis. He was naturally huge, and hardly worked to keep his muscle. Well. He said he hardly worked. Lewis had seen him working in the bakery with his adopted parents and... that was a workout and a half.

Bel and Cayenne Pepper took Arthur in as an intermittent foster child. They certainly took more care of him than his real parents did. Many, many times, Arthur's parents never knew he was gone. Just as long as he was waiting on the stoop for the social worker, they didn't care.

He'd once taken his caseworker to see the Peppers and asked politely if he could please live with them, instead. Sadly, the law preferred him to stay with his genetic forebears.

He practically lived with the Peppers, anyway. They rarely missed him at home. Watching Lewis haul around flour sacks as big as Arthur. Watching how easy it was for him. Watching how skilled he was at everything Arthur couldn't do.

But Lewis was jealous of him. Arthur. The screw-up who got his family noticed by Child Services. He could never put together the fiddly, tiny gears of Arthur's inventions. He could never look at something mechanical, point at the problem, and instantly figure out a plan to fix it. Lewis said that Arthur's inventions would change the world, one day.

But Arthur kept measuring himself against Lewis' more mainstream achievements. Lewis had great hair. Lewis was the football star. Lewis had so many friends. Lewis had girls throwing themselves at his feet.

So why did he have to pick Vivi?

Vivi was a nerd, too. She knew everything anyone could know about the supernatural and could chatter endlessly about the kinds of spooks and their abilities. She just came alive at the merest mention of the spooky. She was the one who came up with the idea of searching out and investigating every paranormal phenomenon they could reach.

And Arthur wound up as the fifth wheel, in the back of the van he had made with his own hands. While Lewis and Vivi made goo-goo eyes at each other. He knew better than to try and get her attention. He tended to vanish in Lewis' shadow.

It was easy to be jealous of him. And easy for the phantom of the cave to use that. Easy to let it take over, and easy to do the one thing that he would regret for the rest of his life.

*

Lewis was even larger in death. He truly had a big spirit. On the one occasion that they could measure him, he came out at slightly over nine feet tall. He had angry episodes, now, on the anniversary of Arthur's betrayal. But they had a place. And an understanding. And a plan to at least clean up the multitude of charlatans out there claiming to be psychic.

Arthur had wards tattooed on his remaining skin, now. And etched into the metal of his artificial arm. If his younger self could see him now, that young Arthur would think that he had turned into the biggest badass in town. And Arthur would tell that younger self to get used to the idea that there was always something bigger and badder. And that he should learn to value what he had.

Because he knew what it was like to be without that.

"I can feel it when you're sinking into depression," said Lewis. He seemed to be leaning against the wall. "Something up?" And Lewis was still the understanding group mom despite everything. Or maybe because of everything.

"Eh." Arthur shrugged. But only with the shoulder that still had a flesh arm. "Same old Coulda-Woulda-Shoulda's... If I knew then what I know now..."

"You can't live in the past, Arthur," consoled Lewis. "The only thing you can change is now. And speaking of now... That recombobulator you made is starting to work. Look."

The ghost of Lewis Pepper shrank. His garb changed colour. The bone of his skull faded underneath the appearance of flesh. He was almost... almost as he had been in life. "It's getting easier to do this. I'm up to four hours." And then he opened his eyes. Black sclera. Glowing purple irises. "Can't do anything about the eyes, yet, but it's working. I'm getting better."

Arthur spared him a smile. "That's great," he said. "I finally made something useful."

"Yeah. Along with the twenty billion other gadgets you've made over the years. Lighten up. You do good stuff."

Arthur sighed. "Yeah, but... I keep thinking about the one bad thing I did."

Lewis sat beside him. As he had done so many times when he was alive. "Hey," he said. "Don't let it eat you. You can be better than one bad thing."

And Lewis could always make anything better. Arthur let himself lean on his oldest friend. "Thanks, man."

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Challenge #355: One Inconvenient Mid-morning in a Haunted House

"I sense a powerful presence in this house, a spirit of the restless dead, chained to this world..."

psychic opens eyes, sees 8 foot skeleton standing in the doorway, wearing an apron and holding a bowl of cake batter -- Anon Guest

There was a moment of perfect silence. The skeleton kept stirring the batter, but slowly. He had a pink apron on that featured a lacy edge and a large, pink heart on the chest.

"Er," said the psychic.

"You weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow," said the skeleton. "It _is_ the fifteenth, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, you're supposed to be here tomorrow. This was going to be your consolation cake."

"Really? What flavour is it?"

"Red Velvet."

"Oooh, nice. Can I help you with the icing?"

The skeleton shrugged. "Eh. Sure. Why not. Name's Lewis, by the way."

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Challenge #356: Catch of the Day

 http://deathcomes4u.tumblr.com/post/135909651673/mythsofthesea-faerytale-wings-merman-and \-- Anon Guest

[AN: Epileptics, beware of the gif background]

The water was her second home. People who knew Nel said that they were waiting for her to grow gills. The people of Nothéré Island knew her so well that she once attended a job interview in a bikini and flipflops. Nel knew everywhere on Nothéré in relation to the closest or the most convenient swimming location.

And it was one summer afternoon after a particularly bad squall that she found Nim.

Some idiot had cut their fine mesh net loose when it snagged on debris, which washed up on a shore that the tourists hadn't found and desecrated, yet. Nel always checked the shores after a big storm for stuff just like this.

There were two dolphins in the net, and a number of fish that Nel was too late to help. And, gasping and terrified, struggling to free himself from the tangle, was Nim.

Nel almost didn't see him, assuming he was some exotic and endangered fish, because the humanoid half of him was under a waning dolphin. She singsonged her way through cutting the dolphins free and moving them into the shallows, and then realised that the struggling form was...

Oh shit...

A merman.

Logically, she knew, there had to be mermen. Otherwise, how would mermaids happen? And even then, mermaids were supposed to be a myth. But no. They were just another species that humans hadn't encountered, captured, or otherwise found a means to exploit, yet.

Nel knew in an instant that, if she took a photo, if she called anyone, his life was forfeit. So was the life of any of his pod. Family. Whatever the merfolk called themselves. She singsonged her way through cutting him free, and towing him towards the water. Merfolk were supposed to drown sailors, so Nel let him loose and dived for the shore the instant he could swim away.

Then it was just a matter of finding any trace of ownership on the illegal net. If she ever got her hands on the numb-nuts who had it in the first place, there would be not enough left of them to identify without gene testing. The local law enforcement knew this, alas, and refused to give her any details about their investigations. And warned the shopkeepers not to pass them around, either.

Nel resorted to blogging about it.

She dragged the net way above the high tide line and anchored it to a handy rock. When she was done with her swim, she would be dragging it off to the law, anyway. People had to learn that owning an illegal net was not going to be tolerated.

The merman was in the shallows. Watching her. "What you do?" he said.

Okay. He could talk. "I'm logging all the details of this net and trying to publicly shame the person who owned it," said Nel. "The law won't let me punish them the way I want to. This is all I'm allowed to do so I'm doing it with gusto."

"You are not like the others. You love the ocean."

Nel couldn't argue with that. "Sooner or later, humans will realise that we have to live here. I just wish it was sooner." She finished her rant and posted it from her phone.

He was still there. And rather dreamy, actually. He did have claws, but he wasn't being menacing. And his striped scales were... wow. He had fins where ears should have been. And a fine dappling of scales all over. "Do you have a name?" she asked. "Everyone calls me Nel."

"You may know me as Nim." There was a longer, more complicated name that his people knew him by. Nel couldn't pronounce half of it, no matter how hard she tried.

And it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

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Challenge #357: Sympathy for the Demons

 http://iopele.tumblr.com/post/135904233152/bluandorange-selkiecomrade-selkiecomrade

There was a large amount added to the Satan Claus post. -- Anon Guest

Demons across the multitudinous arenas of hell flinched. Their master was angry. Their master was calling.

"BELPHAGOOOOORRRRRRR!"

And that one demon was in deep, deep trouble.

The demon could not disobey the call of his master. He ran to the Great Office with his black heart pounding and his forked tongue knotted in fear. "I have come, master."

The Lord of Lies, the Great Deceiver, the Adversary, the Blighter of Fields turned in his swivel chair to reveal that he was holding a doll in a frilly pink dress. "What do you call this, Belphagor?" he said, calmly and gently.

There was nothing in Hell more terrifying than its master with a calm and gentle voice.

"The... uhm... Betsy Wetsy doll you ordered me to fetch?"

"I don't think it's quite Betsy Wetsy, Belphagor," said Lucifer in syrupy sweet tones. "Watch what happens when I squeeze her hand." He sat the doll on its included potty and squeezed the doll's hand.

It started bleeding from its mouth and eyes. "H@|L S@T@N! F33D 0N TH3 FL3SH 0F TH3 UNB3L|3V3R!"

"Now according to the manual," said Lucifer. "Betsy Wetsy is supposed to release the water from her bottle," he waved the relevant plastic accessory, "into her potty and say, 'Lookit I did, Mommy'. So again, I ask..." Lucifer appeared to grow. He was no longer the neatly-groomed businessman, but the monster of all sins. "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? THIS IS A GIFT FOR A CHILD WE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO HARM! YOU GO AND FETCH ONE THAT ISN'T DIABOLICAL BEFORE I HAVE YOU HANGING BY YOUR PINKY TOES OVER THE PIT OF ETERNAL STENCH!"

Belphagor fled for his life. Or what passed for his life. All of Hell could hear their master muttering to himself about the incompetence of this particular follower. All the other demons who saw him in passing were pointing and laughing at him. Even some of the penitents were pointing and laughing.

It was moments like this that Belphagor would wonder if he wasn't really a penitent and this was his eternal punishment. But then... Hell tended to be a lot more sadistic to the actual penitents.

He went to the Arcane Crafters and tried to explain, again, that this was for an innocent that their master wanted to gift. Belphagor knew for a fact that mortals of the Earth were maiming each other for the chance to have this particular doll. And if he didn't get it right this time, he would be sent upstairs to get a real one from the meelees of shoppers.

"Please," Belphagor begged. "It's Christmas season. You know how he is with Christmas season."

The chief Crafter winced. "I know. I'm just... so used to doing the cursed ones. It's a habit."

"It's my pain if you screw up again, Makkror."

"And why should I care about your pain?"

Of course he wouldn't care. This was Hell.

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Challenge #358: The Third Strike

My God, it's full of nerds...

AN: I love it when my fans use one of my turns of phrase against me. FYI this is a quote from [Touch Feast aka Story #01066]

He told himself he was doing this to get into her world. He certainly hoped it would help him gain access to her pants. Her immunity to his negging and other pickup tactics meant that she was a bigger obstacle to overcome. She had to be worth the chase.

And Steve told her as much. But carefully. She was very aware of anything he said that would place her as an object in his mind. There was a small debate including a bet that he wouldn't make it through an entire day without saying something she thought was derisive.

And that lead... here.

A gigantic convention centre full of the usual market type booths and... let's call it a very colourful crowd. Her challenge, given to him by one of the hotel staff, was two words: Find me.

He had to use what he knew about her to locate her in this crowd. In this sea of storm troopers, Starfleet uniforms, Klingons and sundry superheroes. Steve was halfway down the stairs before it hit him. My God, it's full of nerds...

And it wasn't the stereotypical overweight and underkempt dude with a greasy t-shirt, fresh out of his mom's basement. There were old nerds, thin nerds, fat nerds, neat nerds, sloppy nerds, disabled nerds [A Klingon in a wheelchair? What?] and lots and lots of lady nerds. Tall and short. Wide and thin. Old and young. Most of them in costume. At the very least, they were all wearing their fandoms on their chests.

He had to stick out like a sore thumb, but she had told him to wear a black suit and tie with sunglasses. Which was a costume, too. Some ancient nerd movie had expanded on a UFO encounter myth about the men in black suits. It had been insanely popular at the time, and he'd almost seen it. But he hadn't watched anything that was remotely associated with aliens since he was ten.

O God. There were people in animal suits in here. Sure, some of them were artistic achievements, but god damn. You had to be on drugs or crazy or both to wear that kind of get-up all day.

Think.

Obviously, this piece of ass was a nerd. Also obviously, she was going to make it hard for him to find her, so he could rule out all the bikini babes and sexual-fantasy armour straight off. If she was done up like that, she had a chance of him recognising her face. Though all those boobs out in the open had to reduce that risk a little bit.

Which left him with the Masks. Wow. People loved to hide their faces in this thing. And no wonder. Nerds had to eat, too. If he was running a company and saw one of his employees in this place, in costume, and on the news, he'd fire them in an instant. As it was, he had no more power than finding them on facebook and using a dummy account to troll them. And even that wasn't much worth his time or energy.

They were nerds. They were already losers.

But that didn't mean he wouldn't screw one if he had a chance.

Okay. Mask stuff that she was into. God. Why didn't he listen to her when she was yabbering on about her favourite stuff? What were her keywords? Shit. He had to resort to finding Masks and Fursuits that were roughly her dimensions and asking. It was a long damn day.

He finally gave up and sat in the food hall/cafeteria area with a giga-sized Frappe and texted her. I surrender.

He'd lost the game. He was never getting that nerd pussy. This mountain was not getting conquered. His first strike out in the entire game.

One of the many robots came up to his table. Some steampunk thing. More ridiculous nerdity. "You are not a very observant human," it said in her voice.

Holy shit, that makeup changed her entire face. "Jesus, you look like a guy..."

"Thank you," she chirped. Sitting herself down. She had one of the sugary abominations that would make her turn into a fat nerd. "The first rule of NerdGirling is to be unattractive enough to actually make other guys talk to you. You'd be surprised how many storm troopers, darth vaders, and other full suit cosplays are ladies in disguise. Only the really dedicated girls cosplay as lady characters. And at their own risk."

What? "How could any of the bikini outfits be risky?"

"Gatekeeper nerds, people thinking they can cop a feel, and the protesters outside who somehow believe that they're all whores because they're showing a little skin. And the people who think it's funny to fuck up someone's cosplay."

"I didn't have any trouble," he said.

"Dur. You're a guy. You literally walked through that lot for..." she checked her phone, "four hours and didn't get geek checked by anyone. If I'd done the same thing in a Wonder Woman outfit, I'd have been aggressively quizzed by every male geek who thought he knew comics. Part of the eternal toxicity of fandom."

No wonder she was immune to his charms. She put up with every guy in her sphere doing it. Possibly every day. He either had to step up his game or quit before he'd started. And it was too late to do the other one.

"I'm not like those idiots. I'm a nice guy."

"Yeah you know what manners are. Congratulations. Good manners is the lowest of the low hurdles. Do something to surprise me and be honest. What do you think of my scene?"

And this bitch was a walking lie detector. Could he say what he was thinking without being so nasty that those panties were lost to him forever?

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Challenge #359: Here There Be Dragon Nesting Grounds

About learning a new way of breathing fire from her partner, that involves... well... nuclear fusion:

She's kept it a secret, yes. Long flights over the ocean... enormous detonations... a romantic evening for two dragons.

[AN: Sounds more like nuclear fission, but whatevs]

The tiny island had been turned to glass where it hadn't been turned to soot. And even the soot had burned off. And the heat from within spoke of lava, but Relikor could not sense any other hint of volcanic activity. He still lounged across the searing hot stones and looked up at his new mate.

"Serilka... how is it that this entire island is glass?"

"It's from my experiments. I have long used this island as a testing ground. And now it's most suitable for nesting."

Indeed. The shallow, glass bowl in the centre of the island was perfect for a clutch of eggs. And a brooding parent atop them. And the entire place was just large enough for two dragons to nurse a clutch without getting on each other's nerves.

Of course, they'd all go their own way once the little ones could fly, but for now... it was paradise.

"And what experiments have you been performing, O glorious Serilka?"

"Do you see the whaling vessel, yonder?"

Relikor spotted the distant ship. From the looks of things, it was also harvesting shark fins. "Oh yes. I see them."

"Watch." She stood on her hind legs and inhaled deeply. Building her fires to the point where she glowed from within. And then she let fly, not with fire, but with a ball of bright plasma to rival the sun. It skated above the water until it met the whaler and then...

A flash of light so bright that it eclipsed all vision. A thunder so loud that it could not be heard. A plume of steam that burned as it caught fire. Catastrophic waves in a circle around where the ship had once been, threatening to cause tsunamis for the unlucky for miles to come.

This was power beyond measure. A means by which to conquer the very globe. And she had chosen him to sire a strong and healthy clutch of babies. Relikor felt honoured.

"New words must be invented to encapsulate your magnificence," he breathed.

Serilka gloated and preened. "And if we hurry, we can feast on boiled fish," she added.

And mayhap join bodies while they were at wing. Relikor grinned as he took to the air after his mate. He would do his utmost to please her, oh yes.

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Challenge #360: Registering as Immortal

This one from "Going Postal" by Sir Terry Prachett. "were to be regretted"*

*Another bastard phrase that lends itself to any weasel in a tight corner.

Certain phrases, when used in Administrivia and the unhallowed halls of bureaucracy, are heralds of impending doom. Some... are what the plebes are wont to call 'arse covers'.

It resulted in actions or decisions that, while correct, "were to be regretted". Employees more interested in keeping their job than helping people. A system derived from precedent and tradition and policy.

Byzantine, labyrinthine, and seemingly designed to drive mere mortals mad.

Eritwhistle the Everlasting had spent the better part of half a century in here. Learning about the ever-growing infestation of bureaucracy that had strangled any and all avenues for progress in this realm.

"Unfortunately," said the clerk, "one of your processed papers forty years ago has been missing a stamp. Policy does not permit any further action until the error is corrected by the original staff member."

Who had been rather elderly at the time, Eritwhistle recalled. "And if that staff member is retired or deceased?"

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle... The clerk slowly paged through a massive tome of by-laws and policies in the manner of all staff members who are five minutes away from knock-off time. Unfortunately for them, they got to their result before shift change.

"Then you must commence to re-apply. Sadly, there is no avenue for renumeration in regards to time wasted."

"That's fine," Eritwhistle singsonged as he collected his papers. "I can subsist of the condensation on your artificial Ficus plants." Only under his breath, as the window closed behind him, did he add, "You're not going to wait me out."

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Challenge #361: One Little Slip

The first time someone else hears a monster refer to the king as "King Fluffybuns"

Gerson had said it before he realised he'd said it. There were humans present. Important, official humans. And they had all heard him say 'King Fluffybuns'.

And now some of them seemed to be choking on their laughter.

"Heheh," he managed. "Old Underground joke."

And it did not help that both the King and Queen Dreemurr were blushing.

The humans convulsed. Some snorted. A room full of very important people were desperately trying not to crack.

And then the young ambassador for monsters, Frisk, began to giggle.

The dam broke. The humans burst into laughter. The monsters burst into laughter. Even the severe and straight-laced security people in the room cracked a smile.

"Of course you'd remember that," joked Asgore. "The closest thing my reign has had to a scandal in centuries."

Frisk looked up to Toriel and signed, You're that old?

"Do not worry," soothed Toriel. "All is well."

"Now," coughed one of the important people in suits. "About the monster protection act..."

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Challenge #362: Slip of the Tongue

The first time someone else hears a monster refer to Asgore as "King Fluffybuns" In Asgore's presence

[AN: Whoops, I kinda did that yesterday as well. Perspective change should help]

The President held her breath rather than snort. Had that old turtle said what she thought he'd said? Judging by the growing blushes on the goat people, he had. The brace of ministers and royalty all had contagious shaking shoulders, bitten lips, and a selection of small snorting noises.

"Heheh," said the monster. "Old Underground joke."

Everyone was valiantly trying their hardest not to laugh. Except the youngest Ambassador, Frisk, who let their giggles free.

The people in the room broke. Everyone joined in with the laughter. Cassandra had tears in her eyes and a stitch in her side. Even the bodyguards were smirking and laughing under their breaths.

And, oddly enough, it greatly reduced the tensions in the room.

President Cassandra let the laughter ebb, and let a little bit of banter pass un-noted. "Now," she coughed. "About the monster protection act..."

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Challenge #363: But What Does it Mean?

Another sentence for SPoE(n): "Because of the agency's oversight, the corporation's behavior was sanctioned." And other words that exemplify the "superiority" and "purity" of English:  http://mentalfloss.com/article/57032/25-words-are-their-own-opposites

They had given Shayde a piece of paper preserved under glass. In a special room with careful lighting. Between the half-words on either side, an innocuous sentence.

Because of the agency's oversight, the corporation's behavior was sanctioned.

It was news print. The other side had some kind of ad that involved ripping off Bill Watterson's artwork. Beyond that, she couldn't tell what it was part of.

"Either it means that the corporation's behaviour was endorsed because of their supervision," said the SPOEn showing it to her, "Or it means that they were condemned because of their negligence. Can you tell us which meaning they were using?"

Another SPOEn in Archivaas robes murmured, "This has been a matter of some debate for three hundred standard years."

The poor lambs. Shayde didn't want to break their hearts. "I cannae tell ye fer sure, ye ken. But given the way corporations behaved in my day? I'm willin' tae bet they were condemned because o' negligence."

"Yes," whispered the Archivaas SPOEn.

"It's not confirmed," snipped the other SPOEn.

Shayde passed the relic back. Looks like it was going to be a matter of debate for another three hundred years.

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Challenge #364: Selat Yriaf (1)

Let's get this show on the road, and chip away that gap if it bothers you!

 http://internutter.tumblr.com/post/136431436841/reverse-fairy-tales

Pick 2

There had been a storm. His ship was tempest-tossed into smithereens and the sirens had most of his crew. Most. But not all. Eric remembered desperately holding on to what little breath he had as the undertow sucked him away from the light. He would never forget it.

Just as he would never forget her face.

She swam after him, the fins of her fishlike tail making fast work of moving through the water. Her hands were kind, and she had air for his lungs.

Her lips had felt like heaven. Her gentle grip eased all his terrors away.

And the next thing he knew, he was resting on the shore. His last glimpse of her had been her fins breaching the water as she dived back to the depths where she belonged. Eric knew only one thing. He had to see her again.

The impossibility of it wracked him. All through listening to his father berate him for going out to the ocean, all through the advisors telling him that this close brush with death should be taken as a sign. All through the endless pomp and circumstance of his princely duties, despite being eighth in line for the throne.

"I need to go to her," he said. Eric wanted nothing else. He scoured the oldest books, searched for any mage who could help him. And found the most terrifying of sorceresses practically on his own doorstep.

She lived in the darkest, scariest depths of the dark and scary swamplands. The foetid pools of the shorelines and mangroves were her home. A place where nothing seemed to grow but misery. They said she ate the souls of stillborn children. They said that her house moved inside the tangled trees of the swamp. They said it had legs like a chicken.

They said that she could turn anything into anything she pleased. They said she would not take gold, but instead traded precious qualities. He didn't care what he had to trade. He would give anything just to see her again.

*

Every breath burned his throat. Hurt his lungs. Gills, now. Every move under the water was painful. Every flick of his new tail was like a thousand knife blades cutting into him. He had no voice to scream with, and that was a good thing.

But -oh!- the things he could see under the sea. The mysteries of the deep were mysteries no more. He could see for miles in the eternal twilight of the deep. Everything that had once come with effort and a time limit were abundant to him.

It was worth every second of the pain. It was worth trading his charm for it all. Even though every breath felt like fire. Even though every move felt like knives. He would not go back to the limited land.

Eric almost frightened himself when he saw his own face in a sunken mirror for the first time. He had three full moons to win the mermaid's loving kiss or suffer to die and turn into sea foam. And there was a whole ocean to search.

He began at the siren rock, searching the jagged spires for a hint of her blood-red hair, and by pure fortune found her going through all the spilled trinkets in shipwrecked hulls.

She liked shiny things. And why not? They were even more beautiful underwater than they were in the air. He searched the debris fields for some delicate decorations and brought them to her.

Of course she was wary of him. She didn't trust his silence, nor his helpful nature. She definitely did not like him following her, and sped away, much faster than he could swim.

Eric slept in a shipwreck, that evening. Coughing silently because his gills were on fire with every breath. Uncomfortable because every movement cut like knives. And when he woke, he swam in ever-expanding spirals. Hoping for the merest glimpse of her.

And what he had never learned was what to eat under the sea. Hunger gnawed at him, but he didn't know what was safe. He couldn't tell what was poisonous. He kept swimming, and buried his fists in his belly. And tried not to lose hope.

Just as the sharks noticed him, she came. With sharp, jabbing spears in her hands and disdain clear upon her face.

"What's the matter with you?" she demanded.

He showed her he couldn't talk. Tried to explain with his hands that he was lost and didn't know anything. That he was new to the ocean. What she understood, he could never tell, but he could tell that she thought he was very stupid.

She showed him how to hunt. How to gather the right kind of kelp. What fish to eat and what fish to avoid. She showed him how to avoid sharks. Eric did his best to learn everything. Including her name.

Ariel. He would sing it, if he still had a voice.

There was a city, far below the waves. Magnificent spires and a warren of levels without stairs. And why would they need stairs? Merfolk could swim everywhere. He learned that he could dance, even with his twisted and painful body. He could do something that the merfolk appreciated.

And though he had no charm, he still had skill. He could make things. Shiny things for the merfolk to decorate themselves or their homes with. Pretty things to dazzle the eye with beauty. He earned his keep with his makings, and made certain to always have something for Ariel.

She grew to like him. Ariel talked to him, most days. And helped him find things in the wrecks. She learned to interpret his pantomime into real words. And there was a moment... a few moments, in fact... when they nearly kissed. But there was always something that interrupted.

And then, one day, near the end of his time as a merman, she swam quickly away from Atlantis. Visibly upset.

He left his work to follow her, all the way to her grotto of human relics. He signed, You're sad.

"Father just told me I have an arranged marriage to a prince of Mu. I don't want to be married to some faraway prince. I don't want to leave home."

She did not need his sadness. He signed, You will not be lonely. You are good at making friends. He signed, Everyone who sees you loves you.

"Would you be in my entourage? The people I take with me to that distant sea?"

He almost knocked himself out from nodding so vigorously. He signed, You deserve all the happiness in the world.

The prince of Mu came the next day. A very handsome merman who had Ariel swimming in circles with his charms. Eric knew he could not outshine him. He knew he didn't have a chance.

And the night before his last chance, his brothers called him to the surface of the water. They had sold their teeth to buy Eric a chance to escape his curse. They gave him a knife and said the sorceress had promised that if he killed the mermaid he loved... he could regain his charms and keep his tail.

The price was too high. He left the knife in their boats and returned to the depths.

He made her bridal jewellery. He danced for her wedding... and would have perished quietly away from the revelry of the wedding party...

...had Ariel not sought him out and paid for all his kindness with a kiss.

Merfolk are not, by a long shot, monogamous. By becoming part of her entourage, he was part of her harem. And part of her new husband's as well. There was so much more to learn under the sea.

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Challenge #365: Selat Yriaf (2)

Let's get this show on the road, and chip away that gap if it bothers you!

 http://internutter.tumblr.com/post/136431436841/reverse-fairy-tales

Pick 2

The castle was a ruin, for all its extravagance. Decay lurked in every corner and depression crept through the cracks of the stonework. The only thing of true merit was the roses.

Roses that Beau was now paying for with his life. Mother had described a beastly fiend, who demanded a life for her theft.

It was only fair that Beau paid it in full. He'd been the one silly enough to ask for a rose.

He tolled the bell and made himself ready. Head on the block set out in what was once a grand courtroom. He waited with his eyes closed and his body shivering.

A voice. Cold and terrible for its calm. "You are not the one who stole. Who are you, to lay down your life for another?"

"Please, I am the one who asked for the rose. I am the one who caused my mother to take that which she thought you had to spare. Because of my folly, you doomed her. It's only fair that I take the sin and the penalty."

He flinched when her hand caressed his hair.

"And why would a boy demand a rose?"

"Because they are beautiful, and frivolous. And because they are the one thing that I missed from our rich times."

"Sit with me and dine."

She was beautiful, of course, but it was a terrifyingly fey[1] beauty. Unnerving for all its perfection. The stories and songs might go on and on about hair as dark as a raven's wing, or skin as white as snow, or eyes like sapphires and lips like rubies... but together the effect was that of a horrific manikin come to life. Something that was never meant to live, somehow walking and talking.

Beau tentatively took a place in the only other chair by the fire. The table filled itself with a feast, and the candles burned without consuming their tallow. He fought to speak clearly, and when he could, he said, "My mother said you were a beast."

"Indeed," said the Beast. "You may name me as such. I am not what you see. There is a curse."

"What manner of curse?"

"What other manner of curse is there? True love to return to what I once was and what I wish to be. Not that true love is possible."

"How could it not?" blurted Beau. "You're beautiful."

"Even the prettiest rose will rot. Beauty fades and fails. True love is seeing beyond what the light shows you."

And she was right. He knew it. Love was eternal, beauty was just an introduction to it.

The Beast did not bother him, too much. Not in the beginning. She had a knack for turning up without a sound, or watching him at his disparate labours around the castle. When he wasn't reading his books, he worked at fixing up the walls that were still standing.

And yet, no matter where he was or what he was doing, he could look up and there she would be. Watching.

"What do you do, young man?"

"Oh, I'm working on the grout, today. It's mucky and rotten and needs fixing." He chipped more of it out between the tiles. "You can help, if you so wish."

"I would chip my beautiful nails. Does that not matter to you?"

"Good work is better than good looks," he said. "Come and help, and talk with me."

And on it went. Grout one day, bricks another. One day, they both got entirely mucky fixing a fountain and its plumbing. He spoke of learning odd jobs to help with the housekeeping, of losing all hope of earning enough to win over a bride.

The Beast snorted at that. "Love cares not for gold or treasure."

"Aye, but they make the living a might easier," he laughed. "A man with a daughter wishes to see her kept very well. And the girl herself wants to be kept very well, too, I dare say."

The Beast frowned at this. "Does she not keep herself? Hunt her own meat and gather her own meal?"

"It's different for people," he laughed. "We don't let a girl do as much as a man."

"Why?"

Beau shrugged. "I know not. It's never made any sense to me."

And the Beast smiled.

The gardens had turned into splendid scenery and the castle was looking much better by the time a nervous messenger came to Beau with the terrible news. His mother was sick and his brothers didn't know what else to do.

The Beast took one look at his face and said, "Go. Go now before I change my mind." She turned away. "Come back in a week. If there is love at all."

Beau went. As fast as he could. His pack full of herbs and medicines that he and his Beast had made together in the kitchens they had restored. His only thought for sparing his family another tragedy.

His brothers had married in his absence. One for her beauty and the other for her money. Neither marriage was doing too well. The beautiful wife fussed about her appearance incessantly, and the wealthy one... she squandered everything on herself whilst sparing not a penny for those who needed a little more than what they had.

Both brothers saw the wealth of treasures that the Beast had somehow magicked into his saddlebags, and thought only of their own gain. They took the treasure with Beau's blessing and soon craved more.

Beau, busy with tending their mother, answered all their questions about the castle with half a mind to what they were after. Neither brother seemed to care for their mother's health. They left it all up to Beau.

They made him stay one more night too many. And tried to follow him to the castle, but thorns kept them back where Beau passed without harm. They tore at the brothers' faces and clothes.

Beau found his Beast in the middle of her rose garden. Sprawled as if she had fallen there. Her pale flesh was cold and her breathing shallow. Dying from grief.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Please don't leave. Please don't die, my heart will break and I will never love again." He kissed her cheek...

There was a roar like thunder...

And he was sitting in the very same garden with a creature like no other in the world. Magnificent and impossible and beautiful... and with the same dark eyes as the Beast he knew.

"Beast?" he risked.

"The one and only. Your love has returned me to my true form." She butted her head against his chest, rubbing herself against him. "And I am grateful."

Beau rode her out to his brothers. Let them take the treasures, if they thought that was what made people happy. It was no matter to the Beast. All that mattered was the love he shared with her, and the place they had made together.

[1] Read about what the Faeries really got up to and then tell me they aren't frightening, I dare you.

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You Made It!

Congratulations and best wishes to you, dear reader. You've done it! You've ploughed through three hundred and sixty-five stories. That's a total of over one hundred and fifty-five thousand words.

It's been some interesting times, writing this year of Instants. I've gained a new site, lost some regular prompters, suffered the usual litany of woes and triumphs. I finished one novel and started on another, of course.

Coming soon to Amazon will be an exclusive novelette called Free Baby. An Amalgam Universe tale about unwanted pregnancy, human rights, and freedom of choice.

At the closing of this anthology, I am screwing my courage to the sticking place and embarking on the great journey towards Dead Tree Press. Otherwise known as "real books". I don't for an instant expect to be whisked off to fame and fortune by the first agent I seek. Nor do I think for a second that I'm going to give up fanficcing for my own entertainment.

It might dwindle as the years go by, but I know me. I can't not write. And between novels? I commit fanfic.

There's another meaning to this postscript title. Because you, my dear reader, may have also helped contribute to the making of this anthology. Every prompt comes from a reader. Every story gets its start from readers like you. You, too, could be part of the next one.

Just pop on over to my blog and check either the stories themselves or the menu for how to submit a prompt.

And thank you, especially, if you decided to pay money for this anthology. I know you can look them up for free on my blog [if you're tolerant of the current SNAFU that makes reading even more interesting than usual], and I write them for free... but you evidently decided that the time and effort of compilation was worth a little something from your coffers. I thank you very much. Every little purchase means a little more for the things that make life comfortable for me and mine.

And thank you very much to all the people who try to get their friends or family interested in my works. Keep spreading the good word. Your actions are my advertising. Bless.

My thanks to all of you, and the very best of wishes for our mutual futures.

C.M. Weller.

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About the Author

C M Weller has decided to keep their full identity a secret until such time as one of their works becomes a bestseller. They share a house in Burpengary East with two children, a cat, and a spouse who sometimes thinks they're insane.

Unfortunately, this author has managed to avoid doing all the things that make author bios interesting reading. Sorry.

This writer is allergic to almost all forms of alcohol (long story), too asthmatic to indulge in tobacco, and in possession of a body chemistry that makes the more interesting drugs problematic at best. Thusly, their chief addiction is their own imagination.

And sugar. Lots and lots of sugar.

Ze has heard all about getting a life, but has been too busy to arrange one.

Twitter: @InterNutter

Blog: http://www.internutter.org

Tumblr: internutter.tumblr.com

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