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ISBN: 9780463294956

Other works by this author:

Nor Gloom of Night Good Boy Blowing Bubbles Scavenger It Happened One Wednesday Hevun's Rebel Hevun's Ambassador Hevun's Gate One Year of Instants Interview Inside a Terrarium The Amity Incident One Leap year of Instants Better I Wish, I Wish One Year of Instants (2015) I Wish, I Wish One Leap Year of Instants (2016) Kung Fu Zombies Comes Around One Year of Instants (2017) Well Rendered One Year of Instants (2018)

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

#  Challenge #001: Unreachable

What if someone was trying to get information out of someone else by threatening them, but the second person was just too positive. For example:

" _I'll cut off your leg."_

" _Yes! I can get a peg leg!" – Anon Guest_

Violence can solve some things - like how to stop a racist in one easy step. What it can't do is defeat someone with the correct amount of optimism.

They called him Fearless Harry, and the enemy who captured him were beginning to see why. It was certainly not because his name was Harolson.

"Well, you can' get information out of me when I'm dead, can you? You need me alive and able to talk. So all those threats about dental treatment, tongue removal and outright murder aren't real threats."

Interrogator Masing kept a veneer of calm as they filled a needle with liquid. "Have you heard of Raeshegga Virus?"

"Oooh, that's a nasty one. Wicked fever, delirium, complete shutdown of inhibitions, but also a complete shutdown of the speech centres. Completely useless for interrogation -oh! And I've been immunised so it wouldn't do you any good anyway. Three cheers for vaccines, eh?"

Masing almost let his anger show through. Almost. He put the needle down and picked up a different instrument. "We could cut your toes off. Joint by joint..."

"Yes, please. Start with the little one. Clipping that nail there is a pain in the arse, and once it's gone, I won't get so many corns. Dress shoes are never built for human feet, I swear."

Masing glared at him. This man had been kept in the dark, bombarded with relentlessly same-y pop music, exposed to every possible unpleasant experience and he still viewed everything with a sunny attitude. Hell, he _sang along_ to the relentlessly same-y pop music and some night-vision cameras showed him dancing in his cell.

For every threat, there was an equal and opposing bright side that would never have occurred to them, thus leaving them without ammunition.

This is going to be a tough nut to crack.

Which was Masing's last thought before the rescue troops barged in, lead there by the secret, GPS tracker masquerading as inoperable shrapnel near Harolson's spine.

#  Challenge #002: Specific Remembrance

The Galactic Council learn about ANZAC day – Anon Guest

Humans are Deathworlders. They have such an enormous warrior culture that baring their teeth is seen as _being friendly_ , and can get hostile when others fail to follow suit. Thus it is surprising to learn about assorted memorial days. War, they reason, is a common occurrence on Deathworlds. They should be as unmarked as the average rainstorm.

Then they learned about the Great Wars and the immense chains of stupidity that almost obliterated certain towns and impeded their usual lifestyles for the better part of two decades. Most of which was due to the Deathworlder habit of romanticising battle, doing things like calling it 'fun'.

The senselessness of industrialised war left an impact on the Humans of the era. So much so that mourning for the lost became a tradition. As did the tendency to keep perpetuating war. Group identities formed based on alliances in those turbulent years. Such as the newest nations of the time, and geographic neighbours, Australia and New Zealand. They lost so much, together, that they formed an unbreakable bond. Comrades in arms, a uniquely Deathworlder bond so intense that they made their own day for remembering it.

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn...

Humanity remembered the big sacrifices. Hundreds of lives. Large portions of local populace. Decades involved in rebuilding. Decades before normalcy restored itself. Then, like most Human insanity, they threw themselves back into it all over again.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning...

Long after living memory faded, long after Humanity sowed its seeds into the stars. The tradition maintained itself. For a duty to family, for those who had mourned in the past, for what it _meant_ to those in their ancestry.

We will remember them.

As far as the Galactic Alliance was concerned, it would have been a better idea if Humanity remembered what had been the big mistake rather than repeating what caused so many lost lives to be remembered in the first place. Unfortunately, there's little anyone can do to teach Humans not to be insane.

#  Challenge #003: Operating Soundtrack

The ship's human brought a ukulele on board, now they've infected the gravity drive. – Anon Guest

Many Galactics assume that Humans are naturally musical. The fact is that it rather depends on the Human, and the truth of the matter is that a Human involved in jobs that require waiting for something to happen will take up a hobby for something to do. Some take up fibre crafts. Some take up art forms. Others... take up instruments.

Many wish that the Human would put them down, too.

" _She pulls her hair all down behind/ Then pulls down her... never mind/ And after that pulls down the blind/ When I'm cleanin' windows..._ " Human Jef was playing in the only place ze was permitted to play, in the Gravity Generator Chamber. Idly drifting from wall to wall as ze strummed. " _In my profession I'll work hard/ But I'll never stop–_ "

"We wish you would," complained Kazark. "We need you now."

It wasn't that Jef was _bad_ at the ukelele. Just... annoyingly persistent, like a child with a slide whistle or a kazoo. Every spare hour Jef had, they were playing something on their ukelele. According to the crew of the _Fabulous Frenzy_ , Jef had entirely too many hours to spare.

Things went on like that for the entirety of the six-month tour that Jef was the Ships' Human for. What happened after ze left that the _real_ trouble began. The Gravity Drive of the _Fabulous Frenzy_ started to sulk. It became reluctant to either engage or disengage. It would clamber slowly up or down from off to on or back again.

Nae'hyn were called in to examine the drive. They were yet another batch of insane Humans, but they were also insane Humans whose insanity could make the Gravy Drives go.

The chief Engineer/Priest of the roaming family went all around the drive. Tapping this, knocking that. Peering through holes. Listening to the drive with a stethoscope. Finally, coming up to specific panels and licking them.

"Ze misses the music," announced the senior Engineer/Priest.

"Music," echoed Kazark. "Any music or... a specific music?" The growing vertigo of dread told them that they were going to regret asking that question.

"They want the musical Human back... or the Human's music. Either way, ze has decided to like a few tunes while ze works."

"That wasn't music, it was an affront to sound waves!"

The Engineer/Priest got a toe grip on some handles. "Nevertheless, your engine wants music. Preferably the kind of music your last Human's been playing."

"Oh, sweet Powers, we're _doomed_..."

"You or your crew have adverse reactions to Human music?"

"No, we just find it incredibly irritating. This chamber really carries sound."

The Engineer/Priest laid a gentle hand on Karzak's exposed carapace. "I strongly suggest you find a way to deal with it."

#  Challenge #004: Baby Steps Please

Welcome to wizardry, where people with awful ideas and no social skills invoke supernatural forces to gain power and respect. Almost makes you want to tap out and start a little shop selling healing potions, huh? – Anon Guest

They say that anyone could be a wizard. They never say whether or not anyone _should_ be a wizard. This was zipping through Lady Anthe's mind as she raced after Melvin and the phantasm he had conjured. She was the fastest of the group and Melvin had Wraithvine's wand.

The good news was that a phantasmal steed was only good for one hour. The bad news was that that might not be the spell that Melvin had accidentally managed to cast. The magic within him had truly erupted in a spectacular way.

Anthe sprang between trees that the... whatever... had had to go around, carrying a screaming Melvin with it. In a handful of leaps, she was on him and screaming, "Tell it to stop! It's yours! Tell it to stop!"

It took another handful of minutes, but it eventually worked, and steered back to the campsite that contained a sleeping Rumtum and a pissed-off Wraithvine. The phantasmal beast vanished the instant that Wraithvine got their wand back.

"It looked easy when you did it," Melvin complained.

"Because _I_ studied for years to _make_ it look easy, you great hairy dolt," sniped Wraithvine. "If you want lessons, I could plausibly teach..."

Melvin toed at the ground, turning redder by the second. "...didn't wanna impose..."

" _Really_?" said Anthe. "It's not like that with us. You should know that by now."

"...didn' wanna make a fuss," Melvin mumbled.

"So instead," said Wraithvine, "You stole my wand and tried out a sixth-level spell without any of the training, preparation, or mental fortitude."

Melvin shrank on himself and mumbled something unintelligible, but could plausibly pass for, "When you say it like that..."

Wraithvine hugged him. "Breathe easy, Humanman. I'll teach you some easier things the instant we get you a starter wand. Or any other kind of focus."

"You're still gonna–?" he fumbled for the next words, and failed.

"Dear boy," sighed Wraithvine. "I'd rather teach than have you learn by making such epic mistakes."

Rumtum woke from his bedroll. "...'d I miss somethin'?"

#  Challenge #005: Won Family by Combat

It's the nice, sweet, quiet ones that never argue that you should be afraid of. – Anon Guest

They thought the Human was docile. Quiet and apologetic, they assumed that they had been 'trained'. The Human certainly acted that way. Always eager to please. Always nice to the point of being excruciating. They thought that Human Zie would never be violent.

They were wrong.

The thing about Humans is - even the soppiest milquetoast has their line in the sand. The point at which no more shit will be tolerated. At that point... all bets are off. For Human Zie, that point was seeing an abusive guardian in one of the Edge Territory markets. Needless to say it was more than a shock for her Thufei crew to see hir charge at another Human and lay them flat with one punch.

It was like watching a duckling savage a rottweiler. It was like watching a mouse take on a cat and win. It was like... it was like watching a diminutive Human face off a Vorax fleet with one small, zippy ship and a set of light laser weapons and win. Only the last of these comparisons was something that was known to actually _happen_.

More surprising that the abusive guardian had five friends that Human Zie _also_ took on bare-handed and won. They emerged on the other side, bloody and victorious, with a brand-new child adopted by an extremely nebulous local law. All they had to do was prove that they were better at caring for the child. Something the authorities were happy about inside of two standard weeks.

The Thufei were less than pleased to have a rambunctious Human Larva aboard their ship. They were very much less than pleased to see the creature graduate through being afraid to set a foot wrong though confidence and into getting into places that no mortal should be able to get to. This, Human Zie insisted, was a _good_ thing, and part of normal Human development. All Human Zie had to do was keep on their toes until their new larva understood what was safe and what wasn't.

Once again, the Thufei pondered how the hell Humanity survived to make it into space.

#  Challenge #006: Mutually Assured Social Destruction

A Havenworlder calls their human companion annoying and embarrassing pet names in front of other humans. – Anon Guest

In every spaceport, there is a minimum of one place where the Spacers go to bend an elbow, tell tall tales, and possibly gain a bedmate or two for some haptic rewards. Such as it was with _The Greasy Dive Eat Drink_ , where a Human calling themself Jeg was holding court to a bevy of attractive and interested fellow Humans.

"So there I was, Pibbs under my left arm. Vorax to the right of me, Vorax to the left of me, explosions rigged to go off behind and half a click to the escape pod, my only weapon was a ball-pein hammer..."

"FLUFFYBUNS!"

The general mood of suspense crashed into the rugged rocks of laughter. Jeg leaned on the bar and found the interruption. "Pibbs, you have the _worst_ timing."

A relatively small avian hopped up via decorative and functional struts until their eyes were level. "Fluffybuns best human," Pibbs cooed. "Has enjoyment time ending?"

"Might as well have," Jeg rolled their eyes. Gesturing towards the avian Havenworlder to any remaining and giggling audience members. "Folks, this is Pibbs, who once saw the hair on my bare bum and gave me a funny name as a result."

More hilarity from the audience. Jeg grinned. If they couldn't get companionship through bravery, making someone laugh could work just as well.

"Human naming self Pibbs," said Pibbs in a broken version of Jeg's Terran dialect. "Full name Rriit'oq'ei'pib-pib'ei'ei. Much humiliation for short form."

"Much incapable throat," counter-argued Jeg. "Spacers needing short names for urgency. We talked on this."

Thus began the comedy act. Pibbs was a very clever avian, having picked up at least one Terran tongue by osmosis as well as picking up several Human habits, such as nicknames. They also, apparently, worked out how to _embarass_ a Human whilst seeming like an innocent and cute little birdie.

Jeg knew this, and chose not to attempt to make a legal case about it all. Pibbs was clever enough to have plausible deniability despite being smart enough to play the fool at virtuoso levels. More so, being able to do it at a major detriment to Jeg's social life. At least this day.

As the last of Jeg's potential bed-buddies wandered off, the Human sighed and said, "I can't pronounce your full name. Do you have a one-syllable call-sign you'd prefer?"

Pibbs preened as they thought. "Would 'Reet' be pronounceable?"

"Reet, I can do," said Jeg. "No more 'Fluffybuns'?"

The freshly-renamed Reet bowed. "No more. Self be using 'Jeg' for all greetings."

Negotiations can be tricky across cultures. Some more than others.

#  Challenge #007: The Girl Who Circled Time

" _My apologies for the security breach. I was experimenting with temporal rifts and found myself here." – Anon Guest._

Roswell, New Mexico. 1947. Everyone has a story about what happened that year, but it was a weather balloon carrying a top-secret attempt at detecting enemy nukes and that was that. However, since the American Public believed there was a coverup, it and the nearby Area 51 became the perfect stalking horse for other, experimental technologies.

Then there's the actual Incident that happened a decade later. Deep in the warehouse where excitable people with little in the way of scientific knowledge were allowed to glimpse mock-ups of alien craft, something... _else_ happened to appear. There was electrical discharge and the cameras caught several blurs before a humanoid figure stumbled into the clear zone around the prop spacecraft. The cameras, alas, did not record the sound that occurred at the same time, which witnesses identified as not being wholly unlike a person dragging a house key up and down a piano wire.

The guards snapped into action. Even though they were on Window Dressing Duty, they knew what to do with an intruder and did so with extreme prejudice. They were also smart enough to know that anyone who could just appear in the middle of Area 51 should be kept alive for questioning. Just to see if there was anyone else who knew how to do that trick and how it was done and if there was anything that could be done to prevent them from doing so again. Which was how America, in 1957, got hold of a fountain of information in the form of Cassandra Jones, Experimental Time Traveller.

Of course, it took them a few years to believe her story. It took them more than a few years to actually listen to her. In that time, they realised that Cassandra was not ageing and all the things she could warn them about[1]. By the time the people surrounding her stopped condescending in her general direction, things like transistors, Viet Nam, and Watergate had already happened.

She tried to warn them about the Kennedy Assassination, too. Not that it worked at all.

Ever wondered why there was a sudden technological leap in the 70's? Cassandra. She could walk them through how computer chips worked and the processes involved in miniaturisation. She was not allowed to take the credit for inventing the internet, and not taken seriously every time she warned them about bad decisions.

Some people just won't listen. Even if it's to a person who literally came from the future and has been dead-on accurate for decades on end. They did start to pay attention to things like presidential assassinations, but failed to pay attention to things like which presidents would actually be good for the country, as opposed to the ones who would ruin it.

They stopped listening to Cassandra again by the mid-nineties. She could rant, rave, warn, and predict all she liked, but the people who had the money were the ones in charge. Politics was a rich mans' game and she wasn't allowed to play for several reasons.

She was a scientist, and though the people came to her with questions concerning how to avoid the revolution she predicted, they would not listen to her reasonable explanations. She tried. She _really_ tried. Rich people could avoid all their fears by redistributing even a fraction of their earnings to help those who were struggling. If they were just benevolent enough, they could survive the fires of retribution.

They didn't listen. Rich people never listen to people who tell them to give away their money. Not even when she could prove it would save their lives.

She told them the history she knew, right down to the day and means of their deaths.

They didn't listen.

Then, one day, they no longer came.

The guards stopped guarding. Those survivors who believed in conspiracies came next. Found the old props. Found the previously-guarded technologies. Found the ages of records. And, eventually, found Cassandra.

_They_ listened. They realised exactly what they had in a person who knew how to avoid the bad things and how to make the ruined world a better place. Things everyone could do. Things only certain people could do. Things that would take generations to do.

They not only listened to her, they also let her out. They let her have her freedom. They let her teach. In doing so, they altered their path into a better and brighter future.

Cassandra started ageing on the day that her other self was born. She aged rapidly, imparting what wisdom she could before the tides of time eroded her away. The cycle would start and end and start again.

With a little girl who wanted to see tomorrow, tripped into yesterday, and created today.

[1] Because most people experimenting with time travel want to go forward, their grasp of the past is sketchy at best.

#  Challenge #008: Immortality Perversion

Little known fact: Queen Elizabeth II is a descendant of Vlad the Impaler, meaning she, and the rest of the lineage to the throne under her, are direct heirs to the bloodline of Dracula...

Kinda makes her remarkably long life seem a bit questionable now, doesn't it? – Anon Guest

They say wealth has its privileges. One amongst many of those is being able to literally get away with murder. The only mistake -say- Elizabeth Bathory made was selecting someone who was popular as part of her gallery of victims. The elite have only become more subtle since then.

Teenagers go missing all the time, all over the world...

Science is gaining on them, though. Uncovering their methods. Highlighting the avenues of sanguine rejuvenation for all to see. They have injected older mice with the blood of the young to reverse signs of ageing in the older one. This has since memetically transformed into older people _devouring_ the blood of the young to do the same.

Small children go missing and are never found...

How close, how very close they are to the truth. Every year, the statistics increase with the population. Murder becomes background noise in amongst the others. The relatively small number of sacrifices towards longevity vanish amidst all the other depravities stewing in a world turning slowly mad.

Wars make children vanish, too. Crime makes children vanish. An angered ex, a violent housemate, or simply tossing an unwanted infant into a dumpster. Children die _all_ the time and nobody cares. Nobody cares because they are poor, because they are not the right kind of people, because there's just too much happening in every city in every country in all of the world. Because there are too many to care about, or for. Because it's what they deserve for being leeches on society, as some are wont to think.

We're close to the truth. Children go missing so that rich, influential people can live longer and continue being rich and influential. They have carefully cultivated an uncharitable mindset amongst the movers and shakers for _decades_. They have made people want to punish the poor just because they _are_ poor and therefore deserving to get an even shorter end of the stick, somehow.

Children go missing so that rich, influential _vampires_ can continue living. So they can continue being a corrupting force on the greater soul of Humanity.

Children go missing so that they can be raised in a healthy environment until their late teens, when they are... let's say 'harvested'... for the elite.

A child doesn't contain much blood. An adult human contains five litres of blood, which is more than sufficient to feed a vampire for an entire month. In order to maximise the longevity factor, it is advisable to take a young adult human just on the cusp of full maturity, before their telomeres begin their long, long decay cycle. Of course, the healthier the -ah- 'food' is before it is consumed, the healthier the diner as a direct result.

Some have been doing this for generations. Some have been keeping a healthy stable of growing children in the best possible conditions. Isolated far from anywhere, off the books, in self-sustaining estates with thralls tending every single need. Inhabited by the kinds of kids that nobody in alleged authority is expected to care about.

Once a month, the oldest and healthiest 'move out' for a glittering evening that ends in a sharp pain in their neck and a cold feeling creeping up from their extremities. The organs are quickly harvested for other rich people who haven't caught on to the easier way of staying young and vital yet.

Nothing is wasted. Not even the bits that the organ harvesters can't use.

Ever wondered why so many rich people have huge aquariums?

#  Challenge #009: Much Mightier

" _The pen is mightier than the Sword."_

– _insert knife in the Shape of a writing-Feather here– – Anon Guest_

[AN: The word combo you were looking for is "writing quill" btw]

It was a beautiful blade. Someone had made it look like the wing-feather of a goose, only three times the size. Every detail was there. The rachis, the vanes, even the fine detail of the interlocking barbs. Whoever forged it had even made the crossguard look like a cluster of long, flexible barbs. The pommel was made to look like a nib.

It was also, unfortunately, only a sword for Kobolds and Gnomes. For anyone else, it was a dagger at best. It glowed with both magic and sharpness and was almost instantly recognisable to anyone who knew their weapons history.

"That's The Pen," said Melvin, who did. "The legendary artificer Reikhold Forgeworthy made it after someone challenged him to duel with a pen while the other party had a sword. So he poured everything he knew into making a blade shaped like a pen and put every single offensive enchantment on it that he could." His fingers twitched to touch it, but he kept his hands off it. "It's priceless, invaluable, and ridiculously OP."

"Cursed?" asked Lady Anthe, who could kind of sense how these things went.

"What? No! It's just... this is artisan _history_. The pen that is mightier than any sword. It does crazy-bad damage and you never need to sharpen it and it's made of Luth'lorien steel and it's beautiful and... and..."

"You don't think you're worthy," summarised Wraithvine.

"...'es," mumbled Melvin.

"It's a blade meant for a fighter," said Lady Anthe. "I could use it as a sword, but... I so rarely get to use swords at all. It would be a waste."

Wraithvine caught on and added, "You wouldn't want such a magnificent blade to go to _waste_ would you? Besides, it's been a tough dungeon. You deserve nice things."

Melvin's hand drifted closer to the hilt than it had ever been. "It's priceless."

"It's worthless if you just leave it here," said Lady Anthe. "You should at least take it so that none of the bad guys get it."

"You'll be protecting it from evil," added Wraithvine.

Rumtum, having ascertained exactly what it was, yawned and stretched. "If he doesn't want it, I could take it."

The rest of the party, clearly picturing what a small Tabaxi Bard could do with a blade like that, urgently gestured to Melvin that him wanting The Pen was the best possible outcome in this situation.

Melvin grasped the hilt gingerly, as if afraid it would bite him. There should have been an arcane wind. There should have been some kind of light show. There should have been _something_ to show that the blade had accepted its new master. Instead of any of that, there was just Melvin, picking up a legendary blade that looked small and ridiculous in his meaty hand.

The remaining villains in the dungeon may laugh, but they would not be laughing for very long.

#  Challenge #010: Mor Daka is Bad

Aliens learn about the Atomic Bomb.

" _You use WHAT to BUILD A BOMB!?"_

" _cold war.....Cold War, are you shi***** me?"_

" _YOUR SPECIES HAS HOW MANY OF THESE DOOMSDAY-DEVICES?"_

" _WHAT do you mean, they are STILL being Used ?!?"_

Imagine a shattered Class 6 deathworlder learning about this.

Imagine how Havenworlders would react ^^ – Anon Guest

[AN: Class 6 are purely theoretical, in an environment that would be hostile to most known means of evolution, so I'm going with Class 5]

"I wouldn't colonise that graveworld, if I were you," warned Zef. They were a hundred AU's from the Hephtous ship, and that was pretty much the minimum safe distance. They were Class 5 Deathworlders, but even those tough nuggets had their limits. "The previous inhabitants decided to nuke themselves into oblivion."

There was a few minutes' wait. In-system comms between non-friendlies took time. Zef did some sudoku to pass the time in-between basic ship and self maintenance.

A reply came back in broken Galstand and the Hephtous vessel had come to a relative stop. "We extending comms relays half distance, you doing same. Request clarification for meaning - nuke."

Zef sent out their half of the comm probe handshake, waiting for a connection before using the relay. They defaulted to GalStand Simple. "Nuke being ancient Human term. Being short form of longer word, nuclear. Meaning clarification, fissionable materials used as weaponry. Long time pollution. Making sick babies if living there."

The minute between sending and receiving was tense.

"We scanning surface," said the Hephtous. "Finding many hot spot, high pollution. Much harm. We thank much for warning. We asking - how you knowing?"

"That being long story," which took longer to tell for it being told in GalStand Simple. Many concepts had to be explained in a much longer format.

Once upon a time, there were warriors who sought out the ultimate weapon. A weapon that would theoretically end all wars for fear of using it. Very smart people devoted months of their time to it.

How a simple equation with three letters, one number, and one operational sign changed the way the world thought about war. How people were turned into shadows by the power of it.

Unfortunately, none of those very smart people were smart about a little thing called Human Nature.

How two cities were basically wiped off the map by the first such weapons used in war. How the survivors suffered from _radiation poisoning_ and how very, very many died. How those two weapons should have issued in a new era of peace for fear of them being used again, but how Humanity raced to create more, have the most, and invent bigger ones.

They made bigger and more destructive weapons. One nation striving to have more than the rest of the world put together. They abused this power to become global bullies.

How the biggest and nastiest of those bombs in pre-Shattering history was large enough to turn an entire nation into a smoking, radioactive crater with nothing left to pick over and no safe way to pick it for a thousand years or more. How the neighbours of that nation would sicken and die, how their children would be born deformed if they were born at all.

Of course, other nations had smart people, too. Those in power urged those smart people to create more of the same. A race began to see who could have more, who could have bigger, who could have most.

How they made weapons that could, potentially, crack the very earth upon which they stood, destroy entire continents, and poison the rest of the globe for thousands upon thousands of years. If they used them.

How the people who originally settled _this_ planet _had_ used them, and how each 'hot spot' of lingering radioactivity had once been a continent before those bombs re-ordered an entire world. A world that was only just now entering a state in which it could plausibly host intelligent life \- though not for long. So far, even simple life forms were still evolving means to survive the lingering rads.

"We thanking you for warning," said the Hephtous. "Having one question; these weapons no more existing, yes?"

It broke their heart, but Zef had to tell them. "No. Other Humans be making more and bigger ones. Acting for deterrent, they saying."

The comms gap stretched in worrying silence. Deathworlders of a higher grade could decide to do anything at all, including attempted genocide for self-preservation purposes. Zef watched the tactical readout with their heart in their throat.

Finally, the Hephtous said, "You humans are crazy," and cut the comms before leaving the system.

#  Challenge #011: Quantity Control

Havenworlders learn about Meat consumption, Animal-Stocking and The USA-Attitude of "more equals better". – Anon Guest

Havenworlders are aware of carnivores on an intellectual level. Many understand that one species' nutrition doesn't work for all species. Some Havenworlders are insectivorous and adorably claim to be mighty hunters before they meet Deathworlders.

What surprised them is what some Deathworlders did in order to obtain meat.

"So. Since your kind invented agriculture, you attempted to farm meat like you farmed plant products," said Kiki, Xenohistorian. "Selective breeding, over-breeding, minimising the space that the animals were kept in, keeping them in unhealthy conditions to maximise the meat, feeding them unhealthy and incompatible food..."

"Amongst many other things, yes," admitted Human Pym. "For a long time, quantity mattered more than quality."

"Not one of the people involved in the complete process had a single thought about the health of the food relating to the health of the eater?"

"Not a soul. Or if they did, they ignored it for personal convenience." Human Pym shrugged. "Humans are very good at selective ignorance, willful denial, and outright venal profit-gouging."

"Typical Deathworlders," muttered Kiki. "That's pretty much normal to varying degrees amongst most Deathworlder species. When did your kind realise that the health of the environment related to the health of your food, which related to the health of your people?"

"It. Took. _Ages_ ," said Human Pym. "Well into the twenty-first century and after the Green Revolution and the Oligarch Purge. It took bloody war to return us from the edge of outright environmental disaster, and even then, it was a close call. Humanity hung on by its fingertips, just before the first exodus down a bunch of wormholes. Eventually, Humanity figured out that greedy, grasping arseholes with more than they deserved were the problem and–" Human Pym drew a line across their own neck with a pointing finger and made a harsh sort of gargling noise. "With us, reform has always come at the end of a weapon."

Kiki nodded. "Typical Deathworlders."

Human Pym sighed. "Yeah."

"How would you explain the philosophy of 'more is better' when more was clearly worse?"

Human Pym shrugged. "Humans aren't satisfied. We want new, we want better, we want to be sure of our resources. There's something in our brains that wants the easy solutions regardless of how bad they are for us. Just because they're easy. Now that we can go wherever and eat whatever, the moral choices are easier. We can grow meat in the lab with a perfect nutritional profile. Hell, we can _print_ it if we want to. No cows need to die for our beef and all that. Nevertheless, some of us still want to hunt and kill our own meat, or farm our own fruit. Just because it's something different. We got to the stars by being impatient, greedy shits and now... we can do that _and_ help people. It's weird, but it works for us."

Kiki dutifully wrote that down. Every Deathworlder had a different answer for their grasping attitude towards the rest of the universe. Some day, she might even hit upon some that agreed with each other.

#  Challenge #012: Examining Uncertain Truths

Humans have had alot of time and reasons to think up Gods and Dieties.

How would they(aliens) react If they learn about the flying Spaghetti-Monster-Religion or the disturbing Cult(ure) of Cthulu.

Or even worse.... Boy-bands and their fanatic Fans !

Have fun :-) – Anon Guest

Welcome to Xenotheology, the most complicated course in the field of omnistudies. We begin by acknowledging that all faiths are true, for interesting values of 'true'. You will come across materials in this field of study that will disagree with your own personal values. This is to be expected. However, I do not expect anger from you about this. This is a study on the nature of religion across all known cultures within the Galactic Alliance. This is not a debate about which one is 'correct'.

The professor waited a span of minutes for all the forewarned to leave the room. Some would stay for this introductory lecture, but never return. This was normal.

While we expect a certain theme from certain types of civilisation, there are those statistical outliers who will worship anything.

An image on the display board of the 'warning placard' from Terra, sent out on their extrasolar probes. There was laughter from some of the audience.

Theories abound in regards to _why_ Humans will worship anything, some say it's a result of their pack-bonding instincts, others maintain that it is a symptom of their insanity. We are not looking into that. We are looking into their assorted faiths and the motifs and morals behind them. Thus, we begin with the most diverse set of pantheons known to one origin planet. The assorted faiths of Terra, past and present.

We begin with some of the ones with lasting power: Judeism, Hinduism, Tao, Buddhism, and Atheism.

An uncertain rumbling from the audience.

There are more popular and wide-spread faiths, some of you are members of those. However, these are the ones that have lasting power, even measured in subjective time by colonial Humans. These are faiths that have lasted for as long, if not longer, than recorded Terran history. Only two of the five operate on the concept of wrathful gods, and even then, one is the only one with a single deity.

Some have argued that Tao and Buddhism are more philosophies than religions, but they have supernatural entities upon which the believer can wield influence, therefore they are religions. End of discussion.

Many are prepared to argue about the classification of Atheism as a faith. In order to believe in Atheism, one must believe that supernatural entities that influence the physical world are not real. As such, Atheists have a relationship with, and a belief system in supernatural entities. More than a few have made successful arguments about the nature of Atheism being, in actuality, a relationship with the god or gods of the area. Some may even argue that an Atheist _does_ worship, and the being they worship is themselves for being so darn clever.

These are what you might call the 'base' religions. The ones that have stood the test of time. Others, such as Animism, offshoots of the core five, Jedi-ism, and belief in the Flying Spaghetti Monster... all are more or less in relation to the cores presented here.

Yes, that does include this fellow.

An image of Cthulu popped up in the board, much to the amusement of the audience.

We will, of course, be exploring the fictional faiths that became realities in later lectures. But first, we will be exploring pop culture faiths as a means to understanding the mechanics by which fiction, fact, and faith can intermingle. This includes the First through Third Churches of Elvis, the Faith of Freddie, and the cult of _All My Daughters._

Starting tomorrow, we will be thoroughly delving into what makes a faith maintain longevity. Study up on chapters one through three of _Analysing Theologies_. Good day.

#  Challenge #013: Pride Goeth...

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=IhnUgAaea4M – Anon Guest

[AN: Offensensitivity warning for anglo-saxon four-letter words in the lyrics]

If there is any sign of a sickening nation, it is national egotism. Every time a nation gets a metaphorical big head, it is destined for collapse. Britannia did, once, rule the waves. Then it's empire collapsed in a rash of independence after the nation nearly collapsed due to two multinational wars in rapid succession.

America, once, was a great nation. Then it pretty much ate itself via greed and avarice. It lingered in pretending greatness whilst sliding inexorably towards collapse.

Just as France, Rome, Egypt, Turkey, and Mongolia once ruled significant portions of the world. All fell victim to egotism and an illusion of untouchability before their collapse. Other symptoms vary, but a nation doomed to collapse is always egotistical about its own prowess before crawling steadily towards decay.

One would think, with all the examples of history, that Humanity would learn from the past examples of cultural identities that were doomed to failure and make an effort to create better models. Alas, such is not the case. Humanity has a non-unique ability to believe in that which it _wants_ to be true, no matter how many iterations have previously proved it false. Hence their tendency to 'double down' on atrociously bad ideas.

"Forget making this nation great," said their leader. "That chance is gone. There's too many of _Them_ in charge."

The audience booed. They knew entirely too well who _They_ were. The people not like them. The people who came in and insisted that they were wrong. The people to blame for ruining everything that was about them. The people who insisted they were equal when the audience believed that they had no right to live. You know. _Them_.

"However, we have a chance. There's a whole bunch of new worlds out there. Worlds we can make in our own image. Worlds we can make _for_ the people, _by_ the people, and _of_ the people. Worlds without _anyone else_ in them."

Now they cheered. They could have a world of all the _right_ people in it. People who were the _right_ types. With jobs for everyone and rugged individualists who could make something truly great. They were behind it one hundred percent. A world made of their own beliefs. Where benevolent corporations would make the right decisions _without_ Big Government butting in...

Where, despite numerous examples from the present and the past, they would make their own undoing...

But they didn't care about that part. They _just knew_ that they could get it right _this time_. They gave all their money for the cause. Packed up their beliefs and their holy books and their goods and chattels and families... and went.

As it began, it seemed like a paradise. The colonists could live the pioneering lifestyle of their dreams. Open lands that didn't have to be warred for. Seemingly endless resources. The ability to spread out and do as they pleased. A significant lack of limits... Every single one of them could sate their greed and even have too much to handle.

Generation two began to have central locations. Families were still enormous and the frontier towns had more technological advancements than the ones of the tall tales, but everything was still good for everyone. Those who had needs could fulfil them with ease. Some even lived in the towns for the convenience of it.

Generation three started to solidify things in concrete and stone instead of wood. Factories began to spring up and they made great use of automation so that there was plenty for all. Those who worked worked hard and had great rewards. Cities grew. Bit by bit, those who served the needs of those who consumed lost little portions of their status.

Generation four had people who had never seen a tree living in their cities. Education became a thing for the wealthy, as one didn't need much education to press a set of buttons in a routine fashion. Make-work began to be an occupation. Paper-chasers and cold-callers. Shelf-stockers and floor-moppers. As always, the rich had more and the poor got the blame for their situation.

Generation five was the one that was convinced to sell any remaining holdings so that their farmlands could be managed by a contiguous corporation. They re-invented serf labor and slavery. Those who were too poor to fight had no choice but to accept it. The age of the Company Store had begun.

By generation six, there was a small faction of elites, then everyone else. There was faith, but it was twisted. The ignorant poor were lead to believe that their deity had blessed the elites and that they deserved their fates because they were sinners. If they labored long enough, worked hard enough, paid their tithes and taxes, they could one day rise into the heavens-on-earth where the elites lived their lives in glittering luxury.

At the end of generation seven, the effluvium and vapours from the factories began to make their impacts known in the populace.

Five Hundred Years of glorious progress later...

"We need more people," their glorious leader was saying. "People in the fields. People in the factories. People with mops and brooms. They're the real heroes, here. We're just the schlubs who keep them pointed towards progress."

Eli cheered with all the rest. She was twelve. She broke off coughing because of her emphysema and concentrated on waving her noisemaker as she fought for air. Her mother helped her stay upright, lest she fall under the feet of the enthusiastic crowd. Fainting was perfectly normal for these rallies, as was death by mass enthusiasm.

Sam, her younger brother, laughed and yelled, "Eli wet herself!" at the top of his lungs. Pointing out the dark stain on Eli's stockings. "It looks like poo!"

Eli looked down. It wasn't poo. It was blood. She was officially a woman.

Daddy, there only because he was sick from his work, whipped out a special signal light and hollered, "We got a bleeder!" at the top of his lungs.

Everyone knew what that meant. Especially at a rally. This was Eli's moment. Law had it that a woman was a woman at the moment of her first blood, and could be sold to the highest bidder by her father. Mama cheered and held Eli aloft. This could mean that any of the Seeyos could bid on her. "Fresh woman," Mama screamed. "Fresh woman. Guaranteed virgin!"

Glorious Leader Seeyo Mathis noticed the hubbub up in the nosebleed stands and quickly directed the spotlight at them. "Well. Wonder of wonders," he said. "We got us a new lady in the audience. You ready to do your duty by your country, darling?"

Eli's heart nearly burst. She could help her family so much with this. Even though she was terrified, she nodded. The milling crowd was already getting disturbed by the armed security forces, honing in on her and Papa. This was the first time the gleaming, black suits and faceless helmets had been trained on her and hers and she had to trust that they were there for her family's protection.

She went limp when two soldiers grabbed her by the arms and drug her off of Mama. She did remember to say, "Bye-bye, I love you," like a good girl. Woman. She would never see her Mama or Sam or any of her brothers and sisters again. For the greater good of her family, she would be sold to the highest bidder. For the greater good of the nation, she would be bedded with that new husband and have his babies until she died. She might even get lucky and he would pay for her medicine and care while she lived.

So she smiled on the stage as Daddy conducted the auction and Glorious Leader Seeyo Mathis dialled up a lot of his friends and touched her in places that no man had touched her before. With blood leaking down her legs and staining her school uniform. She let it all happen and didn't question a second. Only listening with half an ear as Daddy started calling higher and higher numbers. He needed help after 'million' from Glorious Leader Seeyo Mathis because numbers had never come that high for them before.

Glorious Leader Seeyo Mathis got some of his friends on a conference call, up on the big screen for all to see, so they could bid, too. The numbers got beyond Eli's scope of understanding. Trillions. Quadrillions. Up to ten Decillion dollars.

Daddy had made a ten Decillion-dollar baby on Mama and Eli had never been so proud of him. She thanked him and kissed his cheek and let the soldiers carry her off into a guarded vault because she was worth a fortune.

... _paid out in small instalments and heavily taxed because people like her family didn't really deserve such a magnanimous windfall. A large portion of it was eaten away before anyone got to spend it at all._

Teams of people came to strip her bare and shave all the hair off her body and dress her up again from the skin out. Including the chastity belt that had helped keep her pure until that day. She got a special belt that caught her blood and more special underwear to make sure she didn't pop out in the wrong ways and other special underwear to be sure she popped out in the right ways. People put stuff on her nails -hands _and_ feet- and stuff on her face and did things to her hair and pricked her with sharp things and then it all went dark.

Soft bed. Softer and more comfortable than any space she'd ever slept in. She was resting on top of a very pretty bedspread, like the kind she'd only seen on TV. The rest of the room was bare of furniture, but the walls were pretty and so were the lights. Not a naked light bulb in sight.

A door across the way opened up, and there was a man of about thirty with a man as old as her Grampa[2], who had only just passed away. "Happy birthday, son! I got you a fresh one. Made her just how you like 'em."

The new man was old enough to be her Daddy, but Eli controlled her fears and put on her best manners. "Howdy," she said. "Am I your'n?"

He laughed, and not in a nice way. "Do us all a favour and don't say anything until you know how to speak better," he said. "You're mine. That means you do what I say and what I say is 'shut up'."

He started taking his clothes off. He also said, "Don't cry," before he got up and did his business on her.

She did as she was trained to do. She went limp and let him. This was her duty. This was a woman's lot in life. She didn't cry until after he was gone, when the teams of people came to fix her up and some tried to coach her in what to say and do.

It went like that for always. The teams would pretty her up, feed her and teach her, and the man would come and do his business and it would start all over again. Almost all of it stopped when she went to pee and her toilet water turned blue. The teams now only just fed her and took her blood and made her do different things from then on. They didn't even tell her that she was with child. She had to figure that out herself as her middle started growing.

Her man should have been proud. He should have been happy. She couldn't know that for sure, but she wanted to believe it. He could have a Decillion-dollar baby growing in her. He could have a son to carry his name. Nobody would know until it came out.

She was getting big when one of the teams said something strange to her. They said, "Did you want this?"

It was such a bizarre question that Eli stumbled on the treadmill she had for exercise. She did not say, "Say what?" because that was the Dirty way to talk. Instead she said, "I beg your pardon?" like she was supposed to.

"Did you want this?" they said again.

This stranger in the team had a funny look to them. Like no other person Eli had ever seen. She knew every word they said but in that combination, it made no sense at all. She said, "Why should it matter what _I_ want?"

Two days after that, a different team came. They took her and like fifty other women outside of their suites. Outside of their gilded cages. Outside of the country mansion on the pristine island that her man was due to inherit. Outside of the whole planet.

Where strangers of all kinds of colours treated her kindly and gave her choices and kept asking what she wanted. Where other people asked her to do things and asked to touch her and asked and asked and _asked_ for permissions. Where she met the other women her man had kept and got pregnant. Where the strangers taught her to read, and ask questions herself, and start to do things for herself. Where they introduced her to concepts like "too young to be pregnant."

Where she had her baby without pain, and was allowed to cuddle and feed her from her own body. She cried because she thought she was ruined, but the strangers taught her different.

Where Eli learned about things like 'bodily autonomy' and her right to decide what she did, where she went, and how she spent any money she earned. Where she learned that owning people was _bad_.

She and the other women who had once been owned by rich men formed a collaborative household where all the babies were more or less raised in a creche. Together, they could prop each other up on bad days and help out on good days. Together, they could pool their resources for a better future. Together, they had leverage.

They had never known that they had _options_ before. Especially not the option for man-like freedom.

The old system collapsed as those without options suddenly got them. Eli did her best for her own family, even though they said she was evil and didn't want to talk to her. They may never understand how she and her sister-ex-wives made their lives better, but that was okay.

At least their lives were better.

An egotistical group identity died. What it was replaced with was new and strange and frightening for the majority, but it was _better_. In less than a generation, the lowest people on the social ladder would start to live past Seventy.

It was a slow start, but all signs pointed towards an actual great world in less than a century.

[2] That would be in the early-to-mid Sixties.

#  Challenge #014: Complex Organic Chemistry

Class five Deathworlders have Problems dealing with a planet which Flora contains a mysterious Plant (Wink Wink).

For them it is as deadly as Arsenic is for us.

Their reaction when Humans Line Up to colonise it – Anon Guest

[AN: Going with convergent evolution because the chances of weed happening _exactly_ as it happened on Earth, on another planet, are astronomical at best]

Things had been going badly for the latest J'krog colony. The world, verdant and unclaimed, had promised a plethora of food for their rising numbers, including the plant life. It promised such and _lied_. Vast numbers of warriors and young were falling sick and dying. Exposed skin blistered, burned, and went necrotic in rapid succession. Something on this plentiful planet was highly toxic to the J'krog.

J'krog were made to gather and hunt. Farming and science were not their strong suits. Their species more or less stumbled into space travel through a series of fortuitous accidents. Therefore, they sent out a call for help. There was no shame in seeking allies when the enemy could get past one's defences. It had taken the J'krog some centuries to learn that particular lesson.

The Humans were the one to answer the call with their curiosity and powerful investigatory tools. They soon found that the abundant plant life had chemicals they called 'cannabinoids', after one of their Terran plants that hosted most of the entire gamut as its defence strategies. The J'krog, whose homeworld hadn't come up with the poison, were naturally undefended from it. Allergic, in fact.

Then the Humans did something unexpected. "We've got a class four point five world in a neighbouring system. How about we swap populations? Humans have so many uses for this stuff, it's flakkin' scary."

"Uses? For a toxic substance?"

"Lol, have you met us?" Human Gar laughed. "Seriously, the cannabinoids are some of the _less_ toxic stuff for us. There's a plethora of medical applications. Anxiety control, pain control, appetite control, energy control. Lots of helpful stuff. Then there's the portion of our population who just want to get stoned."

H'kthor had been following until Human Gar lapsed into Human Slanguage. "Hit with rocks?"

"Uh. No. Humans enjoy using this stuff for a certain kind of stimulation. It makes our brains malfunction in pleasing ways."

H'kthor considered this. It took some considerable time. "Have your species considered perhaps that you have been misclassified?"

The assembled humans laughed at that. "They classify us Deathworlders by their environment, not by their bad habits. You know that. But yes. There have been _a lot_ of requests concerning the classification system."

The eventual colony swap took a total of three months, including transit. The Humans were immensely helpful, to the point of retrieving artefacts previously lost in the toxic shrubbery. Renaming happened, as it was wont to do. The ex-J'krog colony became planet Blayzit whilst the ex-Human settlement became the J'krothi word for _Insane Asylum_.

The Humans were greatly amused.

#  Challenge #015: Correcting Memetic Foibles

European Humans have Something around 2 % of DNA from the Neandertaler in them.

Humans share 50 to 80% of their DNA with the Common Banana.

All that separates US from Apes are roughly 1- 5 % genetic differences.

The Aliens learn about these Facts for the first Time.... – Anon Guest

"A common mistake in early DNA studies is mistaking content for relationships. Some are indicators, like the two percent of DNA that some Humans share with Neanderthals. Or the ninety-eight percent that Humans share with bonobo chimps. Some less knowledgable people take facts like this..." the display showed a picture of a Ladyfinger banana and the text, _Humans share 50 to 80% of their DNA with the common banana._ "...and wonder if some Humans are more banana than others. Content is not always a direct relationship."

A new image, of a banana tree, attempting to insert itself in the traditional chain of Human evolution. It slid back and forth along the line, surrounding itself with an increasing number of question marks. The audience laughed.

"Of course it's ridiculous to expect that Humans are directly related to bananas. That is ridiculous. What's happened is that the Human genome is made of four nucleotides, as is everything that originated on Earth. Sooner or later, patterns are bound to repeat. It is those patterns that gain the percentage fascination we hear in memetic space. If people counted the nucleotides, Humans would be sharing one hundred percent of their DNA with literally every other living thing on their origin planet."

More laughter.

"Not exactly the most fascinating fact, or even one that can be creatively interpreted. Thus, common memetic space tends to overlook that kind of inconvenience. Which just goes to show that Humans will go out of their way to say something silly, inaccurate, or just plain wrong if it means that something weird will come out of it."

Now there was a meme with one figure asking if some people were up to thirty percent more banana than others.

#  Challenge #016: Microscopic Passengers

The Aliens in Board learn that one of the Human-Crewmembers has Herpes.

Fact: More than 3.7 Billion People have it. XD – Anon Guest

"It's my duty to inform my captain and crew that I have a class two plague known as Herpes. I'm on a permanent course of antivirals to prevent its propagation."

Captain Gorthax, mildly alarmed, consulted the free infonets and read, _GalStand Medical Primer for Newcomers: Subheading - Plague Disease Classes and resulting mis-assumptions._

Like most numeric classifications, the higher the number, the more 'intense' or 'severe' the classification. Excepting the Esper scale, because Humans concocted it and value numbers in an inverse scale. Attempts to remedy this have been counter-productive. Thusly, it is the exception rather than the rule.

Class one plagues are generally harmless or run through a population quickly. They are easily treated, easily prevented, and generally require PSA's and minor policing to control. The Immunoflu is a prime example of a benevolent plague, requiring less than seven days' of rest from work, and little in the way of control procedures. A wild rhinovirus is also a class one plague with recommended control procedures including: physical prophylaxis (masks, basic hygiene, preventative movement), some quarantine, PSA's, and palliative care professionals.

Class two plagues are also generally harmless and easily spread. However, they gain the classification by being both chronic and requiring permanent medication to be administered to the sufferer. Chronic medical conditions are not automatically class two plagues, but some class two plagues can result in a chronic medical condition. Herpes is a fine example as it can be contracted and spread easily, the symptoms are inconvenient at best and mildly painful at worst, and the disease can be easily controlled. In this case, the sufferer is duty-bound to inform all those surrounding them as a means of containment and control. Other means of control include: prophylaxis (preventative shields for likely infection), administration of antivirals, administration of vaccines to the uninfected, and minimisation of infective activity (eg: celibacy).

Class three plagues are easily spread and are the ones that can cause harm through engendering disabilities or otherwise endangering the weaker portion of the population. Control measures such as vaccination and quarantine are recommended for all class three plagues. Mediks are advised to check for printable strains of immunoflu in the event of an outbreak, as well as sourcing booster shots for the uninfected crew or population. Pinprick tests for immunity and asymptomatic carriers should be used on every potential carrier immediately after the first symptomatic patient is quarantined. Such plagues include: measles, than'tokki, mumps, rikhakkag, chicken pox, and many others...

Captain Gorthax breathed a sigh of relief as she hit the Offensensitivity warnings. Class two wasn't a problem. Well. It wasn't a _big_ problem. Humans may have a social stigma, but as long as Human Sym used protection and didn't engage in wanton fluid exchange with any potential infectees, then all would be well. Even a flare-up wouldn't impede their duties by much.

She sent a memo to the ships' Mediks and got on with the rest of the paperwork for the day.

#  Challenge #017: Silent and Deadly

You should be wary of Humans. All the time. They Bond together and are nearly unstoppable.

However or Whatever you do, DO NOT underestimate/provoke the silent one who doesn't do that.

Please write a story with the focus on the quiet crew-member in the corner. – Anon Guest

Humans say there are Cat People and Dog People. Galactic Society has largely misunderstood this to mean that there are Humans like dogs, who spread friendliness and affection wherever they go, and Humans like cats, who prefer to just kind of hang out in their chosen companions' general direction. Little can be done, yet, to dissuade them of this generic classification.

Human Petal was used to it. The adorable aliens in her aura classed her as a Cat Person and that meant she was eminently catlike. She could grok it. She got along better with cats and non-humans on the repressed scale than any other creature. For free time, she preferred to sit in a corner and read. The boisterous Marines on the ship left her alone and she largely left them to their own rambunctious devices. Life was good.

Then the pirates attacked.

They were prepared for the Marines. Hardest hits first, knock them down and make sure they stayed down. After that, they thought they were free to incapacitate the crew and do as they whist. Obviously, they thought wrong.

They burst in on the rec room and laid down warning fire over everyone's heads. Human Petal reacted on instinct, grabbing two potential weapons, one in each hand, and closing the distance between her and the lead pirate.

Cats are also known for turning into a whirling ball of claws and teeth when provoked. Human Petal did a remarkable imitation of that with a vinegar bottle and a butter knife. She used those, her teeth, her knees, and elbows to make a significant impact on the pirates, that day.

Ascetic acid, poison to many cogniscents, exacerbated the wounds she inflicted. Human bites are well-known to be toxic, even to humans. Even the hardness of Human internal skeletons made an impact on the pirates.

Human Petal laid waste to them, emerging on the other side in a coating of their blood, snarling and spitting. "Anyone _else_ want to _ruin_ my day?" she challenged.

The remaining pirate crew surrendered on the spot. Just like the Humans always said, _Watch out for the quiet ones._

#  Challenge #018: Relative Superman

A Havenworlder was adopted and raised by Humans from a young age. – Anon Guest

A ruined city. A lone survivor. Those who had come to help take the orphan in with the best of intentions... So many stories of heroes begin that way. One famous one has the orphan saving their adopted world for all of their life. Red capes optional.

Such was not the case for Sylkin. She was a Thof, and the only survivor of a Vorax raid on a now-ruined planet. She had no family but the Humans who had taken her in. Humans knew how comparatively fragile the Thof were. Thusly, Sylkin's new parents were hyper-protective. Starting with finding an environment where such a family would be both safe and welcome.

Thus it was on Farreach Station, one of the stranger families in the Edge Territories found its place. Sylkin had a team of six parents, one watching over her at any given hour. All of them Deathworlders. All of them too aware of the mishaps that could occur to such a fragile being. Thof were, after all, Class Three Havenworlders. More delicate than most who made it into the Galactic Scene without assistance.

For her trips to school, Sylkin rode one of her guardians through the hustle and bustle of an Edge Station's foot traffic. For her excursions to the parks, there was always a guard of four. Each new foodstuff ran through each parent's research, scans, and medical obsessions. If it cleared that set of obstacles, Sylkin was allowed to try a small sample whilst one monitored Sylkin's biology for any signs of hazard.

There was no safer Thof in the Edge Territories.

When she was grown, there was no _tougher_ Thof in the Edge Territories. She had, after all, been adopted by Human Marines, and they saw no reason why she shouldn't learn to defend herself with everything she had to fight with. She was the first of the Thof to graduate from Class Three to Class Two Havenworlder.

Her parents had never been prouder.

[AN: I got an amazing _twenty-seven_ prompts whilst I was sleeping. I love you, anonymous contributor, but y'all may want to slow down a little. I can only take these on a one-a-day basis. Plus there's so many prompts now that it might frighten other people away. Addendum - I got mixed up and used a prompt out of turn. Forgive me.]

#  Challenge #019: An Unnatural Fascination

Alright, so I have yet to see something about pyromaniacs in any of the posts out there and figured here was a good place to submit the idea.

Could you imagine them finding out about some humans really, really loving fire?

Like sure, they use fire and appreciate it and its many uses, but maybe there aren't any aliens that actually love or enjoy fire?

Like there are many of us that actively play with fire or are drawn to it in some inexplicable way. Then the aliens find out and... They are even more terrified of us. – Anon Guest

Before Humans, Galactic Society made some presumptions. They presumed, for instance, that civilisations naturally grew out of a fascination with fire. Then Humans hit the Galactic scene. Even on the edges, these weird statistical outliers of Deathworlders proved to be surprising at all angles.

The Human they had hired barely spoke GalStand Simple, but they had proved useful on multiple occasions. Including this one, where they were stranded on a wild planet and awaiting a response to their rescue beacon. They knew a shocking amount about survival in that sort of situation, and their Fafthniki shipmates had to wonder if all Humans were trained in this sort of knowledge from birth.

The truth was far weirder than that.

Human Zef was proud of themself. They'd recently hunted down some native protein that was edible more than once[3], as well as assisting in the gathering of essential nutrients that the Fafthniki needed. The result was quite the haul because the Human had woven baskets and bags out of non-edible, nontoxic native materials. They spent all their non-daylight hours at work on these kinds of projects, now that they were paying off, a certain amount of pride was self-evident.

Then there was the fire. After the care had been taken to ensure nothing toxic came from the fire, it became an obsession for Human Zef. They were constantly getting more firewood, poking at the coals, adding things to the fire and, of course, cooking things over the blaze. If there was nothing to cook, the Human's favourite occupation was spearing random, expendable objects with a stick and holding them over the flames.

It seemed almost ritualistic, save for the expression on Human Zef's face. Those involved in rituals were either serene and absorbed, or bored. This being was seemingly hypnotized and enjoying themself. It was a reminder for the Fafthniki that they were sharing companionship with a dangerous, primitive Deathworlder.

After an hour of watching, Navigator Th'fissi took the risk, speaking in broken GalStand Simple so the barbarian Human could understand. "Human Zef... why doing?"

Their only answer was a shrug. "Doing for something doing." After a moment of watching the leaf curl and blacken they added, "Human like fire. Being instinct. Being..." they fumbled for a moment. "Interesting."

By the time the Fafthniki learned that Humans broke into space by putting people on top of gigantic, controlled explosions and once proposed fission weapons as a means of propulsion... they were not shocked. It sounded right up Humanity's collective alley.

[3] A great Human philosopher once said, "All mushrooms are edible, only some of them are edible more than once."

#  Challenge #020: Keep on Rolling

A Cheese rolling in Gloucestershire. A bunch of humans running down a really steep hill in order to out race each other or possibly catch a wheel of cheese in order to win said cheese. People get injured. Try explaining that to Aliens – Anon Guest

"This is a sport?" said Glaux, who was honestly attempting to understand their Ships' Human. "In a place called..." they looked up the spelling. "Glaw-sess-ter-shire?"

"Gloss-ter-sheer," corrected Human Tess. "It's a common mistake, but yes. That's where it happens."

"You _roll_ a hardened and fermented item originally made of milk... down a hill..."

"A wheel of cheese. Yeah. It's a particularly hard cheese, so it survives the trip relatively unharmed."

"And Humans chase it."

"Yes."

"Down this very steep hill."

"Yup. It's fun."

"Often to their own detriment."

"Well, yeah. There's always one or two that get a few bumps and scrapes, but that's part of the deal."

"Do any of them _catch_ the cheese? Is that the goal?"

"No, no. You're supposed to be first over the line _after_ the cheese. That's how you win it."

"The cheese."

"Yes."

"That your people just rolled..."

"Down the hill." Human Tess nodded enthusiastically.

Glaux boggled at Human Tess. " _Why?_ "

Human Tess shrugged. "They were kind'a starved for entertainment in the Middle Ages, and then it became a tradition."

#  Challenge #021: Edge Case

A young human has many questions about the Vorax, specifically considering potential friendship. – Anon Guest

This is Edge Space. Where the laws are negligible or arbitrary and generally written around whatever is most convenient. Here, the weirdest things can happen. Havenworlders and Deathworlders cohabit. People are more inclined to explain things when offense happens. In Galactic Space, one is expected to use good behaviour. In Edge Space, one is expected to communicate what good behaviour _is_. People normally at arms come there to trade on neutral ground.

This is where unlikely alliances are forged. Where assumed-foes meet and find a means of communication. Where unlikely friendships germinate and grow.

Human Stiv and Vorax Rh'th'gr initially drew weapons on each other reflexively. Stunners only, since this was neutral ground. There was a moment of vertiginous anticipation, then Human Stiv took a risk. "You trading dense metal?"

Vorax Rh'th'gr blinked. "You trading shiny carbon, shiny silicon?"

Human Stiv put their stunner slowly away. "Calling gemstones. Much pretty." Which was, in essence, their general value. Humans liked them because they were pretty. Other creatures preferred their molecular content for what they could turn them into.

Vorax Rh'th'gr followed suit. "Trading good. You no hurting me, me no hurting you."

"Agreeing."

It soon went further than that. GalStand Simple, the language of commerce, basic negotiation, and emergency signage everywhere, had an uncomplicated grammar structure that meant communicating ideas got surprisingly complex. Nevertheless, one could make a primer in GalStand Simple that could explain everything a cogniscent needed to know about more complicated situations.

So it was that Stiv and Rh'th'gr edged cautiously to the negotiations table to discuss the relative value of shiny rocks versus dense metal. Each had an abundance of one that they were willing to trade for the other. In the process, awkward questions were bound to happen.

Only in the Edge territories are awkward questions tolerated without permission. Information exchange, after all, is another form of currency.

Questions like, "You eating _only_ meat?" or, "Always fighting, you. Wanting fighting or needing fighting?" or, "What those being for?"

Humans spread their pack-bonding _everywhere_. This is part of what makes them so versatile, wherever they go. Thus, it was no surprise that Human Stiv and Vorax Rh'th'gr bonded at an all-you-can-eat barbecue and grille place. Well. It was a surprise to _some_ , but knowing Humans, this sort of thing was inevitable.

Human Stiv had many concepts to share. Marrow from big enough bones. Fat from plants. Tube-grown meats. Easy calories and long-term calories. A small revolution for the Vorax, but a huge revolution to anyone who wanted to take a short-cut across the edges of Vorax territories to save days, fuel, and company costs on their trips.

So much began there, with one small question: "You being me friend?"

#  Challenge #022: Companion Ship

A human finally finds a crew member who understands their sarcasm. – Anon Guest

You have to be careful when you're a human around non-humans. Not all of them understand intonation, and just use your words. Sarcasm may be lost on the slow of mind, but it's also lost on those with different tonal coding to you. Worse - sometimes it's both.

Helpful hint to other humans like me who keep using sarcasm out of habit. Always point out why the sarcastic suggestion is the worst idea in the world. That way you have a passing chance that they'll realise you were mocking them. Also - resist the idea that they're messing with you. Galactic Society has taught assorted cogniscents that pranks are counter-productive. We're still learning about that if I want to be honest.

I thought my life was doomed to all of this until I met Hykko. They're a Ceratopsid Saurian type and a complete nerd about Humans and they've actually made the effort to learn about things like intonation inflections, ablaut reduplication, and all the weird-ass things that Humans do without thinking about it, especially once we have a handle on the lingo. I might be a little bit in love because I've been returning the favour by learning about their peoples as much as I can. They get me. I want to get them.

Poor Hykko's been more or less transformed into the Human Translator for the _Mysti_. It's actually called the _Mysti Step_ but I'm not about to say that too often. The captain won it in a card game from a _real_ bunch of nerds out by Puppis III, long story. Anyway, there are a lot of times when I say something without thinking about it and the entire damn conference of Alvokhan simultaneously turn to Hykko as if I was speaking in tongues. I'd be annoyed if it was me, but they still want to hang out with me so whatever, right?

Hykko _understands_ my Human moments. I love it, and I think Hykko thinks they're at least entertaining. That's the vibe I get, anyway. Sure, translation duties wear on them, but I always shout them some treats after a long day. Working with Alvokhan is something of a grind on the best of days. I go through my chocco ration like bacon through a duck.

Hykko always volunteers Human board games as de-stressing opportunities when we have rec time together. Every time, it's a different one, and there's entire days when we just attempt to understand the dang rules. Like, I'm sure Parcheesi Squares is fun? But if the manual would look like an encyclopedia set in print, then forget it. Give me simpler stuff like Monopoly or chess. The rule set's right there. You don't need to look up subsection B, paragraph five, subheading whatever it was.

I'm going to ask them if they want to tune in to the Archivaas Entertainment Broadcast, this weekend. I heard they found a complete copy of the pre-shattering classic, _Plan Nine from Outer Space._ I can put out their concrete greens and if I'm lucky they'll bring chocolate for me.

Wish me luck. It might even be a date.

#  Challenge #023: Prepared Countermeasures

A villain always mind-controls the same person to do their bidding because everyone knows that person is a goofy sweetheart who nobody wants to hurt, especially the hero. – Anon Guest

"Oh shit," said Wraithvine.

Lady Anthe looked. Swore. Damnit. Marvin was possessed. _Again_. "Damnit, Marvin," she sighed.

Rumtum volunteered, "I could stab him until he's unconscious," and didn't even notice that the other two were glaring at him.

"No need," said Wraithvine. "This has happened before. We're prepared." Then they said, loudly and clearly, "Sherry custard profiterole."

A small magical token worn around Marvin's neck shone brightly and emitted the spell _Hold Person_ on Marvin, rendering him ineffective in the battle.

Wraithvine smirked at the mage opposite who'd just burned a spell slot on _Dominate Person_. "That wasn't a turn," they said, and cast _Crown of Madness_ on the mage's trusted minion. Turn about was, after all, fair play.

Now it was just a matter of seeing how truly evil the Evil Lord Nettlamus truly _was_.

[AN: I don't know how or when, but Marvin the Human Fighter suddenly transformed into Melvin for reasons I cannot fathom. Just take it as retroactive canon that he was always Marvin and I was a dummins]

#  Challenge #024: Ill Met in Sarkis Ten

Class 5 Deathworlders react to the information of human self-cannibalism in extreme situations. – Anon Guest

Class one Deathworlders only have one elemental portion of their environment attempting to kill them. Class two get two of them. All the way up to level five, with the plants, the animals, the geology, the climate, and astronomy of their solar system repeatedly attempting to kill them. They get to be Deathworlders by surviving all of this and making it out to discover that there are kinder worlds than their own.

Class five Deathworlders generally use the population principal towards survival. Thusly, like all egocentric civilisations discovering the Universe, presume that their way is the only way to progress into space. They always presume wrong. Of course they do. It's the discovery process that is always entertaining to watch.

"You!" Throkk the Destroyer recognised the Human who kept coming back like a bad smell. "I left you on a poison world with no hope of rescue! You should be dead."

"Should is not is," said the Human known as Steve. "Took me a while to process something edible out of that lot. Lost a few kilos, but I made it. You should try harder next time."

"Lost... a few... kilos?"

"You didn't know?" Human Steve. "Humans keep food reserves as fat. If we run out of that, our bodies eat up our muscles on us. Don't wanna get that far, but we can survive for a long-ass time if we do."

Throkk the Destroyer boggled. "Why don't you just flakking _die_?"

Human Steve grinned. "Not today, friend."

#  Challenge #025: Strange Instruments

I have no idea why, but I kinda wanna see what you make with this. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1lTYPvArbGo

sorry if its too hard. – Anon Guest.

The travelling Museum of Sound History had docked with Amalgam and, naturally, Shayde had to drag Rael into it. She had been catching up on a decent portion of the five hundred years she had missed, and seeing some of it in one lump was always a guaranteed 'draw' for her.

One case held a very bizarre instrument, one that had a duplicate for demonstrations and an offensensitivity warning for those with more delicate constitutions. It looked like it was cobbled together out of the remains of other instruments and whatever other scraps happened to be lying around some madman's workshop. An L-shaped prism made of plywood housed springs, strings, antennae and... metal rulers? What the horsehair bow was for completely evaded Rael's logic.

"That's it," said Shayde. "The original Apprehension Engine. Th' sound o' horror itself." Which made it exactly like another box with an antenna and a hoop that had been 'the sound of science fiction' according to Shayde. Humans had a knack for making strange instruments out of random objects and then hinging entire art forms around them. Considering some of the other creations, he had to wonder how many other traditional instruments were caused by Humans just messing around with arrangements of pre-existing things.

Humans and music seemed to be legendary. They united with music, made new instruments and created modern works with ancient instruments, ancient works made with new ones. And instruments that were not musical at all.

Ten minutes listening to the Apprehension Engine convinced him once more that Humans were varying degrees of unstoppable, insane, and unstoppably insane. Making sounds deliberately disturbing to accentuate artificial sources of fear. Writing symphonies of suspense and liminal terror. He could easily see why Humans were less terrified about everyday things.

How they could become so casual about living next to death.

They could do it, because they did things like this _to themselves_.

#  Challenge #026: The Boredom Compulsion

 This _rumination on Queen's three types of songs, as seen by aliens trying to understand these odd Deathworlders. –_ RecklessPrudence

If there is anything to cause the Human brain to skip a few gears, it's listening to _The Prophet's Song_ followed by _Fat Bottomed Girls_. Both are clearly sung by the same man. Learning that both are _written_ by the same man just makes the disparity more obvious.

One is a philosophical piece about those who foresee doom down the road and how they are treated by the general populace. The other is a diatribe in appreciation for ladies who have large buttocks. Even a novice could tell them apart. Then the hypothetical listener hears something like _Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon_. Frivolous, light and a seeming relic of an era long bygone before its author's lifetime.

It's at this point that the listener might wonder what the flakk was up with this one being of talent. Others would use him as a prime example of Human unpredictability and capriciousness. The truth, closer to the bone, is that those with a capacity to create have their emotions as a co-author at all times. Even the most serious creators just want to doodle around and have fun with what they do.

This is all the justification that other Humans use to do whatever they want for their non-commissioned pieces. They use the word 'just' a lot. "Just playing around," or, "just having some fun," or, "just seeing what I can do." Humans have wrought great works of amazing subtlety with 'just', as they have wrought works of disgusting grossness with 'just'. Works of genius on opposite ends of the spectrum, and all the way through.

Some... do it 'just because'. Give a Human a stick of carbon and a blank surface and it won't be blank for very long. Writing, doodles, there is no such thing as a Human who won't leave their mark in one way or another. There, the Humans come in two types, the destructive and the constructive. This captive Human was a constructor, and given a stick of carbon, had worked on art.

The walls were now covered in graphite. Words, rendered in fonts, shading for the same. Breathtaking renditions of plants, animals, and flowers. Intricate shading providing depth with artificial shadows. The Human was in the process of working on the ceiling, adding rough, swooping curves to the stark, white surface. Days later, they know, that ceiling will be covered in increasingly complicated art.

The Human climbed back down. "Hello?"

They were prepared for that. The Human could see through the window that they thought was impenetrable. That assumption had died quickly. The Samnathyk hoped that the Human would not kill anything else. They had decoded the Human's tongue and had a passing grasp of it.

"Hello," risked their expert.

"Little boring in here," said the Human. "I have everything I need, but some better enrichment might be nice."

The Samnathyk looked to each other. Consulted some notes while the Human watched them from a perch on their bedding. Ah. Enrichment. Something to occupy the mind, time, and need for movement amongst Deathworlders. Deathworlders with nothing to do were more dangerous than those with something to distract them.

"We are working on a more amenable environment," they said. "We just have one request."

"I'm listening."

"If we provide the materials... may we have more of your art works?"

#  Challenge #027: Complexities of Simple Experiments

Humans tend to shine ridiculously bright spotlights into the sky. Imagine an alien vessel going past and being blinded by these lights. – Anon Guest

[AN: Most of our lights don't work like that. They're dissipated by the atmosphere and disperse as they go further from the source. By the time you're at cruising altitude for airplanes, they're invisible to even the most perceptive of observers. That said, we're busy inventing some pretty gnarly lights...]

Humans like to prove things are possible. Even when the principles behind engineering the proof are patently ridiculous [See linked file: Mythbusters]. Therefore, they repeatedly attempted methods of contacting alien life that were repeated and undeniably proven ineffective. That would never stop a group of Humans for trying harder.

"So these are an array of argon lasers, grouped into a mirror box, aimed into the sky at Moonbase Armstrong. We have observers all through Armstrong, looking for us. It's a clear night. We have approval to do this in three... two... one." A knife switch is thrown. Equipment makes a subtle thrum. A countdown timer begins...

A tourist vessel, ignoring the posted warnings, loses control and almost crash lands in the small field in Roswell, New Mexico. An angry passenger exits. "What the flakk are you Humans playing at?"

"What the flakk were you doing flying through a no-fly zone?" countered the host.

The cameras evidently found the argument as entertaining as the science. Audiences thought so, too, and had to get a replay of the confirmation signal from Armstrong coming in.

For the record, the dazzled pilot was able to recover their vision with only minor nano-repairs to their eyes.

#  Challenge #028: They Don't Do That Anymore

Some aliens got fed up with the humans on board. So, they set up speakers to make loud or ominous noises every time a human walked near. – Anon Guest

Psychological warfare has been banned in the Galactic Alliance, and those who wish to bring it back are quickly educated about the _Whisker Incident_. It was, at least in the beginning, a study on crew incompatibility, but like most social experiments of a certain nature[4], it escalated too quickly and got out of control.

The crew of the _Twitching Whisker_ didn't much like their ships' Humans and the Humans didn't like them. Initially, there was a period of attempted pack-bonding but, when that failed, the mood of the crew turned sour. Hostilities almost turned to fighting, but the breach of contract clauses were too strong to allow the Humans to harm the rest of the crew.

The others aboard, a diverse sample of Maunchini, decided that they would be better off if they could somehow convince the Humans to leave at the next port and never come back. Thus began their fear campaign. The Maunchini did their homework about making the Humans feel uncomfortable, cursed, or uneasy about their environments. The exact amount of lux necessary to render any environment creepy or depressing. The 'perfect' amount of background EM radiation to cause a Human to very subtly hallucinate and doubt their senses. Infrasound that impinged on Human instincts to run and hide from the monster _right behind them_...

It worked... and it failed.

It worked in that the Humans aboard the _Twitching Whisker_ spent their waking hours terrified of nothing, on edge, and thinking they saw things that couldn't possibly be there. It failed in that the intended purpose - having the Humans leave at the next port - didn't happen until _after_ the rest of the crew had died.

One important thing about Humans. They are resilient, adaptive, and almost patently unkillable. They also have their breaking points. Some Humans break by turning in on themselves. Some break by becoming dependent on others to the point of regressing to childhood. Many break... by lashing out.

In brief, the Humans aboard the _Twitching Whisker_ killed most of their crewmates. The Maunchini died first, but only because the Humans were harder to kill. The last survivors were found holed up and protecting themselves from their surviving crewmates and the effects of the Maunchini's interference.

It's a cautionary tale. Don't mess with Humans' minds. It may backfire worse than horribly.

[4] Ill-researched and often involving a non-diverse population sample of naturally aggressive and empathetically impaired individuals, eg: most privileged young white men. See: The Stanford Prison Experiment.

#  Challenge #029: Fallen From Grace

" _I don't understand why you don't understand." – Anon Guest_

This place was an outrage. Roman's first thought as he returned to consciousness was that someone was going to pay for being so loud in his vicinity. It didn't matter to him that the someone was a baby. It mattered that the baby was interrupting _his_ rest. There was other hubbub. People talking. People clattering around with things. He opened his eyes to see dingy grey foam tiles in the ceiling. Who had under-bid for this disgusting decor?

It got worse. The dingy grey was everywhere. The whitewashed walls were grey. The privacy curtains were grey. The sheets were grey. Even the linoleum (someone was going to get sued for _that_ ) was a distinct shade of once-was-white. The place was full of people. He could see them bumping the curtain around his bed. He could hear them chattering away in an assortment of languages. He could hear a baby crying, he could hear someone coughing. He could hear someone else sneezing. And worst of all, he'd been awake for an entire minute without getting any kind of service or upgrade or even an apology. All he had was a button, which he spammed.

They took twenty minutes to get to him, and when they did, they were also wearing a white that had gone grey. They looked unprofessional. Tired, with a sunless pallor and an air that they were so very done with the world to date. Their first action was to move the button out of Roman's immediate reach. "I understand you're scared, but you're relatively unharmed. There's been an immense tragedy. An unregistered private jet lost control and crashed through two blocks of residential complexes with full fuel tanks. The resultant fire caused the collapse of the buildings and spread to five more blocks. You're in triage while we work through more urgent cases. What do you remember before waking up here?"

Roman figured that playing nice now might get him out of trouble later. Plus the most recent events were more than vague. "I was... having drinks with my friends..."

"That tracks with your blood alcohol content. It was pretty high when you were admitted." The alleged professional jotted things down. Pen and paper. How gauche. This place obviously deserved to get its funding cut if it couldn't afford to give the staff tablets to work with. "Were you doing anything else?"

He wasn't going to say that he had been laughing about flying his friends around in the new private jet his daddy had bought him just last week. He'd had a week's worth of lessons, and that was plenty. His instructor was always saying how he was flying like a pro. He did say, "Can I have a phone? I wanna call my dad."

"Was he in the complexes?"

"No, he was at work. I want to let him know I'm okay."

"Phone lines have been down since the crash and the mobile network in this area was effected, since the antennae was on the roof of the crash site. If you can give me your name, I can add you to the list of survivors. I'm sure your father will be watching that."

Ugh. These _people_. "Just gimmie a phone and let me call him. I want to get out of here."

"We all want to get out of here, sir. Unfortunately, some people may have been contaminated by dust from the smoke detectors, and–"

"I don't care what your excuses are, give me a phone!"

The man with the clipboard had a phone in one of those huge old padded cases with a _Gen One_ smartphone. It was so ridiculous that it made Roman laugh. This man was a doctor! He definitely had the money to have the latest thing. He activated it and said, "Electricity is down, too. We're operating in an emergency situation. As you can see, there's no reception."

Roman snatched it off him and brought up the phone interface. This thing was so slow. "Why's it got a red bar across the dial button?"

"Because you cannot call out, sir. The networks and the power are down. If you will give me your name, I can–"

"I don't care!" Roman threw the phone. There were no walls to smash it against, so it hit the curtain and fell to the floor. "This treatment is an outrage! I demand a suite! My father will hear of this and sue you until you _die_ in prison! I want to call my father _now_! Make it happen!"

This did not have the desired effect. What happened instead was two bulky orderlies holding Roman down while another alleged professional added a needle of something to his IV.

There was a crowd of them. People in white coats. Coats that had once been white and had faded into grey. One was lecturing the younger others.

"John Doe, found in the vicinity of the Falrello residential projects. He was unconscious when found without ID, and admitted with a blood alcohol content of zero point two nine five. He was unconscious for twelve hours after admitting to triage. Upon returning to consciousness, he showed aggressive and irrational behaviour, and had to be sedated. He has refused to give his name or the names of any relatives. We are currently seeking a court order to obtain his DNA for a familial search in order to locate his family."

Roman tried to talk. All that came out were vowels. "Ih... eh... oh..." He tried to move. It didn't work.

"This patient is restrained for his safety and the safety of others, until such time as his identity and proper care can be established."

He watched in horror as baby-faced _students_ were allowed to grope him and do things with the stuff all around him. Roman barely managed to grab one clammy student hand. He tried to say, "Call my father," but all that came out was, "Ah... I... a'ah..."

They slipped from his grip. "Try to calm down, sir," they said. "We'll sort things out. You just have to be patient."

He could hear students discussing medical mental issues he could have. He could hear the news, where someone was announcing that he was dead. He could barely mumble, "...'m not dead..." Nobody listened. Nobody listened to what he was trying to say.

"Of course you're not dead," said a smiling face in a sea of faces. "You're going to get better. We're all doing everything we can."

Things passed him by in a series of blinks. Blink. People were asking him his name and refusing to believe that he was Roman Falrello. Roman Falrello had died in a plane crash and his father had buried the body. Blink. He tried to tell them that he was heir to the Falrello billions. Blink. Someone was asking him if he understood. Understood what? There were no Falrello billions. The entire family had liquidated everything after the scandal. Blink. It was still in the news. Dad had used the lowest bidders to create the Falrello residential complexes and thousands of people had died. Blink. The entire fortune was gone and people were thinking that Roman was delusional.

Blink. Crisp, white walls and no restraints. He was in a simple cotton robe and had paper slippers. Blink. Nurses took him to make sure he took his pills. Blink. He could look outside, but not go outside. He didn't want to, because it was grey. Blink. Someone was reading a court order and asking him if he consented. He said yes because it was the first time in months that anyone had asked his permission for anything. Blink. His father was on the television, joking about how he was lucky that his son died in the projects crash. Otherwise, he'd be facing a whole ton more legal fees. As it was, he was down by three seasonal homes - three! That was too terrible to contemplate. Blink. Someone was telling him that his DNA had turned up in a string of unsolved rape cases. Orderlies held him down as the drugs faded away enough for him to speak.

He tried to explain how it wasn't a 'real' rape. How none of them were. That girl was lying and anyway, she'd never said 'no'. They didn't understand. How could they not understand? He was Roman Falrello. He was the son of the most powerful man in the world. He was rich. One day he would own everything his father owned. If only they'd just listen.

Roman couldn't understand. He couldn't ever understand how they couldn't understand.

#  Challenge #030: Revelations

With so many deathworlders in the crew, there was bound to be at least one personal chamber decorated in horror and all things creepy. That was not surprising in the least. The surprising part is that this is the room of a class 5 havenworlder. – Anon Guest

They called him Floofy, and they adored him. He was agreebly the softest, prettiest, cutest member of the team. As a Class 5 Havenworlder, though, Floofy was very delicate. His species preferred to let over-engineered probes do the work of getting into space and, as a statistical outlier, it was any wonder that he was in space at all. With caution, logic, and forethought, his kind had sauntered into the skies with a combination of space elevators and generation ships.

Thusly, Floofy encountered most of the environments they were exploring via the interfaces of his livesuit. Only in their personal cabin did the suit come off. Others, entering, had to wear assorted garments so that they didn't infect Floofy's ideal habitat. When they did, it was always a surprise.

More of a surprise than big, burly, tough-guy Jurgenson collecting tiny ceramic figurines of ponies. More of a surprise than "Basher" Thew's lace tatting. Even more of a shocker than Tatts Malone's orphan collection over on Thantos V. As it turned out, the _Wandering Vagabond_ was full of surprises. One of those happened to be Floofy's hobby.

Floofy was into gorepunk horror.

The juicier the splatterfest, the chunkier the gore, the more fantastically blood-soaked the better. Floofy would watch the most stomach-churning, organ-busting shocker gore horror films with a bowl of popcorn and laughter in his throat. He covered his walls with copies of old advertising posters for them. Collected art of the chief monsters in them.

He had a plush toy that resembled a rubber monster with a zipper up the back.

People who accepted an invite to Floofy's cabin always walked out of it with a stunned expression and a new realisation about the miracles of the universe. Such as a Class 5 Havenworlder loving splatterfests because "they are so obviously fake."

#  Challenge #031: The Wager Motivation

Humans have a way of betting that causes the right people for a particular challenge to attempt what is at the time seemingly impossible.

An Inducement prize Contest like the "Ansari X prize" for making the first reusable private Spacecraft, or a Wager like the story of "Around the world in 80 days", even just friends and the ole "Hold my beer".

Humans strive to do the impossible because they like to win. It's in the DNA – Adam from Darwin

The quickest way to change a Human's mind about something is the phrase, "Bet a [Currency Unit]?" or, "Bet you a [Currency Unit] you can." This will result in a sudden interest in making the protested event occur. Ridiculously small amounts of trade tokens can motivate Humans to extraordinary lengths.

The most extreme example was the Rout of Arctus XVII. Two installations were down and the third was in peril. Half the survivors didn't have livesuits and the team Human was out of their depth. The attacking Szarkys had been shooting down every escape pod launched and there was only one left.

"They take ten minutes to aim," said Gorz, the surviving doctor. "If we could somehow supercharge the launch vehicle..." Ze looked. Their Human was already shaking their head. They had the look of a Human who was giving up. "And I bet you five _Tharrok_ that you can."

Ze could see the light dawn in Human Bev's eyes. Desperation had birthed inspiration, and from that... the true chaotic genius of Humankind.

"I'm gonna need to talk to the base's gravy drive, real quick."

The eventual kludge vessel was more-or-less the life pod ductaped to the base's gravity drive and a few wall panels welded on for armour. It blasted out of the base with the assistance of ordinary household chemicals and launched beyond the reach of the Szarkys weapons before they knew what was going on. Inside, some improvised stasis pods kept the Havenworlders safe while Gorz and Human Bev did their best to pilot a ship where the steering mechanism was where one placed the virtual gravity well in front of them.

It was clumsy, it was slapdash, it was three good sneezes away from falling apart at the seams, but they made it to Haven Station alive.

Most importantly, Human Bev won their five _Tharrok_ , with which they purchased a hot fudge sundae.

#  Challenge #032: Snapping Point

(Sorry for everything bad in this prompt. My grammar isn't perfect. Anyway English isn't my native language :/)

Obsession about humans is almost natural in some species. Scientists literally love watching their human beings on tests. But some scientists went too far, when they ask: How much pain can human endure before they give up? – Anon Guest

[AN: No worries, Nonny. When I encounter a prompt with obvious grammatical or spelling errors, I fix them up so that the soul of the prompt is just that little bit clearer for my readers. BTW English is hard because it steals lexicons from other languages and pretends it was always that way. Congratulations on mastering a good chunk of it.]

There is a saying, _Anything can happen in the Edge_. On the edges of Alliance space, where the laws are arbitrary and the morals don't always matter, people are more likely to interact in their own self-interest rather than consider another's concerns. You can find anything in the Edge. Things that would be illegal, immoral, or unhealthy in other regions. Things to satiate desires both subtle and gross.

You could, at a certain time, find installations like the Interstice Analysis Institute, where cogniscents fascinated by humans could study these self-confessed 'space orcs' and their patented survivability in controlled scientific conditions. The Humans within volunteered, and in return they received medical care, proper nutrition, shelter, entertainment, and sociability. In return, the scientific minds in charge ran the volunteers through assorted wringers. Humans sometimes came close to death, but the ideal was to never drive them past their own danger signals.

On its last month of operation, they were testing Human Endurance. A succession of increasingly complicated obstacle courses, where the teams of Humans were comprised entirely of individuals who would not get along in any given circumstance. Their conversations were monitored, as were the tonal inflections and biological stress indicators. In respite zones, the Humans had noticed that those zones were getting incrementally smaller.

Joff gave the observation cams a rude gesture. "Urge to kill those flakkin' lizards... rising."

Kym, who had been hunched over their own knees and catching their breath, looked over to them. "Y'know... that's a thing we can agree on."

Lem, huddled on the floor, didn't even open their eyes to say, "Same."

Orz put their feet up on the wall while their back was on the floor. "I dunno about you... but I want to flakkin' kill these guys."

This phrase, it might be noted, had been uttered so often that it had become static to those gathering data. This time, though, given the stresses and the state of exhaustion in the team, sparked it into an idea.

This team of enemies had a common cause they could ally with. They concocted plans. Employed what they knew. Sabotaged the devices set against them. Escaped, of course, and immediately set to venting their frustrations on the scientists who had set up their suffering.

By the time replacement teams came to investigate, there was nobody left alive in the base. Three vessels were missing, but there was a clear trail of violence that showed the forensicists what had occurred, even after the Humans had sabotaged the recording devices.

The message on the wall, left by the departing Humans, told more. It was written in the blood of the scientists who had kept them there. Two words told it all.

We quit!

#  Challenge #033: Treasure (n)

The Archivaas learning about the libraries at Alexandria and Timbuktu – Anon Guest

They say that if you want to annoy a Human Librarian, you should get them started on the Library of Alexandria. It's one of the more famous instances of knowledge destruction in Human history. It's famous as one of the most devastating hits to human progress in all of their devastating histories of Humankind, right next to the Shattering.

Less well-known is the fact that the Library of Alexandria was burned down _four_ times during Earth's pre-Shattering period. Even less well-known are the book smugglers of Timbuktu. There have always been wars and other catastrophes that threaten stores of knowledge. Just as there have always been those determined to preserve whatever they could.

Should you be silly enough to bring up Alexandria to an Archivaas, they will glare at you and say, "We know, that's why we exist," and start telling you the _exact histories_ of all four times Alexandria was burned and how much knowledge was lost. Then, if you are lucky, you are directed to the Timbuktu Memorial Mural. It depicts the fight, and flight, to keep thousands of books safe from the outrageous fortunes delivered by ignorant zealots who wanted nothing more than a world filled with ignorant zealotry.

It's in the public reading areas, and can be read even by someone who doesn't know how to read. All the important figures face to the right, and are highlighted by golden halos[5]. It is therefore easy to read the entire mural from left to right.

At the start, a figure at a window spots some invaders approaching an important building. Following that is a complicated mission involving multiple people approaching the library with empty containers and creeping away with them full. The villains sleep in the foreground, unaware.

From the array of houses, the heroes of the piece load up all-terrain vehicles, boats, and themselves to take the book on a long journey. Away from the strife. Overland, hiding between outbreaks of violence. Always guarding the books from those who would destroy them. Over rivers in crescent-shaped boats. Overland in jeeps.

Finally, the precious books are scanned, copied, and otherwise digitised. Released into the cloud where, theoretically, they should never die. These people made sure that the books would never perish, even if the ignorant insisted on burning them.

"This is where the Archivaas were born," they tell you. "With those who rescue the past, rather than attempt to destroy it. The Shattering enforced that philosophy, when Humanity realised that we had broken up the sum of our knowledge into parts that may never come back to us. We are the guardians of that which could have been lost. We are the saviours of that which would have otherwise become nothing. We are the preservers of every voice that speaks. We say the names that are not always spoken. We spread the word that is not always heard. We keep. We share. We protect. This is our faith. This is our mission."

[5] Faiths may change in Human history, but some iconography is almost universal. For example, association of goodness being indicated by a disk or ring of gold, thereby indicating light.

#  Challenge #034: The Better Mousetrap Paradox

" _Why do you carry a device only for recording your voice?"_

" _I think too quick to type anything down" – Anon Guest_

"There are auto-dictation programs galore," added Phrel. "Voice to text."

"Except they come with autocorrect and it takes a freaking age to teach them my personal lexicon. I'm a self-confessed weirdo that way. It's much easier for me to record the audio, slow it down, and use an older autodict to take a best guess at all the spelling. Then correct it afterwards."

Phrel, who had heard Human Trav describe something as, "A solid glurb of blah," had no doubts about the first word in technology having its glitches around this person. Human Trav can, had, and would invent new words to fit according to need, whether or not words for that particular necessity were already extant. They had also heard Human Trav talking faster than possible on numerous occasions. "Like when you've had a 'booster'?"

When Human Trav had some of their 'stash' of chocolate-coated coffee beans (lightly roasted and sugar-coated for preservation) nobody but other Humans could understand hir. They were diabolical human inventions, Phrel was certain.

"Yeah. Like that. Or when I've had a super-brilliant idea about something and it's like," Human Trav gestured in an expanding motion around hir head whilst making an explosion noise. "And it's all gotta go out at once or it's gone. Splammo, y'know?"

Phrel didn't, but pretended they did. Otherwise, Human Trav would _explain_ it. At length. Often with new vocal conglomerates pretending to be real words. "We can only hope that technology will catch up with Human idiosyncrasies."

Human Trav appeared to think about this. "If they did, we'd have to come up with new ones."

#  Challenge #035: That They May See

Words cut deeper than any weapon ever could. Thankfully, they also heal better than any medication. – Anon Guest

Everyone has words they hate having flung at them. Slurs, for instance. For the linguists among us, it may be fascinating to analyse how the words we choose to hurt others with show how those who arm evaluate those they see as less. However, those words still hurt. Others may choose to glide past them. Having never had such words used against them, they fail to believe how they can be harmful.

Hag stones are made by the steady and repetitious dripping of water on a single stone. One drop alone doesn't make a hole, but rather thousands. A marching brigade of soldiers can make a bridge collapse where one soldier marching alone would never have caused harm. A single grain of arsenic may be a tonic, but a certain amount can kill. The devil is in the dosage...

Individually, analytically, a single word has no weight. It has no sharpness. It cannot _possibly_ hurt. Yet they do. Flung endlessly like grains of sand against the stone of one's soul, they can wear a being down and cause cracks or even collapse. Should you doubt, pick a word you personally find insulting _to you_ and devise a means to have it flung at you for days. Weeks. Years. See how much it hurts after experiencing the constant abrasions of its passing. Or, you could take another path.

Choose words of kindness. Choose the meaning instead of the epithet. Choose to say kinder things about the people beneath. Recognise that, in many cases, it is not ill choice on their behalf but rather a lack of obvious or accessible options. In many others, it is simply an overall lack. One may deride the poor for not playing the share market, but they cannot do so without the money to spare for shares. One may deride certain ethnic groups for being under-educated, but they cannot gain education when the establishments bar them for being on the premises. The choice, here, is in the actions of those in control, or those brave enough to act as intermediary and argue on their behalf.

Such change is always resisted. Decried as unnecessary. Protested. Logically deconstructed and presented as unimportant when compared to grander, grosser crimes in other countries. All the fallacies in a nice little parade. Always presented by those without skin in the game, as reasons why the allegedly opposing side is being greedy, irrational, obstinate, or in possession of other non-redeeming qualities and therefore easily dismissed.

Then there are those who would make themselves bricks in the walls of understanding. Placing the burden of proof on those without the constant resources to provide it. Those always willing to dismiss that proof and demand mountains more. Ready to scoff and dismiss the underling for not being polite, for not having enough evidence, for being unreasonable.

In all these ways, allegedly civil debate becomes entirely uncivil. Yet they all have a common core. A rigid unwillingness to see, explore, or investigate the "opposite side". Those who turn words into war unfailingly refuse to acknowledge that a problem exists, simply because they willingly remain ignorant of the evidence. Either because the problem has not reached them, personally, or because they refuse to look.

We must all be aware in the constant war of words. Or, at the very least, acknowledge where the blind spots are. Perhaps, then, others can help us see.

#  Challenge #036: Simple Metallurgical Skills

They were doomed. The copper tin alloy for the critical drive component they desperately needed was on a planet weeks away, and even if they had it, they couldn't make the part on the ship.

That's when the human walked into the bridge mopping sweat off hir brow.

" _All fixed let's go."_

" _What do you mean all fixed?"_

" _Simply, I made a cast of the part with the pieces, then melted down the original and re cast it. It should last to the next port, the one after at a stretch."_

" _You what...?!? But how?"_

" _Surely you guys know the concept of recycling?"_

" _Yes, but I've never heard of ANYONE doing it MANUALLY!!!" – Adam in Darwin_

The captain and higher-ups were in a sealed conference about their plans. Such plans usually revolved around how to make the maximum amount of crew survive with the minimum amount of sacrifice. There were only so many cryo-pods and stasis tubes, no matter how much of the supplies the rest of the crew ate their way through during the interim. Who would live, who would die, who would be high-priority and who, ultimately, would remain behind to maintain the remnants as it drifted towards the sanest destination with minimum everything as the ship auto-repeated its emergency message on all useful frequencies.

Human Fen, knowing all this, made a decision. Three words, and not kindly received when uttered allowed, so ze said it to hirself, "Screw that noise." They went down to the engine room to see what the damage was.

The bronze injector was cleft in twain. A combination of a flaw in the original manufacture and repeated microstresses from temperature differentials, expansion, and contraction in use. Fen couldn't help it. Ze whistled backwards. "So that's what's got the top lot bothered."

"It was the last one. The nearest port of aid is four years away at even half CTL[6]. We can't even do _that_ without the injector. The situation will be hopeless."

_Says you,_ thought Fen. "Is that all the mass of the part? Nothing was lost in the breaking?"

Dryz boggled at the question, then dismissed the weirdness as just Human Fen being Human Fen. "That is all that is and was," she said. "Total weight of the part is total weight of pieces."

Could probably do with a bit more to be certain. Best to overestimate than wind up short. Fen checked the stable atom stores. Plenty for hir needs. Some iron... This could be done. Whacko. "Can I take the pieces? I have an idea."

Another good boggle from Dryz. "This is not a problem that can be solved with ductape, Human Fen."

Fen just grinned and said, "Never tell a Human what can't be done." They took the parts and went down to hir workshop. Technically, it was a storage bay, but after Fen emptied it out by improving the organisation of other storage areas, the Captain didn't see anything wrong with Fen putting it to other uses. Besides, it isolated some of Fen's more unusual hobbies from the easily disturbed and faint of courage.

First, scanning the bits and creating a mould. CAD programs helped digitally patch the part into what it should have been and a nifty algorithm turned out a neat three-part mould that shouldn't be any bother. One quick printout of three solid blocks and ze could tool the parts ze needed. No worries.

That was day one. Including breaks to cool off or refresh hirself and take naps. Day two was making absolutely, positively certain ze had it right. The right measurements according to specs. The right placement of sprues. The right placement of the pouring funnel. Allowances for machining smooth. All of it.

Days three and four were for the melting, mixing, and pouring. Temperature control to be certain that the crystallisation was up to spec.

Day five, after it had cooled, was for the machining.

Dryz acted like Fen had pulled it out of hir butt, or otherwise magicked it into existence somehow. "That is... impossible. How did you–?"

"It's not that hard. I used the old bits to make a mould and re-cast it with a little bit extra from ships' stores."

"Manually?"

"Well, the printer's unreliable for anything other than solid blocks of stable elements, so..." Fen shrugged.

" _Manually_?"

"It's not as if we could order it from the factory and have a hope. They don't deliver to vessels like ours. If this one doesn't last like a factory part, at least it'll see us to a safer survival window, so it's all a bonus."

" _MANUALLY_?"

Fen was giggling by now, helping slot the new-old part back from whence it had come. "What? You guys haven't heard of recycling?"

"Well, yes," Dryz was temporarily distracted by the cultural gap. Good. Poor critter wasn't about to faint. Better \- the part fit like a glove. "I haven't ever heard of anyone doing it _manually_..."

"Way it used to be done." Fen shrugged. This bit fit there. That bit fit there. All together and... switch thrown, the injector was back online. So was the CTL engine. Purring like a flakking kitten. "I already had half the tools, so I figured - why not, y'know?"

"No," said Dryz. "But I am glad that you knew. And know. Let us go together and explain to the Captain."

"Oh yeah. Cap's gonna flakkin' _love_ this."

[6] Close To Light. FTL involves using another dimension and arriving so early that your descendants will make the delivery. Assuming they survive to do so.

#  Challenge #037: Think of the Children

An alien equivalent of a lawyer is studying up on various human court cases and stumbles upon a series of cases from family courts dated up to the mid 2030s citing "deviant sexual attitudes" or "deviant sexuality" as reasons for being an unsuitable parent. Upon consultation with its human liaison as to the nature of these cases, the alien discovers the murky and dark legal situations around kinks. – Anon Guest

For those seeking further proof of Human Insanity, look no further than their legal records. – Common saying amongst the Legistrar Major.

Darael was studying up for Xenolegal history, and had wound up on a wiki walk into the deepest of deep labyrinths. Humanity was like a train wreck. Fascinating from a distance, but horrifying at close range. Everyone knew the one about the hot coffee, but some of these...

Humanity - a species not naturally inclined to mate for life, invented marriage as a means of cementing relationships between polities via familial alliances. Then they traditionalised it. _Then_ they invented divorce as a means of sundering those alliances. Often messily, loudly, and with numerous parties dragging others through the mud in the process, because property ownership was often tied solely to one gender. Which was clearly a messed up way of arranging things.

Reading through the individual cases was an education in seeking out the flimsiest excuses, the most outlandish excuses, and the most ludicrous excuses to separate from a partner and win all the tokens in the process. All in the interests of any children produced during the union or, in the case of 'lightning round' marriages[7], division of the total property and holdings value. Those battles could get truly bitter. No holds were barred, no strategy deemed too vile for the other to use.

Nobody knew how to fight like Humans did. Nobody could get competitive like Humans did.

Proof positive, the dirt that either party dragged into the light in order to win. Disgusting habits were just the beginning. Infidelity, cruelty, abusive behaviour were pretty much standard. Yet when it came to 'deviant sexual conduct'...

Nobody could be _perverse_ like Humans, either.

Picture, if you will, the most violently abhorrent thing that one adult Human could do to another. Magnify it with assorted twists as far as your imagination could go. It's odds-evens that there is more than one Human who happens to enjoy that sort of thing as a side-order to sex.

As far as Darael was concerned, what consenting adults did with each other was their business. Rational communication of desires physical and emotional were the cornerstones of healthy relationships. That, and those who turned their proclivities towards the immature not only never deserved custody ever, but could also die in a fire for preference.

Nevertheless, these ancient Humans could use _any_ excuse to use imagined dirt for a win. Sometimes when they merely wished to win so that the other side would be emotionally hurt more, or to sabotage the other by forcing child support payments.

The things they did before the advent of parenting licenses...

The things they did before relationship compatibility testing...

Darael boggled at another one. Apparently, one partner liked dressing up in a cartoon ocelot costume and playing at being animals with other people dressed up in cartoon animal costumes. This was, apparently, deviant sexual behaviour despite the costume-wearing partner's insistence that they never used the costume for sex. According to the transcripts, it was also evidence of a clear and present danger to the children and a need for the accused partner to pay for therapy as well as support.

Darael shut that particular tome, stretched, and checked the clock. Time flew when one's mind was boggled. Ze wrote in hir notes, _These Humans are crazy._

7] Those very occasional statistical outliers of relationships where the wedded parties separate after less than a month or two. The shortest marriage duration at the time of this writing is a seconds-long marriage sundered by the groom because his new wife wanted to keep her job [ source.

#  Challenge #038: Tactile Rewards

Human giving an alien scritches.

" _I'm not a pet, you know."_

" _Do you want me to stop?"_

"... _No" –_ TheDragonsFlame

_The one thing one must remember about Humans,_ Thrikki wrote in her journal, _apart from the most obvious like the whole Deathworlder thing, is that they are incredibly tactile. They reach out to feel things just to experience what it feels like. They reassure themselves on the presence of their fellows. They show affection through touch._

Human Cass was doing just that, perched awkwardly on the arm of the same chair that Thrikki occupied. They had a reader in one hand and the idle other had drifted to the fur on Thrikki's exposed skin. Possibly on automatic, they started stroking and kneading at Thrikki's loose skin. Not that it wasn't unpleasant, per se, it was just...

Thrikki had formerly observed Human Cass doing something similar to one of the Skitties on board. Which should have made the automatic action insulting, except... Tactile reward systems went both ways. Thrikki took a stand for all future fuzzy cogniscents. "I'm not a pet, you know."

Human Cass noticed what they were doing. "Oh. Shit. Sorry. You want me to stop."

Thrikki decided that that was enough of a stand. "...not entirely. Um. Future permission requests would be appreciated."

Which was, more or less, how petting consent entered the Galactic Interspecies Etiquette Manual.

#  Challenge #039: Special Talents

" _Am I weird?"_

" _Yes, that's why we get along." – Anon Guest_

They say things like, _There's always one,_ or, _Strange is as strange does;_ but what they generally mean by that is, _Look at the statistical outlier._ It's not always done with malice, but it certainly feels that way when one is on the receiving end. For those who experience this sort of thing first hand, it's interesting how the statistical outliers are reviled and expelled from groups as "too strange" or other disparaging remarks... until such time as that outlier factor becomes _useful_ in some way.

Such as, for instance, a morbid fascination with all things Human. This was Gurx's weird hobby in their youth, and now had become an asset aboard the _Skulk and Sniff_ as it plied the asteroid fields of Nenkus IV. Now, instead of being, "creepily fascinated," or, "ghoulish," Gurx was now, "so good with them," and, "so capable with communicating between species." Which just goes to show how cogniscents everywhere are willing to reclassify unusual traits as soon as they become blatantly necessary.

Gurx had an able command of Human phraseologies, sayings, and memetic communications that bordered as close to expert as anyone could get without certification from a Xeno-communications course at a top-level educational establishment. Since she didn't _have_ such certifications, the corporate body behind the _Skulk and Sniff_ 's mission could excuse lowering their overall costs because Gurx's education was _freelance_ [8]. Explaining this to the Humans took some time, but they understood entirely too well.

"You want us go hitting? Much good at hitting," they offered. Conversations with Humans were almost always in Galstand Simple.

"No, no. No hitting. Hitting no changing anything." Gurx carefully patted a heavily-tattooed arm. "Much better being nice all time. Much better looking good."

Understanding nods and mutters of, _"Performance review,"_ in their native tongue. From that moment on, as the Humans might say, butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. The entire cadre of five bulky, beefy Humans treated Gurx as their best friend who was also their superior during work hours. They even spent their free time together, sharing assorted entertainments and refreshments during their idle hours.

Gurx picked up a _lot_ of the Human tongue during that trip. Enough to understand not only the words, but also the meaning behind them. Only one other aboard that vessel even made the effort. A minor hygiene technician known as Koth. He was softly spoken and avoided everyone on the ship but the Humans and, by extension, Gurx.

It took some time to coax Koth into sharing relaxation time with them, but the effort was worth it. The shy young male came out of their shell and revealed a passion similar to Gurx's, though not quite in the same direction.

Finally, as they were sharing a meal on the way back to a more civilised port, Koth asked the question that must have been smouldering inside him for months.

"Am I weird?"

Gurx didn't have to think about it. "Of course you are. That's why I like you."

This alarmed him more than a little. He began to look upset.

"It's all right," soothed Gurx. "Sooner or later, weird becomes good. It doesn't happen instantly, but it does happen. The trick is to find the space where your weird fits, and place yourself there."

"It sounds like a long search," said Koth.

"Mine was. Yours might be shorter. There's always ships looking for people who can get along with Humans. Look for berths with them. You may even advance."

Now the joy and promise returned to his eyes. It would be a wonder to see this strange flower bloom into confidence. Gurx was certainly aiming to keep touch and provide vital advice whenever it was needed. Weird, after all, liked to encourage weird.

It made them feel less alone.

[8] Galactic laws would, eventually, prevent such shenanigans by viewing _all_ education as an investment of a cogniscents' time towards gathering useful knowledge and skills.

#  Challenge #040: Radical Prototype

" _I fail to see how crew members taking the offensensitivity warning I attached to myself as a joke or challenge is in any way my fault." – Anon Guest_

Human Kari tapped at the small pin. It was shaped like a fan, and mostly silver. The borders were thick and black and there was an ornamental scroll that had the words, _Accidentally Offensive_ embossed into it. Presumably, those within range to read it would also be subject to Human Kari's... more colourful personality quirks.

Captain Kurthox could understand the reasoning. Thanks to numerous libel and defamation laws, it was possible for lawsuits about a simple opinion going on for decades if left unchecked. As a result, insulting was done with intent and through a professional medium. This civilised things immensely and reduced the need for litigation overall. Some on the receiving end were even good sports about it. Silver and black _were_ the traditional warning colours of a professional Insulter.

This, however... this was new. This was a warning for observers about an unalterable state of the wearer. Something that others should have the right to prepare for, or at least expect. This... was a level of social awareness that Kurthox had previously believed that Humans were incapable of. "These are levels of innovation I hadn't thought you were capable of, Human Kari."

Human Kari grinned. "Me and the girls were talking about it during R&R sir," ze said. "You know how it is. Someone makes a dumb joke about us being like... unpaid Insulters, then someone else makes a suggestion, and then... next thing you know? Someone's making the pins." A shrug. "It's useful, though. Ship stress levels are like... headed downwards."

Kurthox could bet they were. Any kind of warning was better than nothing. She could see this innovation being adopted throughout all of Edge space before it infected entire swathes of the Galactic Alliance. "I'll see to it that you and your team are properly credited with the joint invention. With luck, you may even be properly paid for it." Which was, she had to admit, an unlikely occurrence in the Edge.

Nevertheless, Human Kari was impressed. "That'd be flakkin' awesome! Sauce!"

It had taken training and some months of patient attempts to understand that this was a Human means of expressing approval. No wonder, then, that that pin was proving useful.

#  Challenge #041: Workarounds

" _You're being stingy."_

" _Yes, I know." – Anon Guest_

"I warned you," said Lady Anthe. "These caverns are not as friendly as the rest of the Underdark. You won't find luminous mushrooms or special glowing crystals here, and most of the fungus among us is either deadly poison or just plain carnivorous. I used to survive in places like this."

"You mean you used to live–"

Anthe cut Marvin's well-meaning correction off. "I wouldn't call it living. After three more days, neither will you. Five if we don't have to eat Otyugh or worse before we're out the other side." During her speech, she worked quickly, moving from one stand of fungus to another. Picking samples to add to her Bag of Preserving. "So forgive me for withholding your double-blessed _candy_."

Marvin, carrying Wraithvine in his arms, said, "But... you're gathering lots of stuff. And we _have_ lots of stuff."

"We don't have a Cleric, and our Bard is in the alleged company of some really nasty sorts who are only interested in keeping him alive. They're twenty days away from their underground altar of true skeeviness and if we go this way, we can maybe beat them by five. _If_... If we ration our supplies. If we gather everything we can at every opportunity. If we pace ourselves and only use that which is vitally necessary. If we can figure out what the hell is wrong with Wraithvine before we accidentally starve hir. If... if..." If she didn't freak out about being stuck in the morass from whence she had come. If she could deal with being a leader for real instead of having Wraithvine just... _there_... as backup against a massive mistake.

She only _called_ herself 'Lady' because she liked to feel important. Without Wraithvine to add verisimilitude... she was starting to slide back to thinking of herself as 'Thief' and it hadn't even been a day, yet.

If Wraithvine were conscious, ze would advise five deep breaths, but this was not the best environment for that. Up, then. Thirty feet above potential spores, where the only concern was the smaller variety of bat. If she could nail some of them for the Bag of Preserving, then they would have the better part of a chance.

She had more resources now. Things like immovable rods and immortal rope... things that could be used to -say- haul up an unconscious Elf Wizard to a place of safety and then secure them against fall damage. Five deep breaths.

One. She had solved the first problem. Where and how to take a short rest so that none of the surviving party members were in peril.

Two. She had the advantage of knowing every trick of making it out of death caverns like this because she'd done it before. She knew the rules. She could teach.

Three. She had Wraithvine's dimensionally transcendent bag and all the magic gewgaws inside it to assist them in her endeavours.

Four. She knew the way to the altar and the secret ways to all the Cult's hiding spots. Where she had once gleaned an existence, she could now rob blind.

Five. There was also half a chance she could piss off their chthonic deity and get _him_ to kill the Cult for her.

Second problem - find out what was wrong with Wraithvine. Marvin's Goggles of Sight had a number of settings, and Wraithvine never threw away anything that looked like a book. Anthe could read in the dark and did so, keeping a knife ready for any bats on the wayside. She had it. This ring, then that sigil, then press there, and–

"Hey," protested Marvin. "Everything's gone funny."

"More colourful, right?" She didn't wait for the nod. "Tell me the colours you see around Wraithvine and where. If they're doing anything, tell me that, too." He had to, since the goggles were bonded to him.

Consulting with the diagrams of auras and chakras, Anthe could make an educated guess. Two spell misfires synergising into a new format that put Wraithvine, very effectively, into a coma. A small phial of Wakefulness Potion should see everything back into order.

She hoped.

It was a bit of work to get the first few drops into Wraithvine's system, but after that, the rest of the potion worked. Wrathvine lurched into consciousness with hir eyes glowing in the dark. "OsweetgodsIhatethisstuff, I'mpracticallyunintelligible."

"What?" said Marvin, unwittingly proving hir point.

"That part wears off. Too many roasted khaffa seeds. I'll improve it. Later." Lady Anthe explained the situation as she untied her Wizard mentor.

"So far, so good," allowed Wraithvine. "So what's your plan."

"Take a shortcut through hostile territory and be waiting for them at their destination?"

Ze nodded in understanding. "Good plan. I have no objections."

Lady Anthe breathed easily once more, secure in the knowledge that the _real_ leader was back in charge. "I'll have to lead the way," she said. "I'm the only one who knows it."

"By all means," said Wraithvine.

Lady Anthe gathered as she walked, giving instruction via urgent whispers because some of these fungi killed with their spores. When she got her hands on that damn Tabaxi bard...

#  Challenge #042: To Stand in Judgement

" _I've known nothing but struggle and heartbreak... and yet I fought to survive, certain it would all be worth it in the end and my prayers would be rewarded... And now I learn THIS? I discover that, from your point of view, my entire life, from the moment I was born until the day I die... well, died... that every day of it is... er, was... just a bit of _idle entertainment?!"__

" _Well... though that's a terribly dark way to put it... you're not _wrong."_ – Anon Guest_

They say that when you die, you stand in judgement before your creator, and they weigh your heart or intents or... anything really... in the balance. To be found wanting is to be sent to the worst of afterlives. To be found worthy is to be sent to paradise.

I don't know much else beyond... this was not the creator I was expecting. They seem surprised, too. Sitting at some strange altar that displays a multitude of things in a multitude of rectangles, half turned away from whatever strange ritual they were doing with the board of sigils at their hands. Staring at me through odd lenses that distorted their very eyes. Everything about them was odd. Their clothing, their colour, the way they were made... The peculiar knot they had tied themselves into.

We spoke the same words at the same time. "What the flying hell?" We shared the same confusion. The same fear. And yet, this peculiar stranger knew me and I knew them not. I couldn't work it out. Not yet. I still breathed. I could feel my heart in my chest. I could feel the world around me for all that it was not the world I knew.

The stranger boggled. "You... you look just like Kantho..."

"I _am_ Kantho," I said. "How do you know me?"

"I've been writing you for years," said the stranger, untying themself and rising from their altar. "I just... I just wrote your death. You..." They walked oddly. Given their former knot, it wasn't hard to fathom why. Yet they still managed to walk over and touch me, as if they doubted my existence. "You can't be real. You're a figment of my imagination. I'm losing it, or... This is it. My sleep deprivation, anxiety, and whatever else is fused up in there has finally snapped. I've conked out and I'll wake up to a whole bunch of keysmash or something." They worked past me, to another room just as bizarre as the one they inhabited. To a door that revealed the night sky and street lamps with an unnatural glare. A different, foul atmosphere wandered in through the door. "Nope. That seems real enough."

I watched as they shut the door again and slumped against it. "Interesting question... when faced with what cannot possibly be real, yet shows every evidence of being so, how does one tell that it _is_ real. Or not?"

This was not one of the traditional Five Questions from the Gods. Yet this creature didn't seem at all godly. "Which deity _are_ you? This is not one of the questions that the Gods ask..."

"I'm not a deity, I'm a millennial. We're way worse if you ask the press." They darted past me again and began making themselves busy with small storage places, strange items, and unfamiliar ingredients. "Though... if you think about it another way... I'm the one who made your gods, so... ultimate creator of everything you know? Or just plain old off my goober, I can't tell from here and I'm making you a PBJ because that's about all I can handle at the moment." They peeled slices of bread off a loaf like a man taking pages from a sheaf of them. "I don't have _hrokka_ tea and it takes too long to make a facsimile before I'm due at my shitty-ass job... I wonder if being insane counts for sick leave?"

"You talk too much. What is this place? These are not the halls of judgement. Where is Thaniis? Anaeron? The Weaver?"

The supposed creator tapped their skull. "Your reality is a figment of my imagination. They're imaginary. You're imaginary. And keep it down or you'll wake my housemates and I'll have confirmation or denial of my sanity status and I really can't deal with that at four in the morning, thankyou." They finished with the pastes and the slices of bread and held it towards me. "May I offer you a sandwich in this trying time?"

"These are the Faelands," I decided. "I know better than to take the food of the Faelands."

This fae creature took a bite of their own offering. "That. Is. Hecking. _Brilliant_!" They had gone from puzzled confusion to seeming divine intervention in the space of moments, and spoke as they chewed. "You're not dead. You're in the Faelands. It's perfect since you don't know what the spell was anyway and..." They rushed over and landed a kiss on my forehead. "Bless you. I was really hoping I'd find a way for you to not be perma-dead."

The illusion faded around me and I was standing in the Faelands. Many things were the same, but this creature before me was more a Fae Patron than a shambling imitation of a Human. The purple hair remained, though it was much more artistic than the former vision before me.

"Well done for seeing through it. Call me... Hae'na. I've pulling the strings of your fate."

This was somehow more real than reality, and yet I had the faint vision of the shambling creature I'd seen earlier, bowed over their altar and pressing at sigils. Urgently, because their time was not as infinite as it was for the Fae. That image would always be there. Playing in my dreams. Lurking in the background whenever I debated with those who had more power over my life than I.

A wreck of a Human, fighting to make something of us both. Writing my fate... purging their soul into their altar... and for what? What was I to them? A dream? Some silly fantasy?

Or was I a last straw as they, too, fought their own suffering in the small ways available to them?

Whatever it was... Whatever I am... All I can do is hope that I'm at least decent at being it.

#  Challenge #043: Greatest Responsibility

What would an intergalactic nursery look like? – Anon Guest

Multi-species infant care is a fascinating workplace to begin with. For each species, there are separate demands beyond the standards of clean, warm, and comfortable. There are some general rules, like mammals do best when fed on their parental secretions. Reptilian life forms, for instance, get essential gut bacteria from their parentals' regurgitations. Some, like Humans, thrive with the assistance of gentle physical contact. Others are too frail to be disturbed until they pass certain milestones of early development.

_Some_ species get to choose their infant's gender based on the temperature at which their eggs are incubated. Others, by the temperature in the nest as they proceed past the larval stage and pupate. Some have strict rules about leaving such things to happenstance. It is therefore vitally necessary to know all of this before qualifying for a xeno-childcare license.

In larger space ports and trade centres, it can get ridiculously complicated. Interns and trainees usually don't have to care for more than one species' ward at a time. Unless, like Ka'tho, hir patron hospice is run off their feet with a mutant strain of the Immunoflu and everyone not a vector is set to look to the needs of the smallest and most vulnerable members of society.

The infant care wards, usually a bastion of organisation and neatness, are quickly overrun with reminder notices above each crib/creche unit. Timers with differing alarm sounds abound. Ze and the three other trainees were run off their feet and desperate not to make any kind of mistake. Those remaining in hospice care were those who could not be safely transferred to that of their parentals. Which meant that those infants remaining were the ones who needed the most and urgent of attentions.

Tweep! "Mine," Ka'tho called, heading straight for the incubator crib. Check temperature versus ideal. In the zone. Good. Rotate and shuffle the chrysalises according to the instructions so as to randomise gender upon rehatching.

Zeepazeep! Nanokki had that one. Clean, feed, hold carefully... that one was one of the easier ones.

A musical chime. "Mine!" Ka'tho, now finished shuffling chrysalises, was now rotating eggs. One had a chip. A crack! "We got a hatching commence in crib thirty-two!" And no time to properly document everything. In desperation, Ka'tho set a camera on the nest and stayed for as long as ze dared.

Diverse alarms were going off all over the place. Ze rotated, untangled, cleaned, checked, and nurtured as best ze could. There were species whose infants would perish if they weren't picked up, species whose infants would perish if they were touched incorrectly, species whose infants would perish if they weren't handled with a specific variety of roughness. Babies who needed to be groomed, babies who needed to be bathed, babies who needed this or that gentle care...

And some who set up their own noise because the noise they heard frightened them.

Too many needs, and not enough service. The most Ka'tho could hope for was that they passed through this crisis with zero accidents. Minimal mistakes with minimal impact.

Because one rule was a constant across the known universe. There is no force more deadly and terrifying than a primary parental whose child one has just harmed.

#  Challenge #044: Incidental Hazards

Young children like to lounge on people, caregivers and companions alike. Do other species deal with this? – Anon Guest

There is an instinct almost universal to the young of any given species. Stay close to your caregiver. Once able to move about free of the nest/clutch/creche/pouch, the caregiver is still a bastion of protection, font of education, and primary source of emotional resilience. In species with communal childrearing, any older member of the species will do.

Which was why Rael had a very small and upset Human attached to his leg. He was not qualified to deal with this, he knew it. His education on multi-species infant care consisted entirely on a plethora of pamphlets containing the barest of basics on how to handle any infant he had a chance of encountering and most of the contents boiled down to 'contact the legal guardian at the earliest convenience.

"I'm... not your people," he attempted, which made no impact on the crying Human wrapped around his leg. Rael considered his options. This was a non-urgent situation, for all that the small Human's howling made it seem more so. Calling in Security was right out, as was allowing the Human to stay there and cry. Especially since the creature in question was attempting and failing to climb him, thereby risking a wardrobe malfunction.

Small, upset humans often wanted to be held, that was true, but gaining permission was important, too. "Do you want to be held?" he asked. The reply, whilst incoherent, was interpretable as positive, so he scooped up the child and held them against his chest in the prescribed manner. The howling slowed. Diminished. Settled down into sighs and hiccoughs. Good. "Now. What is the problem?"

The child was still unintelligible, speaking in what Aunty Fan-Fan referred to as 'scribble' - an imitation of the words surrounding them, but not actually those words. The tone, here, was more important than the sounds. As was the body language, something Rael was still studying. He was lost in seconds, but pretending to understand seemed important, so he did that. All the time, looking about for someone far more qualified than he to take over and deal with it all.

"Oh, you found her!"

Rael relaxed. The catch-cry of the Anxious Caregiver. Their face had a familial resemblance to the child, too. Even better. He didn't have to ask a dozen questions or ask for certifications or identity verifications. That, and the child in his arms was already leaning over in anticipation of the handover.

"No harm done," said Rael, getting his facts established as early as possible. "She found me, and... I helped her look for you."

The child was busy going on a rant that could be easily interpreted as an indignant, "How dare you turn your back for five seconds while I wander off and get lost!"

Thanks and business references were exchanged, and Rael would have happily turned away from the park and gone on with his day, were it not for a swarm of infant Thressyk who apparently believed that he made an excellent jungle-gym for reasons that were a universal mystery.

Any more of this and he would be accused of being good with children.

#  Challenge #045: Sing Out the Sun

" _Hey what song are you singing today?"_

"' _I love those J-I-N-G-L-E bells.'"_

" _Oh good. I can hang my laundry today." – Anon Guest_

There are interesting wrinkles to being a life companion for a bard. Especially if that bard took a level or two in the Druidic arts, apparently for the laughs. One of them is the daily practice session. Not that Jiihan needed it. She was a very good bard... but the druidic edge put certain harmonic combinations at a level of risk.

For instance, some popular tunes could affect the weather. Jiihan kept it under control, the instant she put it together of course. Once the connection was made, she took care to only practice one song at a time. Unfortunately, practice songs with no defined spell in mind had no lyrical relationship to the weather it produced. As an example, _Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head_ when unfocussed, caused gale force and dehydrating winds.

Enrai had to plan his day around the musical mood Jiihan was in at the time. Whenever they weren't on adventures, domestic life had to continue around Jiihan's practice sessions. "So... what's the song today?"

"I'm hankering for some Candlenights melodies. Those jingling bells are calling me."

"Rude verses, of course."

"Of _course_ ," Jiihan grinned. "I'm not a _barbarian_."

_Jingle Bells_ was nice, sunny, dry weather with just the right kind of breezes. "Great. That makes for a perfect laundry day."

"Shall I inspire you at the washtub, good sir?"

"You inspire me daily."

Jiihan started singing as she strummed. Any lingering clouds scooted out of the sky before Enrai was quite done boiling the copper. It was not just a good day for the washing. It was a good day for them.

#  Challenge #046: We Always Came Back

Do couples on ships ever sing duets together during their leisure times? That would be adorable. – Anon Guest

_Humans are pack-bonding creatures and thrive in environments where they have ready access to their pack. It is therefore advisable, when hiring Humans, to be sure that you hire Humans who have already established a stable pack bond._ – Douddam's Guide to Surviving the Edge.

The Francetti's were at it again. Human pack-bonding rituals were one thing, but this? This was bizarre, even for Humans. These two, a married couple sharing the name Francetti, had a disturbing habit of exchanging tonal combinations of Human words with each other. Something they called _a cappella singing_.

"...He got hair... down... to his knee/ Got to be a joker/ He just do what he please," sang one of them as the other provided a bass line. They swapped roles, singer and accompaniment, without skipping a beat. "He wear no shoeshine/ He got... toe jam football/ He got monkey finger..."

The words made no sense. The music made no sense. The actions... it was a mating display... maybe? None of the Hrothi aboard the _Explorer Twenty-five Twenty-five_ could make any kind of sense out of it. A handful even attempted to ask the Humans what the ritual was about.

"We're just singing together," said one of the Francetti's. "It's our thing."

Then the Hrothi crew did some deep dive research on the songs they sang together and discovered one more feature about their Ships' Humans...

They were enormous nerds.

#  Challenge #047: Could Be Worse

So, the big dangerous creature you were supposed to be fighting is now bawling it's eyes out. Worse still, a few of your crewmates/party keep giving it empathetic looks. What are you supposed to do? – Anon Guest

The gigantic beast sat in the middle of the chamber and howled like an infant. Marvin, Wraithvine, and Lady Anthe all glared at Rumtum.

"You idiot," said Lady Anthe. "Why would you claw a baby inside its nose?"

"Now it's mother's going to come," said Marvin.

"It was going to shove me up its nostril," snarled Rumtum. "I am _not_ going to submit to that."

Wraithvine summoned Dancing Lights and used Prestidigitation to create soft, soothing music. Ze was attempting to distract the beast before the mother realised something had gone wrong. "Good for you," said the Elf. "Perhaps you'd like to explain when the time comes, why its mother shouldn't squish us."

"Assuming its mother can understand Common," said Lady Anthe.

Rumtum focussed all his energies and power together and aimed the highest Sleep spell he could at the gigantic creature. Amazingly, it started to take effect. The beast got blinky as it complained and, when its enormous mother turned up, she assumed that her child was cranky and needed a nap.

She didn't even see the band of four adventurers hiding under an immense ottoman.

"Try that again, cat," growled Lady Anthe, "and I will turn your skin into a floor rug."

#  Challenge #048: The Scale Economy

Being tall means either not being able to see things under a certain height, or constantly looking down and getting a hunch. – Anon Guest

Here's the thing about Standard Galactic Spaces - they're big. They're made for accessibility for all known cogniscents, from the size of a Terran Terrier through Jelly Dancer swarm to that of a Synapsian Titan. It's easy to forget that there are smaller species who don't see a reason why they have to accommodate others in their ship design. They are, after all, the only people they expect to be on their own ships.

That _was_ true. Until the Galactic Alliance had the bright idea of the Officer Exchange Program. Until recently, the Galactic Alliance didn't have a unified fleet with a unified design, and many peoples were against creating such basic homogeneity. Galactic Standards fit for measurement, for living standards, for describing when and how a cogniscent needed assistance... but it was not, they insisted, for ships that would help protect and serve their allies.

It was the Humans who came up with the Exchange Program as a means of creating avenues of greater understanding amongst the Alliance and other assorted polities who saw this as a means of enforcing the point vis-a-vis standard fleet vessel design. This is also why Human Vann is working out how to get anywhere in a V'rinithi-made vessel.

Cogniscent life depends entirely on how much intelligence and brain space the evolutionary process can pack into a supporting body mass. Some use hive-minds like the aforementioned Jelly Dancers, others can mass anywhere between nineteen and three hundred and ten pounds. The V'rinithi, unfortunately for Human Vann, are on the smaller end of that scale.

Human Vann had given up on duck-waddling and, with the help of knee pads and bracers, was scuttling through the corridors of the _Interesting Scent_ as quickly as she could on all fours. The V'rinithi were doing their best to ease her access to various places, but that still left a lot of the _Scent_ literally out of her reach. It also left a lot of V'rinithi diving for any given refuge whenever Human Venn had to get through.

On away missions, they tended to use her as a combination means of transport, beast of burden, and difficult sample obtainer. Human Venn simply loved the opportunity to stretch, and tolerated being balled up in the cargo hold if it meant getting out and having freedom of movement.

It also meant she had to take her meals lying on her stomach or via a long and bendy straw.

Every day, it was the same thing...

"Hey, cap'n?"

"No, Human Vann. There is no further news on the newest, all-access design for V'rinithi vessels. As I'm sure you already knew."

Now that enlightened self-interest had entered the picture, the good news was that all Allies were scrambling to meet accommodation standards as set by the Alliance.

#  Challenge #049: A Time to Shine

People need to stop mixing "knowledge" and "intelligence". It's true that a magician can, will and have read and learned more books than the average person, and a barbarian might not know all the rule to live with more civilised person, but it's only knowledge.

Intelligence is knowing that even with all your knowledge, you might not be the more suited person for the task at hand. For example, dealing with a tribal spirit without getting the party slaughtered. Here, the barbarian who knows this spirit have more chance to success than the magician who only saw it in books. – Anon Guest

_Knowledge is remembering that tomatoes are a fruit. Intelligence is not making a conserve out of them._ – the wisdom of Tumblr.

"They're just big cats," said the Wizard. "Just remember cat manners and we should be fine." With that in mind, he made a trilling purr noise and offered knuckles for the gigantic feline to sniff.

Unfortunately for the Wizard, they were also Tabaxi Barbarians who understood the Common Tongue. "Puny man try again, puny man get claw in jollies."

This was a cause of great hilarity for Yothar. "Yothar telling Wizard. Wizard learn listen to Yothar, yes?"

"You have an intelligence level of six! You don't know anything from anything!"

"Yothar knowing smart big cats from dumb big cats," said Yothar. "Wizard not."

"Oh, so _you're_ going to negotiate on our behalf?"

"No. Yothar doing much better. Yothar talk peace with cat people."

There was neither a face nor a palm big enough for the facepalm that Wizard Kyggaine needed to happen at that moment.

#  Challenge #050: A Crucial Flaw

" _New Eden Space Station Security Service, I'm listening."_

" _HELP ! WE NEED HELP !"_

" _Please keep calm. What is happening, Sir ?"_

" _We tried to rob Habitat 39 and there is a angry human inside ! We locked ourselves inside a locker, and the human is waiting for us outside !" – Anon Guest_

They tell stories about this kind of thing. People who attempt to be criminal masterminds and end up being criminals missing minds. As in, the right mind not to burgle a Deathworlder habitat zone. As in, one would have to be entirely out of one's own right mind to even try it. You likely get the idea.

Security Officer Draek couldn't believe her ears. "Sir, did you just confess to committing a crime?"

"Attempted," said a voice in the distance. "Attempted crime!" There was a note of urgency in the other speaker's voice. "Please just get us out of here alive and with our dermal layer intact, I swear I will go into a more honest career..."

She had a trace, now. She sent an alert to more local law enforcement and kept the comms line open. "Please remain calm and tell all who are with you to remain calm, please, Sir."

The first speaker said, "Shut it! They're on their way."

The distant companion said, "I never thought I'd be grateful for incarceration. Learn something new every day."

"While we're all waiting for Security Intervention," said Draek, "Can you detail the exact chain of events to the best of your recollection? Please remember that this conversation is being recorded and clear audio is desired in the courts of law."

They say there's no law in the Edge Territories. This is completely wrong. There's a _plethora_ of laws in the Edge. It's just that some of them are ridiculously local and more than a few are very personally enforced with something approaching extreme vengeance.

Even things like, _Don't break into Deathworlder habitats,_ though more of a _suggestion_ and therefore not codified into official law, can be rigidly and ruthlessly enforced if the Deathworlder in question decides to get upset about the entire thing.

"We know that these Humans had come back with a rich haul," began the caller.

Oh dear. That just complicated things. Draek sent a ping to the responding officers. Absolutely Humans Involved. They may not have been the smartest, fastest, most toxic or strongest of the Deathworlder races, but that didn't matter because Humans has a way of grinding at opposition until it was too exhausted to continue. Some actions had a Human following a cogniscent for years, good or ill, to repay what they thought was owed.

Going in against Deathworlders was one thing, but going in against Humans? They would be lucky to escape with mere charges of breaking and entering.

#  Challenge #051: Courage Pour L'enfents

There is no living creature more dangerous than a mother wanting to protect children. Even if the mother is an Havenworlder. – Anon Guest

The UFTP vessel _Vengeance_ tried their best to make it to the Havenworld Yannomar in time. They had pushed everything to the limit, including the Human crew. They had hoped to make it in time to save lives, and found scenes of devastation instead. Too late. The Konthar had already struck, and apparently left the southern continents in ruin.

"Weird that they didn't do the whole planet," noted Jors.

Captain Smith raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Real weird." They opened comms and called down to offer assistance. They hadn't expected an immediate greeting, especially not from the devastated area. They certainly didn't expect any Yanishi to be greeting them with victorious auras about their persons. The whole thing about being covered in Kontharian blood was also a lot of a surprise. By all rights, the Yanishi should have been in dire straits. "Are you... okay down there?"

"Shock supports wearing off," said the caller, "So... not for long. All assistance appreciated. Come soon. Come very soon."

The Humans did that, bringing everything with them that they'd need for helping the frail little lizards through something that -for them- was high-impact dangerous. Full suites of support sarcophagi, calming medication, cleansing equipment... and someone to go through the records and ascertain exactly what had happened on Yannomar when the Konthari had attacked.

They had barged in, as they generally did, with an aim to securing Yanishi eggs for illegal cogniscent trafficking, and found what they thought was an ideal prize - a large communal creche care facility. They expected an easy conquest because Havenworlders were renowned for being fragile.

They didn't bank on encountering a horde of angry mothers and caregivers.

If there is one cosmic rule beyond, _don't ask questions with painful answers,_ it is this: _never ever attempt to separate a child from its primary parental_. It just never ends well in either case.

In this case, the Konthari were routed, a bare handful lucky to escape with their lives and one ship intact. They had no haul with them. The Yanishi survived it all intact, with little else needed but some cleansing and topical medical care. A turn up, as the Humans were wont to say, for the books.

#  Challenge #052: A Critical Lack

" _Talk."_

" _I won't talk even if you torture me."_

" _Then talk or we'll execute the hostages."_

" _If I don't talk you'll execute unarmed civilians, including women and children ?"_

" _Yes !"_

" _That's the first time you're dealing with Humans, right?" – Anon Guest_

"What does that even mean?" Kyarth frowned at the Human Leader. They were captive. They were all captive. Held helpless and under watch by the strongest of the Ryhijov. They were without any kind of escape, any kind of hope. The mightiest of the mighty had brought them all low in a genius surprise attack. They should be trembling in terror and begging for their continued existence.

"You haven't heard about us," said the Human Leader. They had their rubbery, flexible mouth upturned in a manner that displayed their teeth. "Sure, you gave us a bit of a surprise, but we've had time to think, by now. Those of us who can are already working on plans to get the helpless among us out of danger. There's several by now who have plans underway to mess up your crew. They're going to wait until the helpless are free."

"Impossible. We defeated your strongest warriors! You should be intimidated for the rest of your lives!" Kyarth felt a growing rage at the Human Leader's barking. A sign of Human amusement. "You're beaten! We won! We're stronger! We've proved it."

"You're cute," said the Human. "We're not that easily impressed." There was a distant boom. A shaking of the ground under their feet. "Unless explosives are involved."

"How did you get explosives?"

Now the bared teeth showed further. "Made them. Ordinary household chemicals. Common reactions. A little bit of simple chemistry, a lot of disregard for enemy safety... Hell, the hard part is convincing the little ones to not play too."

A cascade of alarming snapping noises. Kyarth turned away for just a second, and when they turned back, the Human Leader was free from their bonds, upright, and had possession of the guard's stunner gun.

"Of course," said the Human, "kids can be real helpful." Then they fired.

Kyarth woke up in a room with eighty percent of their crew. Defeated and overthrown. The Humans watching them never dropped their guard. Not for an instant. They didn't look away. They didn't relax. They never assumed that their former captors were definitively defeated. Kyarth didn't get it. They _were_ defeated. Yet the Humans had not remained defeated.

Kyarth and his crew passed their time in submissive obedience. Somewhere, wheels were turning and Kyarth expected them to grind them to powder soon enough. Eventually, the Humans took him away to a very similar room where the roles were reversed.

"Why?" said the Human Leader. "There's been no conspiracies, no plots, no attempts... why are every single one of you just... waiting?"

"We're defeated," answered Kyarth. "You have proven yourselves the victors. There is no point in resistance."

The Human snorted. "If we thought like that we'd have never got up to the stars."

#  Challenge #053: Hardy Malone and the Mystery Missive

The letter appeared on her homework desk, under her second-hand typewriter.

" _Nanna! You said you changed things, and I told you to do something about it, and go read the papers from 1940 onwards. And you'll need 10 pounds to buy that chest in the Junk shop."_

" _But! But I'm 14 and still in school!" -Inspired by Casandre Jones. –_ Knitnan

The letter was printed, and not by any means that she recognised. It certainly hadn't come from her typewriter. Her letter T was slightly off kilter and the commas always had an extra blob from the key strike. These letters were far too regular, and the paper... Something about it was subtly frightening. Something... more.

It was too white. Too smooth. Too thick. It was almost not of this world. It wasn't addressed to Polly-Anne or her preferred short form of Pol. It was addressed to Nanna. Which really was odd because... well... she was fourteen. Then there was the matter of ten pounds and the chest in the junk shop. Pol had neither ten pounds nor any idea about the chest in the junk shop. Then there was the overall scolding tone of the note. As if whoever wrote it - made it? - was disappointed that Pol was late in accomplishing some secret mission.

Pol thought about the whole thing on her walk to school. She didn't have a bicycle because Papa thought that proper girls had no business using them. Bicycles and the riding thereof, he said, caused proper girls to begin improper habits[9], though he never said exactly how. In fact, Pol had begun to wonder if she should try riding a bicycle to see what improper habits they might engender. Then there was the matter of ten pounds and the junk shop. _What_ junk shop?

The answer came as she passed the vacant lot where the greasers hung out to menace proper girls. A building had sprung up over the holidays and was now promising a thrift shop in the next few days. A delivery van had stopped at the back and two men were struggling with... what looked like a pirate chest. Pol thought, _Holy shit..._ and immediately chastised herself into outright mortification because she'd thought a rude word. Papa would take his belt off for her if he ever knew...

The same traitorous part of her thought, _How could he know?_ and Pol tried to silence it, jogging a little faster towards school. Trying to focus on the matters of the day. Trying to be a proper young lady. She failed. Every spare moment, she had to wonder about the note she'd tucked into her underpants to keep it from prying eyes. Every time she visited the bathroom, she took it out to look at it. Letters too sharp. Paper too pale. It didn't seem like a real thing, yet there it was... persistently existing in her hands and as an uncomfortable crinkle hear her navel.

Her cafeteria lunch was minimal, that day, and hurriedly eaten in a mostly-unladylike manner. Nineteen-forty. What was so important about nineteen-forty? She'd turned four years old, but there was something... else. Something important had happened in the ten intervening years and her mysterious note-writer had wanted her to catch up. Therefore, Pol took herself to the library with a fresh notebook and a pencil to go through all the periodicals. Well. The newspapers.

Papa insisted that proper ladies didn't need to bother with the newspapers, but some of the stuff in these yellowing pages was stuff she was studying in class. She took notes. Not just of that, but also of anything she thought she might be able to influence: local news, personals, births (though it made her blush), and advertising in the for sale section. Pol found herself reading quickly to get the bones of the issue. Writing quickly to get those bones into her journal.

She put the mystery note in there, too. Used it as a bookmark.

Pol realised, late into her lunch break, that there were patterns of events in the back pages. Little articles buried in the dull pages without even illustrated advertising or fancy letters. The dull stuff like interesting mineral deposits connecting to a sudden 'new money' socialite and then to nuclear testing in the remote areas of South Australia. Other patterns emerged in the personals. Secret messages that were largely ignored because they were in fine print and buried in the areas where nobody would look.

She was late to Home Economics, that day, but Mrs Penderghast didn't mind it. All Pol had to say was that she got caught up in Periodicals and no more needed to be mentioned. That afternoon, after all the classes were done, she borrowed a book on secret messages from the library and hid it amongst her textbooks with her journal. The chest was not in the window of the thrift shop, but rather an interesting display of china tchotchkes and the promise that the place was 'opening soon'.

As she passed it, someone added a card in the window. _Help Wanted_.

Pol would never know what inspired her to turn and knock on the door, _Papa would yell for sure..._ but she did, and kept her books as a shield between her chest and the kindly-looking older man who answered. She stumbled her way through, "I saw your sign and I was hoping to earn some... pin money? After School? I could sweep the floors and order the shelves and I can type..."

"Know how to run a till?"

"Not yet," she said. "Is it harder than a typewriter?"

"Don't reckon so, 's got less keys to press and no little flippy things to catch. Could teach you, pretty easy."

"When do I start?"

"Teach you t'morry afternoon," he said. "Start workin' next mundy. Long as you come with a note from y'r mother sayin' it's okay."

Now that was a tremendous relief. Papa always said a lady had no business working. All she needed was a man to care for her. Mama, on the other hand... she was getting ideas from the wrong kinds of magazines. She didn't mind a girl earning pin money, so long as she also maintained a good schooling and never went into the back room.

Rebelling was starting to feel a lot easier than she'd thought. Besides, she was fourteen. Being a rebellious teenager was almost expected. Besides, getting a job to supply herself with proper ladylike things (allegedly) would show good moral character and allow her to be pickier with choosing the right kind of man to look after her.

That's what she'd argue if Papa ever found out.

What was happening to her? One little bit of strange paper with funny typesetting and she was plotting revolution against the man who had paid for her entire upbringing. _And whipped her with his belt when she set a foot wrong. And yelled at her if she had a different viewpoint, and threatened her with being abandoned on a lonely highway for the greasers to eat alive if she had one single accident..._

Having a little extra pin money sounded like a sound investment if she was going to be left for the greasers, anyway.

Mr Anders, who ran the thrift shop, had started it because he purchased an old house where the former owner had never thrown a thing away. In the process, he had unearthed a lot of things with incidental value. He didn't mind Pol studying between customers and the customers didn't seem to mind, either.

Pol had to wear an apron for work and generally set her hankie on the stool behind the counter so she could avoid embarrassing dust prints on her skirt. The chest, lurking in a dingy corner of the shop, was available for ten pounds and solidly locked. She'd asked about it three days in and Mr Anders was good enough to let her have it on lay-away against her wages. At two shillings, eight and a half pence per hour, and two hours worked per diem...

She could have the chest in five weeks with a shilling and five pence left over. Though the Lord alone knew how she planned to get the thing home and out of Papa's notice after _that_. Perhaps enlisting Mama's assistance and getting Mr Anders to deliver it before Papa came home. He never went into the basement, but... Pol had the feeling that once it got into the basement, it would never come out again.

In the meantime, Pol was learning a lot about cyphers and decoding the secret messages in the personals. Some were so alarming that she mailed anonymous warnings to the relevant police and hoped for the best. Since she was a fan of the Hardy Boys and the Amazing Mr Malone, she signed them as Hardy Malone and sent them off without a return address. Whether or not anything came of it, she wouldn't know. Not for months.

The important part, for her, was the chest.

Five weeks' worth of pay later, and one heart-stopping near-adventure where Mr Anders' truck drove off mere minutes before Papa came home... Pol was next faced with the problem of how to open a lock without a key. Fortunately, nobody enquired very much about a young lady purchasing a set of files on her way to school because her afternoon job kept her out of the shops in the evenings. They just assumed the tools were for her father.

It was ludicrously easy to let people assume things. Not telling the entire truth was easier than lying, that was for certain. And what she was up to was certainly a patch healthier than -say- taking up smoking. So what if Papa assumed she was designing fashions and sewing down in the basement? She was certainly doing that... too.

The rest of it involved fishing the newspaper out of the rubbish bin in the evenings and dutifully copying every suspect message in there into her journal before putting it back out.

The lock finally broke as April heralded the winter. It did not contain pirate treasure. It contained... ninety percent of a bicycle, some very interesting tools, some even more interesting books, and a pattern for some knickerbocker pants that she could easily conceal under her skirt and petticoats. There were also some spats that could keep her bobby socks free of incriminating grease marks.

In one of the books was another slip of paper. A familiar type of paper with the familiar too-straight typesetting and awkward turns of phrase.

You took your time, Nanna. That can't be helped. Beware of Officer Janstone, he is not as friendly as he seems. Talk to Sgt Lister when he turns up. Mr Anders will help you with the rest of the bicycle, and Danny next door won't mind minding it for you in his shed.

Danny next door. Interesting. The last time she'd spoken to Danny next door, she'd been told off for helping him catch pollywogs in the local pond - decidedly unladylike behaviour. Danny was working for a mechanic closer to town, and therefore grudgingly awarded status as a young man with promise. Papa wouldn't much mind her talking to him now and again, so long as they stood two feet apart and kept their hands behind their backs.

The first thing she did was get a new lock for the chest. It seemed like the best place to keep her secrets, since Papa went through her diary once a month.

The next morning, she passed by an interesting poster on the community notice board. A reward of one hundred pounds for anyone with information leading to the identity of one Hardy Malone. Closer examination revealed that enquiries had to go through Officer Janstone. Huh. Not likely. She'd bide her time and keep her work to herself until Sergeant Lister showed up.

This afternoon, she had to talk to a man about a bicycle. With that, she could have greater range, and with her wages, she could purchase newspapers or anything else she needed without having to fret about Papa finding out through idle gossip. And anyway, with the knickerbockers on and the skirt and petticoats in a satchel, with her hair up in a cap, people were wont to mistake her for a boy.

Papa hadn't noticed anything amiss at all. With luck, he wouldn't do so for quite a long time. With help from her mysterious benefactor, he certainly wouldn't.

By the time the Hardy Malone Detective Agency went public... the entire world would have changed. All because Pol was changing it. First by finding spies and saboteurs, then by finding criminals, and reporting them anonymously to the police.

[9] Horrible History moment - Men frowned on women riding bicycles in the late 19th and early 20th centuries because of the aforementioned 'improper habits'. In this case, it was wearing knickerbockers, going wherever they pleased, and reading things that men hadn't previewed. They also held that riding bicycles may -possibly through sympathetic magic- cause lesbianism or otherwise supplant a woman's "need for a man". You may now roll your eyes and sigh at their folly. Variants of this belief existed right up until the 1970's but usually manifested as the meme, "Bicycles are for boys."

#  Challenge #054: Made Outta Ticky Tacky

Yet another 'Wonderful Scheme' that was going to make life easier, Might have worked if they'd only listened instead of hiring a "well-known designer." – Anon Guest

Here's why planned community spaces suck: they're always designed by an older, able-bodied man who is more concerned with aesthetics than practicality. In order to be a Name in the business, they design for beauty in mind. Unfortunately, beauty is both blind and deaf to the needs of anyone not fit, young, or adult.

Stairs installed to improve the fitness of those using a space tend to ignore those who need wheels to get around, or those who cannot lift their legs easily to reach the next riser of a staircase. Bike paths are hazards to those who do not have the wherewithal to ride a bicycle, but still have to use those paths for travel because they cannot or do not own a car. High hedges on the sides of streets may be pretty, but they also block the view of people lower down - in both directions.

Further to the need for aesthetics over practicality - men can pee literally anywhere they find convenient. Thusly, a Name designer of beauteous spaces gives no thought to those with smaller bladders or an extended need for privacy because eliminating body waste includes partial undressing and re-dressing or, indeed, lifting their entire body from one support structure to another. Men are not expected to care for small children, so amenities like Parent's Rooms or changing stations are sparse, if they exist at all. Of these simple things, of these missing things, failures are made. Which was why Sandra had to speak up about this latest in a long line of horrible community centres.

She said, "What about the kids, elderly, and disabled people?" she said.

"What about them?" said the Name designer, thus displaying his casual disregard for thought.

"This _is_ a community space," she said. "What about all the demographics _in_ the community? Young families, grandparents... people who can't walk as fast as -say- you? Where do the kids play?"

For the first time, the Name looked at the little model of white plastic and doll-sized trees. "There's a play park ten blocks down the road..."

"Ten blocks," said Sandra. "Do you know how hard it is to get a toddler to travel ten blocks? Ten blocks with no parking and no public toilets? Do you know how much trouble that would be for a mother who's also pregnant? Or how bad those walkways are for people on wheelchairs? Did you do a study on the crosswalk availability and time given to use them?"

"There's no need to be hysterical about it," said the Head Man.

"I've kept my voice level throughout, sir," said Sandra. "You don't want this space to be a billion-dollar failure any more than the board or the financiers do. I'm merely pointing out some design flaws in this proposal."

"But this looks perfect," said another man who would be making the decisions.

"I know this is hard for you to understand," she said, "but looks really aren't everything." Sandra got subsequently ousted from the meeting and fired from her job. She expected it. A room full of egotistical men don't like being told that they are wrong, no matter how polite you may be at telling them.

But that was okay. She used her severance pay to place a long-term wager on the stock market that the community centre project would be an abysmal failure and a waste of time, money, and effort. She could wait.

And when she was right, as she predicted she would be, she used the money to buy out the company who had fired her. Then, she hired experts to actually consult with the communities they were designing for. Including the children who would be living there. That would be just the first of her multi-billion-dollar successes.

#  Challenge #055: Meeting Space

What if, to some aliens, the human race were their version of actual Orcs. As in; Mythical evil monsters that are virtually indestructible, can travel any terrain, near impossible to kill and, when in a large group, destroy/devour everything in their wake? – Amberfox

[AN: I don't hold that any particular species is _evil_ per se. They merely have oppositional goals to everyone else]

Humans are basically unkillable. They can withstand temperatures both hotter and colder than proper species. They can eat poison, and often do so for fun. They have consumed the bodies of their own dead. They have tests of strength on the anniversary of their births that involve saving their food from controlled fires. _They play with fire!_ They laugh in the face of destruction, and even find it entertaining. Violence comes so naturally to them that it is even in their entertainments for their young.

The leading cause of death for Humans is other Humans. Therefore, if there are two within sight of each other, it was reasonable to use the distraction to escape. This was good reasoning and Thagaash endorsed it. However, there was only one route of escape and it was _between_ the deadly hazardous Deathworlders. The next best course of action was to stay as sheltered as possible and hope that these two would kill each other. Or, at the very least, that one would kill the other and leave itself incapacitated enough to allow Thagaash to escape.

Thagaash tried not to think, _They can follow you for lengthy periods, slowly catching up. They will follow any trace of a trail. They can follow animals to death... They could follow me to death._ Instead, ze tried to think, _I am not important. I'm just a piece of debris. Look, I'm not even moving._ Could they see things that were very still? He knew he should never make direct eye contact or look directly at them.

They were shouting at each other and making aggressive gestures. Good. Thagaash kept his vision trained on a nearby chink in the floor plating and only watched through the peripheral awareness of their movement. They were circling each other as they barked their alien words. Posturing, no doubt, to display who was the stronger. Then one lunged and scooped up the other, wheeling them around as they both continued their barking calls. It was terrifying how long the battle lasted. Minutes of grappling and barking.

Then... oddly, the one lifting the other put their opponent down. Their mutual volume decreased, as did the notes of aggression. Was this actually a mating display? Thagaash couldn't read their new postures as easily, now that hostilities had ceased. They were still baring their teeth at each other, still making their sounds, but.... It wasn't hostile?

In a few more moments, they were walking off together, each holding the other across their upper torsos.

Thagaash waited until their voices dropped to a more comfortable volume and took his chance, dashing past the corridor they went down and running as fast as he could for his little scouter vessel. As soon as he was safely away, this part of his astral map would be marked with a warning for all travellers. _Here, there be Humans._

"There they go," cooed Yaz. "Scuttle, scuttle, scuttle."

"Off to the wild black yonder," murmured Dav. "Whaddaya say? Give 'em half an hour and then we take this bucket apart for all we can find? Split the haul?"

"Might as well take an hour and smoko," breezed Yaz. "Takes us that long to catch up. So. How are the kids?"

"Aw mate. My little Tilli is gonna be an astrophysicist. Get this, right? They had peeled a tub of hard-frozen ice-cream and strung it up, and they were aiming a laser at it."

"Homemade comet? Aw, that's a classic. Ten times better than baking soda volcanoes..."

#  Challenge #056: Before You Can Fly

Hope may be the wings,

but courage is the belief

you were born to fly.

~Tyler Knott Gregson – Anon Guest

Is there any greater motivation to the heart, mind, and soul than the words, _you can't_? The tinkerer known as Steelfoot didn't think so. She lost her feet to the cruelest winter that had ever cursed the northlands, and her legs below the knee with them. She was told she would never walk, she would never run.

She studied the metalworkers in the forges and made her first feet, then studied mathematics and natural philosophy and made herself springs that made her run faster than any horse. She worked for years on clever connections that meant she could swap out her legs in only minutes.

When her eyes began to fail at looking further, she made clever sets of lenses on hinged frames. Levers and latches that could keep them in place. Some children called her 'the insect' and many said she would never marry. You can't marry a freak like that. It's unthinkable. As unthinkable as a woman going adventuring. You can't do that. What about the men who are incapable of looking after themselves and the children you're expected to bear?

Steelfoot went adventuring anyway. It was much more fun than listening to people telling her what she couldn't do. Far more profitable, too. Hanging around in a workshop or storefront and waiting for other adventurers to come by... that didn't seem like the way to go. Too many chances for boredom mixed with too many opportunities for the villagers to tell her that she can't do the things she loved the most.

Coming back to the village, to her workshop and house, where they could catch up with their allotment of haranguing, wasn't exactly a bowl of figs, either. Therefore she crafted up her Mobile Laboratory, her mechanical steed, and left the little town of closed minds forever.

"You can't leave," they said. "What if someone needs you?"

"For what?" she demanded. "Being told how every one of my choices is wrong? No thanks." She left anyway, with nobody trying very hard to keep her there. No outcries of _please stay_ , but plenty of _you can't_.

It was in the Mines of Malthoria that she met Marvin. Washed into the wrong part of the labyrinthine tunnels and winding her clockwork lantern to see how bad the damage was. He came, following her soft curses, with Light cast onto the end of a broken-off stalactite. Other figures were there in the darkness. Glowing eyes at varying heights. They were almost a joke party. _An Elf, a Kobold, a Tabaxi and a Human walk into a bar..._

Still, she didn't know what their motives were and experience points told her that caution was the best. It also told her that her Roman Candle Gonne was likely the best of her gizmos to still be operational. Five shots of flaming phosphorus per round aught to make them all think twice. "Let's talk in a calm and reasonable fashion and nobody try any horseshit," she warned. "These things all work in spite of Dispel Magic." Which was the truth. They didn't need to know that they might not work after a thorough soaking.

All four of them made sure they were inside the light. "Peace, please," said the Human. "We heard you cursing and came to see what the trouble was. That's all."

"What happened to your feet?"

She glanced, aim never wavering, and -aw crap- her left Auto-piton climbing claw was almost completely shredded. She sighed. "That's what I get for building delicate mechanisms so I can put 'em through a pair of trousers..." she grumbled. "Gotta learn to put my feet on _after_ I get flamin' dressed..." Good thing she had long ago learned to do foot swaps left-handed. She kept her aim true as she fumbled with her pack and brought out the left runner foot. Unscrewed the ruined climbing claw, and screwed on the simple spring with a rubber pad on the bottom that almost doubled her move. Not that that would count for much with mixed feet. Still, she could stand without having to fret about fatal structure flaws, and soon did so.

All four of them had their gazes riveted on her feet. She never bothered hiding them any more and usually kept to sturdy versions of knickerbockers to keep the fleshy parts of her legs protected from the elements.

"Draw a portrait, it'll last longer."

She expected a flood of apologies. She expected some mortification. What she got was awe and excitement.

"Those. Are. _Amazing_!" The Human announced. "That has to be Kraghammer steel for the spring... is it re-enforced with Starmetal? And is that a Teslan magnetic auto-hammer on your piton extension? That has to pack a punch if you use it to kick someone."

The Kobold was next to speak. "I see you're already adept at overcoming obstacles," she introduced herself as Lady Anthe, and the others as Marvin, Wraithvine, and Rumtum Taigr. "We... need... adventurers like you. I presume you're proficient with Tinker's Tools?"

Steelfoot lowered her guard. "My home village of idiots called me Steelfoot so long, I think I've forgotten my real name. What's the pay like?"

"Terrible," said Rumtum.

"A fair share of the loot and you get to call dibs on anything you can demonstrate as useful," said Lady Anthe. "We're on the trail of a death cult that's stolen a village's worth of children. You in?"

Well. They'd already won points by not saying the words, _you can't_. Given the choice, she'd much rather be given the choice. "Count me in, but most of my gear is in a wagon back up out that way," she pointed up the tunnel by which she entered.

Wraithvine left a magical mark and said, "That will aid us later. Do you need anything for now?"

"Nothing that a rest's worth of tinkering can't cure. Let's get on with it."

No comments about her limp. No assumptions about what she needed help with. Occasional offers to point out ores in the tunnels. A team of misfits eager to welcome yet another misfit. Steelfoot smiled. She could get to like these people.

#  Challenge #057: Slow Progress

Being an anxious over-thinker is hard. You usually scare yourself. – Anon Guest

Why, oh why, did clinging to the very bottom rung of the social ladder feel like hanging desperately from a trapeze... roughly a hundred Sidu's up[10] and with no safety net? CL-3 tried not to hyperventilate and faint -again- as things continued to deviate from her expected norm. Not that she had been much better within her expected norm, but at least there was a routine. Everything changed into certain uncertainty when the soldiers came.

They had come during free play, a time in which CL-3 attempted to hide in one of the cubbies from the bigger, meaner girls and play quietly with a stuffed poppet. She had screamed as the big suits came crashing through the ceiling and huddled up over her toy baby as they made loud noises. She'd wet herself when the big, armoured hands scooped her out of the cubby and carried her to a pod. The mean girls had laughed.

This wasn't like the other times, when she was told to walk along a path in her underthings, turn around, and go back. She wasn't going to be Selected. This was different. She was Taken. Admittedly, she was taken to a place with much warmer rooms, softer beds, and nice colours, but it was too different. There were no pictures on the walls with helpful signs of what was right and what was wrong. Green ticks with arrows showing the picture of the reward. Red crosses with arrows showing the punishment. There was no right way. There was no wrong way, and CL-3 now lived in a permanent haze of fear.

Well. She had _before_ , but the difference now was in the sharpness of it. In the unfamiliar twist added to the familiar. There were still rooms, but there were no roommates. No three other people for midnight whispers or to hold when the dreams went bad. Everything was so clean that CL-3 was afraid to touch it.

She had a bed, a desk, a chair, and a little room off to the side with the necessities. There was also a mysterious white tub dominating a corner. It was big enough to lay down in with room to spare. More than enough room for a grown one to do the same. CL-3 was too scared to touch it, lest she get punished for doing it wrong. She was too scared to _not_ ask permission to use the necessities. There were no voices or chimes to tell her what to do and when. There were no guards with big guns patrolling the upper levels. There were no upper levels.

There were, however, the soft people. People who talked in quiet voices and offered choices that CL-3 was too scared to take. People who told her things. Things like, "These are vegetables," or, "This is meat," or, "This is gelatine." They'd use strange words like 'broccoli' or 'carrots' or 'beef' or 'strawberry flavour' or 'mango flavour'. Then they'd ask her what she wanted. They were not like the grown ones who came to Select. They didn't grab and drag. They asked if things were _okay_.

On the seventh day of this, the softest person came. Big and lumpy and looking like she was made out of pillows and stuffing, wearing red, like all the other soft people, but this one was all... wavy. Wavy and soft and very, very careful. CL-3 flinched in spite of herself.

"It's all right," cooed the Softest. "I'd like to talk with you, if that's okay."

CL-3 didn't know what 'okay' was.

"I won't hurt you. I won't touch you. You're going to be okay. It's all right."

'Right' was a word she knew. CL-3 felt her breathing become so much easier. "I'm... right?"

"Yes," said the Softest. "The talking room is over there. Would you like a hand to hold on the way?" She offered it.

CL-3 shrank in on herself, protecting the only thing that had come from her former residence, the toy baby. "What's right?"

"Whatever you choose is right," said the Softest. "There aren't any bad choices if you're not hurting anyone."

Every word made sense on its own, but together? CL-3 couldn't figure it out. The Softest wanted her in the talking room, so CL-3 went there. Choosing whether or not to hold a hand... there had to be a right choice. "There _has_ to be a right choice," she said out loud. "There's always a right choice."

"Do you think you're going to hurt anyone by holding my hand?"

CL-3 shook her head.

"Do you think you're going to hurt anyone by _not_ holding my hand?"

Again, she had to shake her head.

"Then they're both right choices. You can choose. It's... right." Again, the Softest offered an open palm. "I promise I won't hold any harder than you hold."

Heart pounding in her chest, CL-3 stood from her huddle and laid her hand cautiously on top of the Softest's, who smiled.

"Thank you for trusting me," said the Softest.

Inside the Talking Room were a lot of soft things. Everything in this place was soft. There were lumps with fuzzy stuff. Lumps with loops. Lumps that were just... lumps. Big pillows and a squishy, soft floor and soft walls and... A cubby! CL-3 took her hand from the Softest and dove for the shelter of the small, pink box with her toy tight in one arm. Sure, the light could come through the pink walls and ceiling, but she felt so much better with the walls around her.

Outside of the cubby, the Softest laid down so that they were eye-to-eye. "It's right to want to feel safe," she said. "We want you to feel safe. We'd also like it if you talked to us. Is that... right... with you?"

She almost nodded, but she feared the punishment that would happen if she did that, so she managed a strangled, "...'es."

"Okay," cooed the Softest. "My name is Mbali. Do you know your name?"

Three deep breaths, this was something more familiar. "Girl, serial number WY-9 TT-J CL-3 reporting for roll! SIR!"

The Softest had flinched at that. Her dark eyes were... sad? But CL-3 had been _good_. That was what she was supposed to do... wasn't it? "Do the other girls call you something shorter?"

CL-3 nodded. Everyone used the last element of their serial. "CL-3," she murmured.

"Okay. Right. Is it right with you if I call you 'Ciel'?"

There were no others who used the CL- serial. She nodded.

There had been a surface in this soft room that was harder than everything else. Rectangular sheets of white had laid on it and so had sticks of colour. The Softest - Mbali - took one of each, a sheet of white and a stick of blue and made shapes. "See," she said. "Eye... Ee... El. Ciel." She held up the shapes so CL-3 could see. "Does that look right?"

They made no sense to CL-3, but nodded anyway. Dared to reach out and touch them in the way the shapes had flowed from the stick. Curves like the soft people. Straight lines like the way things were meant to be. "Ciel," she whispered. Then retreated back into the cubby.

Mbali left the paper and the shapes just outside the little hole in the pink cube that was the only way in or out. "You can keep it if you want. It's right."

CL-3 almost took it. Then she remembered just in time that red was the 'no' colour. Doing things in the red cross pictures meant punishment. Were the soft people in red because they were bad?

Some little light dawned in those sad, dark eyes. "Is red a wrong colour?"

She had to nod. Of course it was. It was always wrong.

"Can you show me the right colour, please?" Mbali sort of... rolled out of the way, so CL-3 had an easy path to the colour sticks. "I want to learn what's right."

Oh. So they weren't bad. They were just stupid. All the same, CL-3 needed a lot of deep breaths to leave the cubby and pick up a stick of green. Then, on a new sheet, she drew the best tick she could possibly make. Big and thick with all the straightest lines her shaking hands could create. Then she announced, "I need the necessities."

"You can go," said Mbali. "I'll be learning. Thank you."

Ciel's green tick joined about a hundred others from a hundred other girls. "This is how they were shown right from wrong," said Counselor Mbali Ngo. "Of course they're afraid of us. We're in the wrong colour. We've marked ourselves as bad people before we walked in the door."

Counsellor Chen Hersch nodded. "We'll work on their fear of red, later. For now... solutions. I'm thinking we change our uniforms for in-house care to green. Let the botanical department know, of course. I think a tick motif would be overplaying it, but that's just me."

"No, it's me, too," said Counsellor Kira. "Green... fine. We could plausibly pick a green similar to this nauseatingly intense green they've all used and leave it at that."

"Practically glows in the dark," said Counsellor Mbali. "I don't mind being visibly good to these kids. As long as it gets them out of the hell inside their heads."

"From your lips to the Powers' ears," sighed Counsellor Chen.

It was never easy reforming young ladies who came from places like that. One day, they hoped and prayed, there would be an end to them. All of them would be grateful to be out of that particular line of work.

[10] Sidu - pronounced 'sid-oo', slang form of 'Standard Distance Unit', which is roughly a meter in length.

#  Challenge #058: All Hail the Weird Ones

An entire planet seems to be "astronomical at best." – Anon Guest

Aargus 6F is one of the weirder planets to evolve cogniscent life. Their parental gas giant, Aargus 6, is far out of the 'Goldilocks Zone', yet tidal forces caused by the orbit in combination with a rotating iron core have caused the planet to be warm enough to host life.

The skies are almost always dark on Aargus 5F, when they are not dominated by their parental gas giant, which takes up a good quarter of the visible sky in the correct conditions. The distant sun is not important in their general cosmology, since to them, it is no more than a very bright star. Indeed, the hypothesis that _it_ was the source of illumination for Aargus 6 was hotly debated for eons amongst the populace.

There is, however, something to be said for the ability to look up at any time and see the workings of the cosmos. Generations made myths to explain the bodies in the sky, why neighbouring moons of Aargus 6 only appeared at certain intervals. Why the obscuring mass of Aargus 6 showed itself in different aspects, and so on. The Aargosians developed the magnifying lens and used it to notice things. Things beneath them as well as above.

Thus, an astonishing majority of Aargus 6F is devoted to telescopes that can operate for every hour of their day. Curiosity and discovery have long outstripped myth and legend, and the very real possibility of other worlds like theirs had them pushing towards space exploration. With a seemingly infinite sky to taunt them, moving up into it seemed like a natural progression.

They were quite a shock to the residents of Aargus 3. In fact, the residents of Aargus 3 were also quite a surprise to them. Egocentric speculation had lead both to believe that it was impossible for life to exist outside of environments off their own. They learned quickly, though, and numerous conspiracy theorists had to have some theories shot down because living proof was, astronomically speaking, right next door.

Of course there were some battles. Two different civilisations rarely meet without some form of conflict. Rare, indeed, is the polity that meets another with open arms and friendly intent. Nevertheless, Aargus 3 and Aargus 6F found that they benefited from each other's experience, knowledge, and insight.

They were among the first to suggest that peaceable accord might bring further advancement to mutually agreeable polities and, indeed, were among the founding members of the Galactic Alliance.

Without an entire planet's devotion to astronomy, history would have been an entirely different shape. Raise your glasses, then, to Aargus 6F, most astronomical planet in the known universe... and surely, the best of us.

#  Challenge #059: Hunter Hunted

Some Havenworlders and some Humans are playing Cops and Robbers as a training exercise and the Havenworlders quickly learn that Humans can control their predictory aura, by either increasing it to a degree that it would make even a Vorax run in fear or decrease it to the point of nonexistence. And the worst part is that the humans aren't even aware of it. – Chara Dremmurr

Humans have _so_ many games that hinge around the core mechanic of 'chase and symbolically kill the other guy'. There's sub-variants, including 'track down and..." as well as "evade detection in order to...", but the most common version is 'chase', and appears in almost all Human sports with more than two players.

This variant is called 'Cops and Robbers', and involves pseudo-hunter 'Cops' attempting to capture the clever-prey 'Robbers' who also have to infiltrate a base and covertly acquire a goal object. The hunters hunt, of course, and the prey have to avoid the notice of the hunters. Some are naturally better at this than others.

It took Frin some time to notice what the Humans were doing. Certainly, her species was improving at stealth and stealth games thanks to their exposure to Humans, but... This was something else. A Human in 'hunter mode' had something... else... about them. Call it an aura. Call it a sub-telepathic field. Call it a vibe. Whatever the true word for it was... these Humans were controlling it.

Humans could deceive, and deceive very, very well. They could lie so well with their bodies and voices that they developed it into a literal art called 'acting'. There were other, more subtle ways to tell if a Human were 'acting', but this was something new. These mock-hunters were disguising their own hunter-mode.

They did not walk silently, as moving patches of silence were something that prey evolved to pick up on. Rather, they moved in such a way as to become _background noise_. All whilst casually watching their surroundings for any hint of movement, any trace of their prey. Not looking directly at anything at all, but... scanning.

Searching in general for what might be amiss rather than a predatorial seeking out of the outlier. The latter would have definitely set off something in Frin's senses.

They were right underneath her. Well. One of them was.

_Don't look directly at them..._ Carefully, Frin readied herself. The one she had targeted (looking at the floor by their feet) had paused whilst the others walked cautiously ahead. Some variant of their thin-slicing 'sixth sense' told this one that quarry was near.

_NOW!_ Frin dropped onto them, making them jump and shout, but it was already too late. This Human was symbolically 'killed' and therefore out. What was that phrase of theirs? Ah, yes. "Bang, bang; you're dead."

"You sneaky little dinosaur," laughed the Human Zane approvingly. "I didn't even know you were there."

"I, too, did not know you were there," said Frin. "You even conceal your predatory presence. I find that very interesting."

Human Zane blinked at her. "We're doing what now?"

It would take hours to explain.

#  Challenge #060: If You Want the Rainbow

A Havenworlder sees for the first time, a Rainbow on Earth. He tells his species and Earth becomes suddenly more attractive. – Anon Guest

Rykki often wondered why she had come to Earth. There was something morbidly fascinating about the Deathworlder's cradle planet. As if going there could verify why the Humans had been so keen on leaving it. So far, Rykki's leading theory was - the weather.

It had been raining hard enough to frighten Rykki, but her guide, Human Joff, had assured her that this was 'pretty strong, but not the worst' that they had seen. Deathworlders. They made small business out of enormous things. The mere idea of some downfall _worse_ than the one she was witnessing almost sent her into conniptions.

The rain eased off from its relentless assault on the roof windows. Eased off from falling audibly at all. Hints of sunshine started to light the precipitation in shades of gold. Human Joff smiled. "Aw yes. It's happening," they said.

Rykki didn't get much of a chance to ask what was happening, because Human Joff was already outside the domicile and looking up into the sky. "Oooh, it's a big fat one. Come and see, Rik."

She made certain she had her protective gear on. This was, after all, a Deathworld. Even if it was a relatively civilised portion of it, it was still a relatively civilised portion of a world out to murder everything that lived on it.

"Up there," Human Joff pointed.

Spread across the sky was a projection of the local star's visible spectrum. A graceful curve with every colour as clear as crystal. Only an illusion, but a natural one, and evidently a source of awe in Humans all over this murderous world. It was not an unusual phenomenon. Refraction happened on every planet with a hydrologic cycle. This, somehow, was more amazing for the near catastrophe that Rykki had survived.

She wrote home about it. Using words she didn't know she could string together in order to describe the complete experience. Not just the rainbow, but the rain that preceded it. To survive one earned the spectacle and wonder of the other. It seemed... fair.

What Rykki could never have known is how that particular letter would go viral through assorted populations of Havenworlders. Copied, shared, spread across the Alliance. Nor could she have anticipated how Havenworlders wishing to edge their genetics towards stronger stock would soon come flocking towards any area of Earth that anticipated rain.

She would never have predicted the amazing trend of the Rainbow Path to epigenetic strengthening of Havenworlder stock, or how much the Terran Tourism Board profited from a single letter home.

The Terran Tourism Board did, after some significant prompting, give Rykki a percentage of their net profits that could be traced back to her initial letter home.

#  Challenge #061: They're Best Friends

Human survives horrible maiming, torture, excessive bleeding, battle wounds like a split skull etc. and Havenworlder doctor is completely scared of a being that laughs in the face of death, is even victorious (in wiping out the enemy), and survives wounds, which should be definitely fatal. – Anon Guest

Human Stef was leaking again. There was a ten centidu[11] gash along the exposed flesh of her arm and some of the effluvium had had time to form a flaky crust. Doctor Leez'yun shrank away the instant ze noticed. "Keep your biological pathogens to yourself!"

"Huh? Human Stef looked at her forearm."Oh shit. When did that happen?" She dug a biotainment bandage out of her preparedness pack and added it to the injury, rubbing it over so that the heat from friction would aid in its bonding to her skin. Next, she checked on her data reader for any places on her day's path where she might have leaked onto an otherwise safe surface. "All clear. I didn't leak on anything or anyone else but me."

"A wound like that is a serious injury," lectured Dr Leez'yun. "The blood loss alone is..." ze trailed off. This was, after all, a Human. "It's hazardous to your fellow crewmates. Your blood is highly toxic and belongs inside you."

"I'll be more careful about monitoring minor injuries on board," Human Stef vowed. "And outside. And anywhere but strictly Deathworlder-only environments." It was the drone that she used, as if she was bored by the entire thing, that irritated Leez'yun.

"You Humans are more trouble than you're worth," ze growled. "Going into battle half-cocked, recklessly attacking everything that moves, _leaking_..."

"Hey, I make sure my implants are– wait. No. You're talking about the cut. Right. Carry on carrying on."

"And then there's your indifference to even the most reasonable requests to keep yourself and this crew actually _safe_..."

Human Stef grinned. "Admit it. You actually love me."

"There is absolutely no affection here! If I could exchange you for a more cautious space marine, I'd do it in a cold second!"

That was what ze said, and ze meant it at the time. Then came the spectacular incident involving thorny underbrush, some minor-to-humans poisons, and a ravenous beast that decided Leez'yun's fellow Hyxirians were tasty.

Human Stef hadn't given a single thought to standing in its way and literally beating it into submission. Her stunner had had no effect on it, so she picked up rocks and deadfalls and literally hammered at it until everyone but herself was safe. She'd collapsed from her injuries on the way back up to the _Star Sniffer_ , and dragged into Leez'yun's workplace feet first.

Ze had not expected to feel such a vertiginous spike of fear. Not for hirself, but for Human Stef. The bumbling, gigantic pain in Leez'yun's anatomy, the one who had made every day an exercise in exasperation. The daily source of argument, friction, and interpersonal irritation.

_She may be homicidally annoying, but she is_ my _homicidal annoyance,_ Leez'yun realised. Even though medicine was hir duty, and keeping Human Stef alive was hir _job_... none of that factored into whether or not Leez'yun _worried_ about the seemingly suicidally insane Human.

Human Stef's own words echoed in Leez'yun's head. _Admit it. You actually love me._

"Never," ze vowed in a soft whisper. "Never out loud."

[11] centidu - pronounced: SENT-ee-doo - one one-hundredth of a Standard Distance Unit, or 'Du'.

#  Challenge #062: Compensation to be Negotiated

I read a post from you a while ago (which i loved, thank you for that^^), where there was a lunatic, psychopathic, blood-spilling cat-lover on a station.

Can you please write a sequel of it, like if he is on a ship with a crew and it got attacked and goes full head on Berserker/Shizo-Mode (e.g.when a cat got hurt) and he wipes them out.

But goes back to being creepy friendly next second and pats his cat with blood/brain/bonefagments splattered all over him.

Please continue his story. – Anon Guest

AN: This tale harkens all the way back to [ this splendid tale about Mr Sunshine and his love of felines.]

Mr Sunshine[12] was both on loan to Tenrathi Station and on his day off when the Vorax attempted to invade. Since it _was_ his day off, he was out in the most picturesque park painting portraits of the local felines, Skitties and naturally-sourced alike. He looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. In fact, even as the klaxons and diverse alarms sound, he remains calm. Meditatively rendering the stripes on a tabby with loving attention to detail.

This tabby had odd eyes, and was therefore deaf in one ear. This might have been why the livesuited Vorax invader was able to get close enough to stand on the poor creature's tail. The cat yowled, scampering off at something approaching either warp speed or true teleportation. Mr Sunshine glared at the interloper. "You hurt Ms Tibbles," he said.

It was the tone that made the Vorax invader pause. Or rather, the _lack_ of tone. Mr Sunshine had made a statement of fact, that was true. He made it without inflection, without emotion, with every indication of normalcy. It was the same neutrality accomplished by shop staff wishing you a good one or asking if one preferred paper or plastic. An additional statement of fact gave the Vorax even more pause. It was, "She's one of my favourites."

Mr Sunshine put his paints down underneath the easel he was using and stood. "I'm not usually one for improvisation, but this occasion calls for it." Calm and orderly in all things, he disconnected a temporary bollard put up by park authorities and disconnected it from the hazard warning tape they had left there. "Ms Tibbles is worth the minor fine."

Between one pace and the next, Mr Sunshine changed modes. From neat, orderly, studied blending in to blood-thirsty hunter in less than the second it took to place one foot in front of the other. The bollard, once essentially a piece of furniture, was now a club. The Vorax, once feared predator amongst the Galactic Alliance, was now fun prey.

The first one didn't have time to run. The second one turned just as Mr Sunshine's improvised bludgeon knocked their compatriot down. The third had time to get five paces.

The entire troupe of fifteen Vorax never made it back to the airlock.

When the ERT's arrived, Mr Sunshine put the bollard down and said, "I got all of them," in the same matter-of-fact monotone. "I do require a change of clothes and a cleansing booth. I wouldn't want to make any of the cats ill with this effluvium." He went back to the veneer of civilisation with the same shocking rapidity. As if he hadn't been beating the effluvium out of one of the Vorax corpses just moments before.

This was one among so very many reasons why Humans had the reputation they did.

Mr Sunshine tisked and tutted at the emergency replacement clothing, but it was preferable over being either bloodstained or in a set of replacement Skins emblazoned with the Tenrathi Station logo. He purchased a large bowl of chicken bits for the station cats, and a meal for himself, and attempted to get back to his painting.

[12] Pronounced, _soon-sheen-eh_ for those unable to reach the aforementioned chronicle.

#  Challenge #063: A Little Support

Havenworlders learn about same-gender-Relationships.

Yeah go from there wherever you are comfortable. – Anon Guest

[AN: I'm glad you said that, OP]

Evolution is a funny old thing. It is driven - if one can call a system based around random mutations, chance, happenstance, and incidental accidents 'driven' - by the concept of preserving the next generation so that more generations will happen. On Deathworlds, this means that there has to be a portion of the population ready to nurture young that has been abandoned or has otherwise lost its parents. In brief, homosexuality is part of Nature's Plan.

At least, it is on Deathworlds. Havenworlds, with less in the way of progress, so to speak, have less need for spare bonded pairs that are otherwise unable to breed[13]. Therefore, the so-called 'gay gene' has less necessity on Havenworlds. It is far rarer to see Havenworlders who bond within their own gender. Rarer still, for there to be any issue concerning gender identity.

It's also less of a cause for alarm, rather, it's more of a 'pressure release valve' of Evolution to prevent overpopulation by the bonded pairs who can - and do -breed. So, when Thys met Human Dan's husband, there was only a moment of mild confusion at the Youth Education Centre.

Their child, Human Ros, skipped away from their Secpa with a cheerful, "By, Daddy."

Thys did a double-take. This was not Human Dan. Indeed, young Human Ros routinely referred to _him_ as 'Dad'. This Human had an entirely different configuration. Larger and much more imposing than Human Dan. When he spotted Thys, he put his hands behind his back and bowed. An attempt to look harmless.

"My pardons, I did not mean to stare," said Thys, ushering her chicks through the gate to the Havenworlder section.

"No offense taken. You must be Thys, right? You and Dan meet up for cake and mild stimulants in the morning, right? I'm his husband Kris."

"And gossip," Thys confessed. "Need I fret about Human Dan?"

"He is in Medical at the moment," said Human Kris. "Silly goose went ahead and used that faulty stepladder to fix the tall shelves when I told him to wait for me. Busted up his arm pretty good."

That could have easily been a fatal injury for one of Thys' own kind, especially without rapid medical intervention and a lot of tranquillisers. "Oh goodness. Will he be laid up long?"

"There's a cafe right by an exit over on Left Wingwards Lane," said Human Kris. "I was going to meet him there anyway. You two might not be able to catch up, though. He's loopy on his pain meds."

Deathworlders. Right. Broken bones were something of a mild inconvenience and a slight hampering of their ability to move or do things for a relatively short portion of their total lifespan. "I would certainly be happy to see that Human Dan is doing well."

Human Kris kept a respectful distance from Thys, which she appreciated. Big, muscular deathworlders were scary even when they were trying their hardest not to be so. When they got there, Human Dan was emerging from the Medical Exit, looking paler and very tired.

"There's my Krissy bear..." he cooed. "Hey, babe." The offending arm was in a translucent sling, through which a printed web of plastic showed through.

Human Kris fielded Human Dan and guided him to a chair. "You just sit easy, babe. I can get you some tea and you take whatever you're told to take, when you take it, okay?"

Sigh, an amused roll of the eyes, "Yes, mama bear..."

"You hush, Schnookie..." They pressed lips, and Human Kris departed to make an order at the counter.

Thys' attention was riveted on the cast in its sling. The arm within limp but apparently viable.

Human Dan eventually noticed and said, "It doesn't hurt now. Not yet. They got me on some of the good shit." His movements were slow in moving that arm. Careful as he removed it from the sling. "It's a dull and annoying ache when I move." He still managed to smile. "I got glitter purple 'cause Ros loves glitter purple. Gonna be stuck with it..." His eyes closed briefly, "...for a bit of a while." Just as carefully, he put his arm back in the sling. "Love these drugs, but I jus' wanna hybernate..."

"Drug friendly pick-you up," said Human Kris, depositing something gooey and unsuitable in front of Human Dan. There was also a steaming mug. "Eat. By the time you're done with that apple turnover, your hot chocolate should be just the right temperature."

"Y'r so nice t' me," Human Dan sighed. "Marry me?"

"Again?"

By this time, Thys didn't want to ask any rude questions. It was pretty clear that they were a good couple, and worked well together to raise young Human Ros. Therefore, she got into the gossip session for the day in the full understanding that Human Dan was not going to be as enthusiastic as usual.

[13] Deathworlder science has invented means by which body breeding is no longer necessary. They have eliminated the need for eggs, sperm, and even a gestating body in which the fetus can grow. Some, of course, view this as a gigantic mistake and against the will of their deity. Which just goes to show that some things never change.

#  Challenge #064: The Universal Poison

Adrenaline and Caffeine. The worst substances in existence.

Highly deadly and poisonous to literally every life form in existence. No wonder, that hostile forces use it as tipping for their weapons, ammo, knives, etc.

They are feared. They are Powerful.

Until they fight their first human on a spaceship by a raid.

The attackers didn't know that it makes them stronger and near invincible.

The human didn't know, that they mean Add/Caffeine with "deadly poison".

The crew is afraid and doesn't know how to cope with a human, who is (even hours after the encounter) still hyped up and full of caffeine and rest adrenaline.

That day everyone learned something new. – Anon Guest

The earliest _accepted_ Humans in the Galactic Alliance were the Britanians. Everyone knows that. However, the earliest _known_ Humans, out on the Edge where all things of dubious legality happen, go much, _much_ further back. Back to the days where Humans would just... randomly turn up, and were far less understood by Alliance citizens. Back to the days when the Gen'rathi terrorised the space lanes.

They were fearsome warriors, the first to weaponise synthetic caffeine and adrenaline together to create a lethal, concentrated poison that could cause a cogniscent's heart to explode in less than half a minute. The colloquial term for it was _Three Seconds Left_. The Gen'rathi thought they had the ultimate weapon of terror and destruction... until they chanced to stab a Human.

The Human, there to protect the Hemidact crew from dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, pulled the spearpoint out of their arm and, in the same motion, used it to stab the offending attacker. The other three Gen'rathi attempted to slash or stab with their envenomed weapons, but it was already too late. They were so used to merely scratching their prey that creating serious wounds was beyond them, even in the relatively more delicate Hemidacts. Scratching at a Human seemed to be a tremendously bad idea - worse than naming a vessel "Titanic".

What they would learn, eventually, was that Humans had adapted to both caffeine _and_ adrenaline, and the combination was, indeed, lethal. Just... not for the Humans. The Human aboard that day, turned into higher and higher aspects of rage. Roaring, growling, using any object close to hand as a weapon... foaming at the mouth, too, before the last of the Gen'rathi retreated in terror.

The Galactic Alliance learned a new Human word, that day. _Berserker_.

Surviving records state that, once the poisons ran their course, the Human returned to their normal, almost-civilised self. They even offered to help clean up the mess, as there were still traces of _Three Seconds Left_ still littering the halls.

#  Challenge #065: We Welcome

The Hive of _________ could rule themself lucky. Enough food, no immediate threats and a happy broodmother.

All is well and quiet, until they need to integrate a human onboard one of their ships.

Even the drones are confused. They don't have a hive-system? They aren't born with their duties and jobs?

Just some casual integration on a Hiveship. What could go wrong? – Anon Guest

Ysoptae Hive Identity Flitterfell was informed that they had to welcome a non-Ysopt into their Hiveship. Special dimensions were sent to them, making their burrows larger so this outsider could have access to all function areas. Speculation ran rampant amongst the subgroups of the hivemind. The argument about what sort of colony these enlargements could accommodate. The discussion of the idea 'singular'.

Outsiders, non-hives, used 'singular'. They didn't say _we are_ , they said, _I am_. They were not _us_ , they were _me_. They were not many, they were one. It was impossible. Every intelligence recognised that many were needed for decent cogent functioning. How could an individual exist without assignment on hatching towards the purpose of the all-function?

They would, they collectively supposed, find out soon. The Hiveship docked with an Outsider station and the Flitterfell readied themselves to welcome... their guest. This was a 'one', with Outsider configurations for higher gravity. Files from the Outsiders indicated that this was a 'petite' form of Human. A sample chosen from the greater conglomerate for their ability to... fit... They were known as Yang. They had no broodmother. They had no colonial subjugates. They had... they had no team.

Human Yang stayed still as the Flitterfell swarmed over their livesuit. "Hello, Flitterfell," they said. "I have come amongst you in the offer of greater understanding and co-operation amongst the Galactic Alliance.

Flitterfell was stunned by there being a One amongst the many. Groups formed to ask interested questions. Rude questions, they had to collectively admit, but the learning process accepted by the Alliance was a period of rude questions. Accepted by both parties.

"You are really _one_?"

"Yes. There's only one of me. Are _all_ of you this size? You're no bigger than my momma's cat."

They let the comment and comparison slide. "Negatory. Our broodmother is slightly larger than you. Soldiers are twice the size of these workers. Is livesuit vital necessity?"

"It is until my biota is checked out versus your biota. I still have to wear an exo to keep my muscles and bone density in your lower gravity, regardless. Can I... pet you?"

Now that was a Human reaction. Reach out and touch the entire universe, one creature at a time. Tactile information was very important for Humans. "We allow this."

Human Yang was very careful about running their manipulating digits across Flitterfell carapaces. One shared with many. "This is... pleasant." It was similar to hive-group body contact, but not quite. As part of the orientation process, Flitterfell lead Human Yang into the Wellness Section of the Hiveship, where special groups assessed Yang and their accompanying biota for access to the ship, and vice versa.

All was well. No adverse reactions were expected. Therefore, Flitterfell swarmed in order to accustom themself with Yang's Outsider scent. They would learn, in time, many curious things.

Humans were not made for one task. They could choose career paths and adapt to situations, thus making them exchange units of choice amongst the Galactic Alliance. Humans could mimic sounds they heard with varying degrees of success and, in fact, Human Yang could pass at a copy of some choice Ysoptae phrases before a Standard Month was done.

Human Yang, and all humans, could exchange tasks in seconds. They could go from collecting resources to defending the Hive with alarming rapidity. Afterwards, they would return to resource collecting as if nothing had interrupted them at all.

Humans were peculiar. However, Flitterfell was willing to recognise that they were also exceedingly useful.

#  Challenge #066: First to Aid

A book written by an alien Medic over humans and their needs (physical/emotional/etc) medical "normal" procedures/operations for them, limits of humans (go wild and have fun with this one^^) and what to do with your human if sh*t hits the fan and emergency medical procedures (Bringing him back to life by smashing repeatedly his ribcage and forcing air in, stopping leaks, treating rocket fuel burn( how did he even get this?!?) , etc.)

Have fun and do your thing :-) – Anon Guest

The title of the piece was _Edge Medicine - Living With Humans and Keeping Them Whole_ and Rykthaak Malyss had made a fortune off it, back in the day. For a long time, it was the only source for Mediks about Human health. In retrospect, it is an erroneous document full of assumptions and incorrect deductions, but for decades, it was written with the best and most heartfelt of intentions.

_Sympathetic rhythm in a human chest can cause their hearts to resume beating after theirs has stopped,_ ze wrote. _Many Humans are taught this from a young age. See appendix file 'Staying Alive' for the ingrained rhythm. Other means of coronary stimulation include electronic rhythm induction, though this is preferred to re-establish a rhythm in erratic heartbeats._

Another chapter was dedicated to broken bones. _Human bones are difficult to break. What many consider lethal force would only cause relatively mild fractures in sections of a Human skeleton. Humans are capable of operating with broken bones, but that does not mean that they should be allowed to do so. Fractures large and small cause a great amount of pain in Humans. Especially what they refer to as 'green stick' fractures._

Several pages follow with disturbing imagery warnings, containing examples of Human bone fractures, the symptoms, and the best treatment for the same. The worst ones, under the most severe offensensitivity warnings, were the ones where the broken bone pierced the Humans' own flesh. Those had precise and exacting steps that included important ones like _be certain that the Human is adequately sedated and given pain relief before proceeding._

The really alarming part was that Humans had been performing procedures like this on each other and sometimes themselves for centuries. Sometimes, centuries before adequate pain relief was possible. Many Humans in centuries before the Shattering owed their continued survival to their extended capacity for alcohol and other sensory inhibitors.

There are many sections in this work concerning things that should only be performed in extremis. _Emergency Procedures_ , as they are known. Things that can go wrong with the Human body that only a Human could have known about before this work was published. Tracheotomy. Cesarean. Bypass. Transplant. Transfusion.

Just flipping through half of these pages is enough to convince any Medik stepping into the Edge Territories that little can definitively or permanently kill a Human. By the Powers, their own _reproduction process_ is enough to endanger the lives of both parent and child, yet they evidently keep doing it. Small wonder, then, that for a significant portion of time preceding the admission of Britania into the Galactic Alliance, that deceased Humans were repatriated to their points of origin in cryosleep containers.

The more interesting passages are on emotional well-being. They are the ones that dictate what other species can do for solitary Humans. There are entire passages on touch, haptic reward, and what kinds of peoples the Humans tend to find more amenable to physical contact than others. _Species with fur or feathers are always more interesting to Humans' haptic curiosity than those with skin. Similarly, it is rare to find a Human who is amenable to physical contact with an insectoid species. Therefore, it is always considered a polite move to ask first._

Before you ask, yes. There _are_ , indeed, numerous passages on how to pet a Human.

#  Challenge #067: Terrans of the Deep

Human talk about their oceans flora and fauna and deep water creatures.

Needless to say, it only adds more reasons, why Humans and their Deathworld should have been classified way higher. – Anon Guest

Humans love to explore. To them, nothing is more alluring than the path not taken, the nook unchecked, or the depths undelved. There is no length a Human will not go to in order to see what's there just because they can. It should therefore surprise few that, once exploring a new world, they will bring their light and curiosity to the deepest, darkest depths.

_Especially_ if those depths are underwater. They've spent centuries developing technology that would give them access to places they otherwise couldn't go. Including the depths of their neighbouring gas giants. It should not have been a surprise to see Human Jan using the Bulk Fabricator to print a high-pressure exploratory vessel, replete with Sonar HUD technology that would turn the windows into displays where, in Human Jan's words, the people within would be able to 'see like a dolphin'.

"Why?" Kikroth demanded. "There is very little below the light layer. No plants or plant-like life can exist without sunshine. Therefore, there's nothing for anything else to live off."

Human Jan just grinned as ze played with hir data reader. "That's what we thought, too, but then we discovered deep smokers, and the bioluminescent creatures of the trenches." Ze took in a deep breath, eyes alight with the eagerness to share an infodump[14]. "It's amazing really. Life is so tenacious. You'd think the deepest, darkest parts of the ocean would be empty, but you got swarms of bottom-feeders and things that'll eat the bottom-feeders, and things that eat those things. Look. This is a deep sea smoker. A little underwater volcano pumping out minerals and super-heated water."

The picture was disturbing to say the least. Bone white cylinders with what appeared to be blood-red flowers at their tops. Pale crabs swarming the area. Black smoke issuing forth from the chimneys of the 'smoker'. Fish in abundance, swimming casually around an _underwater volcano_ as if they did it every day. This was a picture from the well-named Terra. They probably did.

"And this little beauty is a deep-sea angler-fish."

Only a deathworlder would call a creature like _that_ a 'beauty'. It was all teeth and hideous adaptations to the depths. No eyes remained in the blank sockets, and it held a single bulb of bioluminescence on the end of an antenna on what could charitably be called its face.

"There's all kinds of bioluminescent jellyfish. Oh! Wait 'till you see the Vampire Squid..."

"I would much rather wait," Kikroth allowed. "Those creatures are terrifying. Why would you seek them out?"

"Because we can learn so much about how evolution happened. Because they're so interesting. Because..." Human Jan shrugged. "Because they're _there_."

Which was, when you got down to it, the chief reason why Humans did anything at all, really.

[14] Also known to the knowledgeable as the 'Inhale of Doom'.

#  Challenge #068: MacGuyvering the Excrement...

A human uses a fire extinguisher, some glue, self-made rocket fuel, some ductape, bolts and other stuff to render an enemy vessel useless.

Be creative :-) – Anon Guest

[AN: I always am, Nonny. You don't have to tell me]

"Okay," panted Human Ange. "Good news, bad news. Good news... we're alive so far. Yay." It was statements of alleged optimism like that that helped earn Humanity's reputation in the Alliance.

"Bad news," stated Gaurx, "We are sheltering in a supplies hold."

"Oh, that's the better news," said Human Ange. "We should have everything we could need in here. Especially since..." They grunted as they hauled aside the front end of a large shipment container, revealing some complicated thing of tubing and random bulges. "...this is where we keep the still."

The Galactic Alliance has long since given up on attempting to forbid the process of liquor distillation on Alliance vessels. Where Humans are wont to go, the brewing process is bound to follow. Banning such things only encouraged Humanity to be sneakier about it and the incidents of accidental explosion went exponentially upwards. At least, with a legitimised still, there were more chances of engineers being involved[15] in the construction. There are construction specifications that would -say- prevent catastrophic failure events.

This particular Ships' Still had a piece of paper tape on it with the Human text, _Geof's Roxit Fyool(tm)_ and a crude pictogram of a Human skull.

"Er. That says it is poison."

"That's a base and totally founded truth," Human Ange swapped out collection jugs and took a swig from the mostly-full one. "HOOO-AH! Yeah. That's the proof we need." She corked it and added it to a small workspace in the hold. "Let's see. Pressure vessel... fuse... ordinary household chemicals... shrapnel... ductape. Gotta have ductape. Oooh, superglue! _Now_ we're cookin' with gas!"

"Flames are inadvisable, we have to conceal out heat–" Gaurx's brain caught up with the Human's meaning. "You are not actually cooking, are you?"

"Well spotted," Human Ange took another trip through the shelves. "Tubes. Yes. Need those." They returned with their bounty to the workspace. Laying things out and applying tools seemingly at random. "So... the brief explanation for this is... I'm MacGuyvering us up a gun."

"And the long explanation of your brief explanation?"

"In ancient times, Humanity had a hero..." Oh dear sweet powers, not _another_ Human Hero of Myth and Legend. Their culture was overflowing with them. This one was a legendary trickster who could turn anything into something else on a whim. He never used a gun and preferred the ways of peace. That said, he sure found a great many ways to blow the living excrement out of things with surprising regularity.

This creation, using: old beverage bulbs, some spark makers, the aforementioned shrapnel, Geof's brew, the tubing and a CO2 fire extinguisher, as well as some interesting plumbing... was what Human Ange called a "Soda Gun".

If there was anything Humans could do, it was launch illogical objects at ludicrous speeds. The ammo they were making was designed to not only explode and set things on fire, but to do so _with extreme prejudice_. If their captors didn't soon release the _Cautious Step_ and her crew, they would probably live to regret it.

"...but also probably not for long. You should want to shelter in a life pod. Things are about to get loud and messy."

Humans absolutely _adored_ loud and messy. They laughed at it. They loved wreckage and causing it in their enemies. Gaurx fled for the lifepod and much preferred to imagine Human Ange cackling as they laid waste to their enemy with exploding beverage pods.

One by one, Gaurx's fellow crew joined them in the pod, giving updates on the ships' Humans' progress. Human Ange and Human Geof were arguing over whose turn it was to use the Soda Gun. They had acquired some enemy weaponry. They were going to 'blast the excrement' out of the enemy ship. The subsequent bone-jarring kaboom certainly could have fit that bill, as did the distant cackling of the _Cautious Step_ 's ship Humans.

Three of them, a Soda Gun, and at least one of their famous swiss army knives had captured a pirate crew and blown their vessel to smithereens. But not, apparently, before 'raiding the fornication' out of the pirate ships' holds. Their grinning, victorious Humans had 'liberated' enough stolen wealth for every single crewperson to retire.

That wasn't even including the bounty on the pirates themselves.

After that, the fact that portions of the _Cautious Step_ were still on fire was a minor detail.

[15] As in, more engineers than the one who probably made the still in the first place.

#  Challenge #069: Got an Axe to Grind

The most destructive and deadly weapon of all is not an antimatter bomb. That place goes to a Human with ductape, a Multitool, a Target and no reason to not do it.

Or to care for his safety. – Anon Guest

Humans have a lot of sayings concerning revenge. This should be enough warning for most species, but there are always an unfortunate few who are slow learners. Suffice to say that if _your_ commanding officer decides to blast an isolated Human habitation without first checking that the _entire_ familial collective is there, your best option is immediate and swift mutiny. It's the only way to be certain you and your crewmates survive.

_Revenge is a dish best served cold,_ they say. _If you seek revenge, first dig two graves,_ they say. _An eye for an eye,_ they say. There are even cute little cards with cute cartoon figures and legends like _Revenge means never having to say "I forgive you."_ If all of _that_ isn't adequate warning, nothing will be.

Such as it was for the CEO of PlanMynCo vessel _Exploiter_ , Yarbin VanDerReck. He saw no reason why a small family farm in the middle of nowhere should stand in the way of the _Exploiter_ 's rights to mine a large deposit of rare earth minerals. He destroyed the farm, and _most_ of the family who lived there, unaware and uncaring that this was one of the even rarer depositories for active members of Pax Humanis.

The monster who lived there loved her family. She loved her Keeper. She even loved the animals and plants they kept there. So, when she returned, victorious, from her hunt to find a smoking crater and signs of an orbital mining operation... well. It was entirely understandable that she was more than a little upset.

Humans are pursuit predators. They can track and harass their prey until they die of exhaustion.

The traces left on the farm told Pixie Leifsdottr what company was responsible. Tags in the jettisoned equipment gave her the name of the ship. A trip to the nearest resources store gave her everything she would need. One multitool. One large roll of ductape. A ticket of leave against a Jharren Doe who willingly attacked people under the protection of Pax Humanis[16].

The Enforcers of Pax Humanis let its members protect or avenge their own. It is, after all, more than fair warning to the rest of the Alliance.

Pixie Leifsdottr had a lot of time to plan, during her pursuit. She learned. All about Yarbin VanDerReck. All about his family. All about the things he valued. All about everything he loved. She quickly dismissed destroying his family in front of his eyes. Yarbin VanDerReck only loved himself and his profits. His family was yet another trophy in a long line of trophies displaying his casual disregard for anyone other than himself. He forced all his wives to change their name to Sandy so that he would have an easier time remembering their name during the ten years they were pretty enough to keep. He shipped his children off to boarding schools and had minimal involvement in their upbringing from conception onwards.

Therefore, she destroyed his treasures. His country houses. His town houses. His vehicles. His art, though, was stolen and fenced to more worthy recipients in Ghiishem. Everything that bore his name was reduced to rubble. If he dared to rebuild, then that took care of his extensive funds.

When all he had left was the _Exploiter_ , that was when she stole him from his ship. The crew -if they could be damned with such faint praise- were only following orders. VanDerReck kept them under the tyranny of worse than unemployment if they disobeyed. If _he_ fired them, they and their families would slowly starve to death because none of his associates would go near them.

VanDerReck woke up strapped to a chair, unable to move because what he assumed to be a chair was an intricate harness that could pose him in any position his captor wanted. Right now, Pixie Leifsdottr wanted him sitting comfortably. She sat opposite, exhibiting the same eerie calm that earned her the callsign Ice Queen amongst the members of Pax Humanis. She waited until he ran out of empty threats, paging through assorted legal documents.

When he finally fell silent, she took a sip of water from a nearby flask and cleared her throat. "Good day, Mr VanDerReck. It is my duty to inform you that you are the subject of a 'more fool you' warrant, subsequent to your attack against the domicile and family of a member of the Pax Humanis Enforcement Arm." She furled a sleeve, revealing a tattoo of a dog with a dismembered hand in its mouth and the legend _Cave Canes Fame_. It had nothing to do with famous cavern hounds. "You are therefore subject to pursuit to the pain."

"You have no right," VanDerReck protested.

"On the contrary, I have every right. Hence the 'more fool you' warrant. The instant it was issued, your insurance companies upped your premiums to the maximum and, you might wish to note, a larger portion of them refused to cover you and your belongings at all. Being prey to a warrant like this is classed as an 'act of the Powers' in every court you can access, Mr VanDerReck."

Light began to dawn. "That was you? But... that mine was exhausted years ago."

"Yes. That mine killed my family and destroyed everything I held dear. Years ago. Normal people would be able to mourn and get over it but," she tapped the tattoo. "I'm not normal people." She let that sink in. "In those years, I set out with the task of identifying you and everything you actually treasured. I destroyed those treasures. One. By. One. I left you with nothing but the hope of profit, and now I am destroying that."

"What? You can't!"

"I can. I will. I have, Mr VanDerReck. I have used the profits from fencing your art collection -the DaVinci was a fake, by the way- to buy the captaincy of your last remaining vessel, and _gift_ it to the only crewman who dared protest your 'winner takes all' policy. Though he was afraid to confront you directly, his blog was instrumental in my finding your name and holdings. You have nothing left but your self, Mr VanDerReck."

"Why? Why are you doing this? I haven't hurt you!"

Pixie picked up her roll of ductape and peeled off a measure. The roll itself was significantly thinner than when it was new. She placed it over his mouth and said, "Now is the time for you to be silent, Mr VanDerReck. I realise you can flex your way out of this symbolic restraint, but if you do, I'll start breaking your bones early."

The only sound in the cavernous darkness was the whistling of the breath in his nostrils.

"Good. You can learn. Fifteen years ago, on Threesday the twenty-third of Five[17], Year 23784... you did willingly order your crew, and I quote, to 'blast the damn house to slag, I don't care what's alive down there.' Further, you justified it by saying, 'they won't even have time to feel it'. The facts back you up, there, Mr VanDerReck. They didn't have time to feel it. Not the cows, not the pigs, not the goats. Not even the chickens. Especially not my Keeper, my husband, my lifemate and soulmatch. Especially not our three lovely girls nor my two sons." A trickle of anger showed through her icy facade, which was somehow more terrifying for its moderation. "In brief, and to quote a great drama, you took fucking everything from me."

Only now did his calculating and scheming eyes widen with the realisation of what he'd done.

"The good news, Mr VanDerReck, is that I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to do far, far worse than that." One by one, she idly picked out the small tools of her omnitool. Everything a creative mind could need to cause a body pain. "I'm going to ensure you suffer. You are going to suffer for a long, _long_ time. That is what 'to the pain' means, Mr VanDerReck. You are going to suffer. Pain in every form I can engender." She put the omnitool down and took another drink of water. "Right now, you are thinking about the illegal nanites in your body that maintain your peak physical fitness. Don't rely on them. A fellow member of Pax Humanis has helped me disable them and purge them from your system. When I'm finally done, I'll introduce a new suite. They'll take whatever I decide to leave behind as the base pattern... and maintain it."

Now he tried to struggle. Now he tried to cry for help. _Now_ he attempted to look around for any sliver of hope.

Pixie smiled. She did love it when they showed fear. She left the pliers out, flipping everything else back into place. She had other 'toys' of course, but right now, she wanted to be creative. "Let's begin... with your toes..."

[16] Also known as a "More Fool You" Warrant.

[17] The GalStand calendar consists of a ten-day week, a four-week month, and a ten-month year. It has reserved very little in the way of imagination towards naming any of these.

#  Challenge #070: The Answer

42 is the answer to everything.

Aliens meet a fan of the series and are baffled, that 42 is the correct answer to every problem on their ship.

Coincidence or Joke ? – Anon Guest

"Whoa. That's gotta be forty-two comets in a V-formation," stated Human Dug. Later assessment revealed that they were correct. There were exactly forty-two cometary masses grouped together and orbiting this particular sun.

This was a peculiarity of Human Dug. Forty-two was always the answer, and it always _was_ the answer. If they said something would take forty-two minutes, then that was the time it would take. To the second. If something contained forty two things by their estimate, it always did. If they said there were forty-two varieties of something... there always were.

It was Human Dug's default answer when there was no possible way to know it, and they were always correct. Not merely after the fact, but before it, too. Anything and everything that could be enumerated by Human Dug always came out to Forty-two.

They blindfold tested them. Double-blind tested them. Attempted to mislead and, on one occasion, placed more than the default answer inside a container that could not be pierced by any perceptive means. Sure enough, just the right amount spilled out before it met with Human Dug and the correct answer was... forty-two.

Finally, they cracked and asked Human Dug how they did it.

Their only answer was a shrug and, "I dunno. Forty-two's just my lucky number, is all."

[AN: Mandatory infodump interesting factoid time... Douglas Adams was into computing stuff and the ASCII code for the asterisk (*) was 42. The asterisk is also the stand-in for "any answer goes here". Therefore, the answer to the great question of the meaning of life, the universe, and everything is... anything you want.]

#  Challenge #071: They Love to Sing-a

" _When an eel bites your thigh,_

then you bleed out and die,

thats a Moray"

Humans will parody anything they like and especially catchy songs.

Even National Anthems. No matter the origin. – Anon Guest

The local Humans were having an Untalent Show at the _Choose Your Poison Drink_ [18], wherein all participants imbibed a lot of alcohol, got up onto the in-house stage, and demonstrated something they were horrible at. Either that, or it was Two Drink Minimum Karaoke Night. It was hard to tell.

Inside, Humans were rendering[19] assorted relentlessly popular tunes. A group of five were attempting to finish _Yellow Submarine_ , except at various points, it became a purple washing machine, trying to score some exadrine, a fantabulous marine, or they were getting nice and clean. Someone else, possibly in an effort to drown out those five, was belting out _My Bologna_. Several people were failing at dancing.

A quorum of applause seemed to be enough to get those combatants to step down. A different group stood, wobbling slightly, on the stage, waiting for a percentage of the ruckus to die down. There were four of them. They might be about to commit Barbershop[20]. Lyr readied her comms and made sure her stunner was loose in its holster, just in case.

The bass singer started with a low note. Three others chimed in...

Oh no...

"Re-heh-heh-heh-hex Maaarrrrksley... lost his gun and... pissed the best..."

She breathed out. It was only another parody. Lyr snapped her stunner back into place and cancelled the one-touch comms. Unless there was a sincere fan in the audience, things were _not_ about to get messy after all.

That song, thankfully, ended and another group stumbled onto the stage. Looked like one of them was going to attempt to play the trumpet. There would be no winners, tonight. Nope. Two of them.

_Bap-ba-ba-pa-baaaaa..._ The second trumpet came in and played the same five notes. _Pa-BAAAAAAA..._ The final, ascending note ended in a horrible squeal.

"STAR TREKKIN'... ACROSS THE UNIVERSE! ON THE STARSHIP ENNERPRIZE..."

This might actually be _worse_ than Barbershop... Lyr turned to face a Rhyhixan tapping gently on her arm. "Yes?"

"My pardons, officer. Do you know the original that this parodies?"

There was always one. "Apologies," sighed Lyr. "That _is_ the original."

[18] GalStand Simple has a limited number of universally understood words, and a limited grammar. Therefore, businesses place the purpose of their establishment as either a prefix to mean 'you can purchase it and take it away' or as a suffix to mean, 'you can(and possibly should) consume it here'. This was done, ironically, to _avoid_ confusion.

[19] As in, 'to tear asunder'.

[20] There is a significant amount of opinion as to whether Barbershop Quartets were music, a crime against music, an art form, or a crime against art. Either way, Security had to get involved before the debate turned uncivil.

[AN: Dear people expecting the entire parody... First - how dare you. Second - sorry, this is all I got. Third - I sincerely apologise to David and Bunny Bennett, but you knew it had to happen sooner or later.]

#  Challenge #072: Cold Revenge by Proxy (Number 238)

Simply a story over a bloodthirsty psychopath, who listens to classical music, while ripping the faces of his enemies off and bathing in their blood.

Simply put, a normal Monday morning for him at work. – Anon Guest

There is something to be said about Chamber Music. It inspires the mind. It lifts the spirits. It's an excellent counterpoint to the screams of your enemies. As an aficionado, I know it was originally created to provide a pleasant background to high society hobnobbing. Proof one could afford musicians to play _just_ so the performance could be talked over.

I pity those ancient musicians, sometimes. Imagine that poor luckless soul, working on their art just so they could sit in a corner and watch people ignoring their performance. I suppose it paid the rent. Maybe they didn't care. Maybe they were convinced that this was the best they could expect out of life. No wonder the revolutions came.

I'm merely a revolution of one. A singular performer in an opus made of blood and skin. A literal once-in-a-lifetime experience for those I render. I am sent against those who are an affront to civilisation. It's only fitting that they get to observe the beauty of it before they expire. Of course they don't appreciate my art. The fact that it's rendered in their blood and flesh might have something to do with it.

Oxide blood has so many colours. Reddish brown, blueish, greenish... there's even a species or two with yellow or black bloods. Those are rare. I did try painting with blood samples once or twice. It's difficult to transport the colours and even more difficult to preserve the results. Besides, the colours are muddy and the resultant work is... depressing. I much prefer the ephemeral nature of my works. A temporary installation of suffering.

Today's central source didn't appreciate the music. They had no truck with Terran Chamber Music until I got to the flautists and removed most of their tongue. I'd had enough of their pompous palaver anyway. They kept claiming that their loyal subjects would rescue them from my performance. They had no idea that their 'loyal followers' had set me against them in the first place.

I stepped back from the canvas of his bleeding flesh. Small wounds made them last longer, and let me express myself in the artistic excising of the outer dermal layer. I collected their blood as it fell free. It did have an interesting colour, and haemanalysis said it could have interesting properties. With some interesting chemistry and assurances that there weren't any hidden pathogens, I could craft his blood into some delightful bath bombs.

Bathing in blood sounds poetic, but when you get to the gritty details, you find it is supremely unhygienic in its purest form. Blood carries so many diseases. Human blood, especially, is vector to so many horrible things once it is free from its host. It's the reason why post-mortem cleanup is such a lucrative business to this day.

It was time to let this one scab over, I thought. My bonus depended entirely on how long they physically suffered. Time, too, for the testimonials. Time to let them see why they had come to me. After an hour of recorded audio and video, they would be allowed to eat.

Plain fare, as dictated by my contract. The 'perfectly safe' rations they decreed the poorest of the poor receive. Calorically balanced if one included the maggots and the weevils. of course, they were too numerous to pick out once one was sufficiently deprived. Three more such 'meals' and I could induce their species particular variant of Pellagra. I would be recording that aspect of my work for posterity.

Diseases caused by deprivation are so fascinating, don't you think?

The spoons I let them eat with are also edible. Grains cooked into a paste and pressed until hard. Eating them requires a lot of patience or causes a lot of dental damage. It's always interesting to watch how much pain a subject causes themselves. What they are willing to sacrifice for a particular gain. Of course, sooner or later, they won't have any teeth left to damage and the test will be how hard they are willing to fight for the privilege of being allowed to suckle their spoons into something they can swallow... or whether or not they think choking on them is a greater mercy than one more day in my... studio.

Did you know? Some of them fall in love with me, towards the ends of their days. It's peculiar. All I give them is pain. All I take from them is blood. Nevertheless, they fixate on the only source of touch they've known for months. Sometimes, for years.

My art is long and slow and my days are filled with music, screams, and blood. I'm the only one I know who can live like that. They don't last, my pets. My pet projects. I know everything there is to know about getting the most blood and the most screams out of any individual. I'm paid very well by the hour for my special knowledge. I live in luxury between projects.

Love... Love is not something I understand. Those who fall in love in my studio are not going to last any longer than those who spend their last breath attempting to spit in my eye. For them, it might be a tactic. They may be trying to gain my favour. They certainly don't understand that my studio is the last room they will ever live in. By the time they reach me, it is already too late. It may have been too late for years before we meet.

It certainly was for my current project.

They'll be perishing next week, if I have everything correct. A combination of malnutrition, lack of exercise, and emotional deprivation. Nothing I can do about it.

I think I shall let them listen to _Claire de Lune_ during their final moments. Overlain by the testimonies they haven't had a chance to hear. Heaven and hell together in the last sense to go. A fitting end for one who lived in heaven by putting their subjects through hell.

#  Challenge #073: Children Problems

Human children grow their teeth. Problems arise as consequence.

How would that be for species, wou have three rows with hundreds of teeth? How would they react to a human toddler with their special problems? – Anon Guest

The Edge Territories. Here there be Humans. Raashig was assured that, as a Selachid, the Humans wouldn't attempt to start any aggression. That said, such assurances were not a guarantee. There was always a minimum of one Humans who was drunk enough, belligerent enough, or just operating under enough of a wager[21] to try and pick a fight with a member of species who had eternally regenerating multiple rows of teeth.

Nevertheless, Raashig was more than a little bit nervous as a Human parental and their... pup? Cub? Kit? Their _young_... climbed aboard the transport to Huaddifoq Station. Humans were famously protective of their young. Dangerously protective. Raashig kept a weather eye on parental and child and attempted to look mostly harmless. If that couldn't be accomplished, then he would at least appear to not be hungering for Human flesh.[22] Raashig carefully watched them both in case they did something hazardous and did his best to be just another passenger attempting to get to their destination alive.

The Human young was small and irritated, producing a constant stream of complaining noises at the state of the world in general and presumably the taste of anything they put in their mouth in particular. The parental, meanwhile, jiggled the young about and attempted to entertain them or at minimum provide them with something to gnaw on. They noticed Raashig. "Don't mind Cal, they're chucking a grumpy because they're getting new teeth."

Individually, those words made sense. Arranged in that particular order... not so much. Raashig could guess at the meaning of 'chucking a grumpy'. Firstly because Humans referenced throwing all sorts of things, including non-tangible concepts. Humans could throw up, throw down, throw a fit, throw a wobbler, throw it all away, and even throw a party. They could lob a softball, chuck a howler, or straight-up hurl. By comparison, 'chucking a grumpy' was almost intuitively obvious and was ready to join anyone's linguistic toolkit.

The Human young was busy chomping at their parental's fingers[23] with what looked to be completely vacant gums. "Your young has no teeth?"

"Not yet," the Human parental didn't seem to mind that their young was ineffectively attempting cannibalism. "They come in as they approach a year old. They do hurt coming out, poor little lamb."

Raashig double-checked the Human dictionary. Lamb: a small fur-bearing ungulate maintained for food and for the seasonal use of the shaved-off fur. The young of the adult Sheep. Sometimes kept as a pet - see file Mary Had a Little Lamb.

The file referenced was no help whatsoever. "This happens every time your young replace teeth?"

"Replace? No, we only have two sets of teeth, Powers bless. These are little Cal's milk teeth."

"You're mammals. The having of teeth impedes acquiring lactate?"

"Well, yes. The little darlings _do_ bite. Ouch. We call them that because they can still digest milk during that stage of their lives. I know. We're confusing."

Raashig felt some contribution was necessary. "My kind never not have teeth. They're always growing. Never pain for the young."

The Human parental shrugged and said, "I'm slightly jealous."

[21] With Humans, the likelihood of all three occurring at once is 1:1 odds. It's amazing what a Human would do for the sake of twenty Minutes or less.

[22] Cogniphagia - the consumption of an intelligent creature's flesh(and the killing of a cogniscent for such purposes), is strictly outlawed unless the cogniscent in question has made it part of their will and testament. There are many who assume that it isn't as regulated as it is and are still paranoid about the possibility.

[23] Centuries of experience have told Humans through the ages that there is no better chew toy for teething Humans than their parental's fingers.

#  Challenge #074: Health Spa and Karma Services

" _Death is a door,_

Time is a window,

I will come back" - Vigor (Ghostbusters II)

One human has this as his motto for life. – Anon Guest

They say that the lands of Death are the undiscovered country. They say that mortality is the absolute final frontier, because nobody comes back. Imagine thinking that that is your limit. Imagine being that ignorant. In brief, imagine life before necromancy.

Yes, yes, yes. Subverting the natural flow of the cycle of life and death, blah blah blah... Just. Listen. Medics and Clerics pull lives back from the brink of death every day. People call it 'saving lives'. They even call it 'saving souls'. When a Cleric resurrects an individual, it's a miracle. Yet, somehow, when _I_ do it, it's an abomination. Tell me where the line is! That's all I ask. A True Resurrection can be worked up to two hundred years after an individual has died. I can re-animate long-dead bone with less than half the effort and none of the free will.

I've even done it to myself. Human bodies are far too mortal for my liking. Too frail. Elves can live for up to eight hundred years, more if they look after their health from birth. They say that Dragons can live for a million years or more. Considering what they do with that time, it really isn't fair. Just because I'm a lich and something more, suddenly _I'm_ the bad guy.

Oh, do put that holy relic away. I'm not going to drain your soul or whatever. Look, you didn't even pay to get in. I've got the perfect gig going here, why would I mess it up with soul-stealing and blood sacrifices? I may be a shambling shell of my former self, but I'm not a _fool_. Yes, of course I need a bit of blood and some flesh, but I acquire it legally and, if you think about the entire process, ethically, too.

Of course the goats are a reserve source. They're among the few naturally malevolent species out there. They're only there just in case. I've yet to run out of wealthy despots desperate to cling on to power and life so they can continue being in power and alive.

It's the perfect scam. The first level is the spa that comes with some legitimate life extending therapies, there's a few potions for those with the right amount of gemstones, too. Those work for a time. On the next level... well, it _is_ dark magic. That's where they sacrifice some of their blood, some of their flesh. Some is used to power the spell and the rest... well... Even a lich has to feed.

The third level? When even dark magic can't help them maintain the illusion of youth, health, and vitality... that's when I extract justice. I ask them to sacrifice more. More money, of course. Enough to make a significant impact on their holdings. Preferably all the gold and jewels I can wring from them. Most, if not all of their fine clothes. Some of their land and holdings... then their lives.

They go to the sacrificial altar thinking they will live forever. They don't live. At all. All the wealth they've given me goes... well... I'm sure you've heard of the Sunshine Benevolent Fund. That nice organisation that houses the homeless and feeds the hungry... helps the helpless?

They... are me. I fund them with the wealth I extract from the rich, violent, and stupid. All I ever need is their flesh and blood to keep my undeath as it is. The extra nasty ones? I keep them around as thralls for a couple of hundred years. Let them toil for the luxury of others with their soul trapped inside and unable to do a damned thing.

The way I figure it, it's balancing out.

Now... do be wary, adventurer. You are perfectly capable of destroying this vessel and whatever you think is my phylactery. It's just... I'm not merely a lich. I've been doing this for longer than one memory can hold. I have backups. I have backups that even I have forgotten about.

I won't end.

All you'll do is impede me for a hundred years or so. Two hundred at a stretch.

There's a reason they name me Koschei... the _Undying_.

#  Challenge #075: Realised Set-up

_A character rips up some paper –_ writingprompts365

[AN: My hub site is down and therefore so is my prompts queue. In the meantime, I'm making do with the tag #writing-prompts on Tumblr. Normal services will resume as soon as we establish what 'normal' is]

In retrospect, maybe they shouldn't have taken the job from Lee R. "Slick" DeSchonko. In retrospect, letting Marvin do the negotiations was a bad idea. The Human fighter and trainee wizard was the most open and trusting of the group. In retrospect, more than merely some of their instructions were highly suspect.

"He said this was a map," said Lady Anthe, brandishing the offending paper. "It is a _placemat_ for a gulp-'n'-blow type food emporium chain called _Hork-it-down Harga's_. It shows every location of every Harga's in the realm... _and it's five years out of date_..."

Marvin looked suitably chastised. He looked worse than chastised. He looked downtrodden and ashamed and... one good cry away from the state he was in when they ungently removed him from that vagabond gang he'd fallen in with. "...'m sorry I was dumb an' didn't get it right," he mumbled. Then he cringed in anticipation of a blow to the head.

_I am not the worst heel in existence,_ Lady Anthe reminded herself, _I am cleaning up the debris left behind by the worst heels in existence._ She took a centering breath. "Just because you were fooled does not mean you are dumb, Marvin. It just means that you were fooled. I'm going to be angry and DeSchonko, and extract a full revenge later on. Deep breaths, Marv. We've got this."

"It's the only map we've got and we'll never find the Platinum Hoard with this..."

Lady Anthe gently took the paper map and tore it to shreds. "We don't need this. Kobolds can sense treasure within five hundred yards. The largest amount of Platinum I can sense is that way," she pointed. "Better yet... I can dig us there." She flashed her claws.

He was still cowed. "You're... gonna remember to... make the tunnels Human-sized, right?"

She sighed and patted the side of his leg. "Of course, dear. The sooner this is over with, the sooner we can get back to the rest of the team. And the sooner we can all function properly."

"Also," said Marvin, brightening up, "the sooner we can kick DeSchonko's butt."

"That's the way. Look on the bright side."

#  Challenge #076: Toughest in the Room

" _This thing all things devours:_

Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;

Gnaws iron, bites steel;

Grinds hard stones to meal;

Slays kings, ruins town,

And beats high mountain down." - Gollum

Humans are the oldest, wisest but also the most curious and reckless species in the galaxy. – Anon Guest

Humanity, thanks to various deep dives down one-way wormholes, is officially the oldest species in the known Universe. That said, they are still a dangerously deadly egotistical child race who also happen to be the most outrageous Deathworlders alive. So many jokes begin with the words, "a Human walks into a bar..." but there are just as many de-escalation reports that begin with a similar event chain.

Some Humans are more ept than others at keeping things civil in civilised zones. Others were banned in at least forty stations. Some, for instance, could make an entire bar full of brawlers freeze by taking out their crochet. Such was the case with Old Nen.

He was an old Human in a job that didn't collect old Humans very often. Further, he had walked into the four PM bar fight, sat in Big Thanno's chair, and started to crochet. Third, he ordered a sarsaparilla float. Ordinarily, these would be the things that would _start_ a fight, but this? Stopped it cold.

The assorted assembly of thugs, ne'er-do-wells, and bad-asses paused in mid-throwdown as the old-timer calmly kept crocheting squares as he waited for his beverage. Once a circuit, he would change colours and check the size against others he had done previously. Never before had an old man, crochet, or a soft drink with ice cream in it been such a font of fascination for so many.

They watched Old Nen as he hooked coloured yarn into a series of interlinked loops. They watched as he put the work away and carefully spooned froth and ice cream into his wizened maw. Watched even as he sipped at it through a straw and finally consumed the last, melty blob of ice cream. Watched, captivated, as he ordered a whites-only omelette with steamed vegetables, followed by another sarsaparilla float.

Big Thanno finally got the nerve to speak. "Sir," he said, "You must be one tough son of a flakker to do all of that in this joint."

Old Nen, back to crocheting squares, barely bothered to look up. "Son... I've never wanted trouble and always been able to get out of it when it found me anyway. What do _you_ reckon you should do with this knowledge?"

Big Thanno looked to Mean Dave, then 'Bloodsucker' Jones. Both of them shrugged. He sat down and said, "Reckon you could teach me how to do those, old timer? I got a sister having a baby and I'm guessing they're good and cosy."

And sometimes, very rare sometimes, Humans forget about attempting to be the biggest, meanest, bad-ass in the room and work out how to get along.

#  Challenge #077: Friend? Friend!

Alien Snake-/Reptilian species meet the Human Race. Unfortunately (or Fortunately, depending on your viewpoint ^^) first contact happens between a snake lover (Pet the Snek !) and a proud Ambassador. – Anon Guest

_Many unfortunate First Contact situations have arisen because one or more cogniscent species in the encounter strongly resembles another's phobia species. We therefore recommend that all cogniscents finding themselves within a First Contact situation take a few moments to stop all voluntary movement, put down any tools, and properly assess the situation in a calm and logical manner._ – An Everyday Cogniscent's Guide to Discovering Strange New Worlds and New Civilisations.

Hishesh was doing his best. Honestly. He had put down his tools. He had stilled himself as much as he could. He even displayed open and empty manipulating limbs. Despite all this, the mammal on the other side of this particular space in an abandoned hulk still kept making a long and loud noise. Hishesh had to admit that they had either an impressive lung capacity or a mastery of cyclical breathing. True to the manual, Hishesh made himself look smaller and moved his limbs in a semi-protective manner. An almost universal gesture to communicate _You are concerning me._

Finally, the mammal breathed in. _"OhmygodsyouarethecutestlizardIeversaw!"_ They were still loud, but quickly tempered their reactions. Empty manipulating limbs, a reduction in height, and a gentling of their voice. They may not have read the manual, but they were clearly attempting to put Hishesh at ease. _"Therenow, therenow. It'sokay. Iwannamakefriends."_ Open hand, low and exposed, clearly in an awkward position for any kind of sudden attack. _"It'sokay..."_

Hishesh attempted to follow the same protocol. Awkward manipulating limb pose. Slow pace. Singsong, gentle tones to the voice. "I know we can't understand each other," he crooned. "I'm trying to make peace too." Then, in a fit of inspiration, he tried mimicking the sounds the mammal had repeated. _"Therenow. It'sokay."_

The mammal startled. _"Iknewit."_ They briefly straightened and pressed their manipulating digits to their face mask. Taking a moment to breathe. Hishesh paused, too. Repeated the words, _"Therenow. It'sokay."_ without understanding anything more than their calming function. He added, "It's calm. It's good," and repeated that slowly.

"It's calm," said the mammal. Now that they were closer, Hishesh could see that their skin was oddly bald of hair. He had been taught that mammals _had_ to be fur-bearing. The only fur Hishesh could see was the twin strips of it above this mammal's eyes. Now a gloved hand reached out to touch Hishesh's. "It's good."

The hand was warm, protected by a thin layer of special fabric from all the hazards space could offer. Hishesh could feel the odd smoothness of the mammal's skin and he had no doubt that they could feel the slightly harder bumps of his scales.

Of the encounter, Hishesh would later write, _I had no idea at the time that this was not a traditional Human greeting, nor a typical Human reaction to reptilian life forms. I spent years in the company of Ambassador Annie Smith believing that Humans liked to stroke the scales of reptilians. While it is true that Humans will pet any living creature, they are not_ all _as amenable to petting some creatures as Human Annie was._

#  Challenge #078: Not Really That Deadly

Australia is a deathcountry. No talking back on that.

  * Giant Toads

  * poisonus Everything

  * f*ckt up climate everywhere

  * Birds, who defeated the Government (not even smart ones at that)

  * their Naming (Fairybread, Maccas,...)

Aliens learn of that from a human and an Aussie. (Will Australia receive an honorable Title of Deathcountry stage 5 or 5.5? You decide!) – Anon Guest

Deathworld classifications work on how many factors can be seen as "being out to get" cogniscents who live there. These factors being one or more of: Flora, fauna, mycota(fungus), environment, weather, and the local solar system's quirks or foibles. For example, the Deathworld Majangahi is class three because of a hostile meteor swarm that regularly peppers the surface of the world with small craters, as well as a hostile weather system and a large population of venomous creatures.

Few have ever been able to classify a Death _continent_. At least, not before they met Australians.

"Nah, seriously. It gets deadly hot the further north you get. Queensland's not only used to temperatures of forty see[24], but also humidity so thick we swore they'd grow gills." Human Davo flapped their hands on either side of their neck in an imitation of a fish. "You've heard the catchy song we have about the wildlife," they sang a snippet, "Redback, funnelweb, blue-ringed octopus/ Taipan, tiger snake, adder, box jellyfish..."

Gorx nodded. "Yes. This is why I am asking about the deadliness of this example continent."

"Island-continent. It's right on the cusp. Big enough to be a continent, but also small enough to be an island. We brag both ways in Aus. Yeah. We have a _lot_ of dangerous wildlife. Even the herbivores'll go ya. Then there's the bush. Backpackers go out to see the real Australia or whatever and end up lost and lucky to be alive. Shit. The leading cause of tourist death is bushwalking. Some are just... never found."

Gorx winced in spite of hirself. "And there are still many who aspire to undergo this passtime?"

"Yeah? The Aussie wilderness is amazing, mate. We've got flowers and plants that grow nowhere else in the world–"

"Some of which are poisonous," added Gorx.

"We've got the biggest variety of marsupials. Yes, a lot of 'em will go you. I know. The ones in the zoos are habituated, so they won't, but the wild ones? Caution is the word."

By this time, Gorx would much prefer the words, _run away_.

"There's also all the reptiles out our way. And yes - venomous. But the landscapes. The rugged beauty of it all. The rock formations–" _that eat tourists,_ "–the mountain ranges, the wide open plains... It's beautiful."

"Beautiful, and deadly," Gorx noted.

"Well. Yeah. Once you know how to stay alive out there, it's no problem. People just die because they didn't think ahead or take precautions."

"So this one island-continent contains hostile flora, hostile fauna, hostile _landscape_ , and you mentioned... _cyclone season_?"

"Oh yeah. Cyclone season. Summer and Autumn, for the most part. Wicked rains, a few floods here and there, some houses get ripped to shit, but most people are fine. Batton down the hatches, here comes another one," Human Davo laughed at this. "We're used to it."

"Your entire land is a class four. Perhaps even a class five depending on the death rates."

"That's what the other lot said. If it wasn't for Australia, Earth would be a Class Three Deathworld." Human Davo grinned. "We bumped it up to four."

"And the toads? The giant toads? And the enormous felids?"

"Oh, those were imports," Davo dismissed. "Nothing like the stuff that _evolved_ there."

_We're used to it,_ had to be the reason Humans went up into space and stayed there. Compared to hellscapes like Australia, the hazards of space were predictable and easily prepared for. They didn't need to creatively solve their problems with two bits of tin and some bailing twine. Certainly, the problems inherent in space travel were a lot more urgent and impactful, but... they could be _planned for_.

Nobody, in the history of history, has ever planned for anything like the Gympie Gympie tree.

[24] Celcius. For those still using Fahrenheit, that's above one hundred. Old School Aussies used to call this "going the ton" in Summers.

#  Challenge #079: Location, Location, Location

On a spaceship a human salesman (yes, you aren't even safe in space from them) promotes his Product "FlexseALL" (just Flexseal with a different name). He has the same attitude of Phil and showtests his products on literally ever Problem on the Ship. And it works!

Even on the leaks, the engine, the air vents,...

Go crazy with your own ideas. And thank you for your time :-) – Anon Guest

[AN: Thanks for making me see that with my own eyes. I think...]

_In space, no-one can hear you spruik..._ Danthar Regis had practically talked their tongue out about this product. Demonstrated until his elbows creaked. Showed them how it worked, how well it worked, its versatility in temperatures approaching zero Kelvin to thousands of degrees Celcius.

What he hadn't known, until he collected a reconciliatory sandwich in a local diner, was that most cogniscents who passed through that particular concourse didn't anticipate a long stay. So they wore their livesuits and heavily filtered all possible inputs to strictly the destinations or things they were interested in.

Dan groaned. "I spent two shifts[25], out there. _Two_. I used so many volumes of that for demonstrations and... nobody was paying attention?"

"You could always try Babel Street. They have people who pay attention."

"Only so they can heckle..."

The Gyiik behind the counter shrugged. "That is true, but at least you have an audience. What are you selling?"

"A liquid polymer sealant that acts like rubber when dry, no matter the temperature differential." Dan paused to consume more sandwich. Those Gyiiks who followed Nyohmnahm knew good food. "It's called Flexse-ALL. A portmanteau of 'flexible', 'seal', and 'all'."

"Clever enough," allowed the Gyiik. His nametag declared he was called Fil. "How useful can it be?"

Dan, still resting his tongue, slid across the bullet points. "Pretty flakkin' useful."

Fil examined the easy-to-read cardboard placard. "Ah. I know where you should demonstrate to maximise your profits.'

"Mmf?" said Dan around a mouthful.

"Inner Lower Left Fin Walk, just inside from the Elemeno. Lots of JOATs are going to love this stuff."

Dan savoured his mouthful. "I'm still taking the biggest, sweetest, most refreshing beverage you've got before I try again."

That was, according to all concerned, a given.

[25] A Galactic Standard Shift is three hours.

#  Challenge #080: Nacre or Facre

Pearls and Perlmutt[AN: AKA 'nacre' or 'mother of pearl'] are made by organic beings.

Aliens have never seen this Product before coming to Earth.

Of course, Earth has a new high-selling Export product. – Anon Guest

Calcium carbonate is nothing new. It's formed from two relatively common elements in the periodic table and simple life forms make it the Universe over. Only one planet has evolved lifeforms that uses it in a laminal form. Aragonite, formed in plates, refracts light in intriguing ways. Many species find ways to create it -or something like it- in laboratories.

Only Earth has creatures that make it naturally.

Trade in cultured pearls skyrocketed almost overnight. All it took was one paua shell pendant and Earth had the Galactic Alliance's undivided attention. As a novelty, it was fascinating. Nacre made by organic beings. Further, other organic beings had figured out how to _farm_ it before they figured out how to create it.

It was astonishing.

Tourism for Earth boomed. People wanted to see how the oysters and other nacre-creating life was farmed. Some had to visit in heavy lifesuits, but that didn't stop them. They came for the pearls, and purchased some shells, but they stayed for some other wonders.

Terran art, Terran performances, Terran garments[26]... it all boosted the Terran economy. Something for which the Terran inhabitants weren't entirely that happy about.

Then again, when one inhabits a wormhole cul-de-sac, one _should_ be grateful for all one can get. Even if it is driving naif tourists around to see the local sights.

The tourist trade eventually came to be known as 'shells for the shellheads' and industry on Earth... transformed. Including a healthy fake nacre industry, adding artificial nacre to shells that never had possessed any. Some early hucksters added fake nacre to coconut shells, trading on the ignorance of the purchasers.

What a good trade it was, until even the Terran authorities cracked down on its practice.

The time for falsity was long ago, save in touristy places where visitors can make their own 'genuine fake' seashells or pearls. There's even nano text on the finished product, proudly proclaiming it as a genuine fake from whichever seaside town happened to create it. Thus proving, once and for all, that tourists will buy anything.

[26] Often bearing the legend, _I visited Earth and all I got was this substandard outerwear_.

#  Challenge #081: Celebratory Explosions

A Havenworlder Group goes despite warnings and with offensive-warnings to Earth.

On New Year.

Yeah.... – Anon Guest

_Visit Terra! Invigorate your genome!_ the poster said. As a sales pitch, some would ponder its efficaciousness. However, the idea that exposure to hazardous situations could bolster a species genes through epigenetic influence was not only provable, but scientifically endorsed. In brief, the target audience were Havenworlders, and the pitch was super effective.

Havenworlders were warned, of course. Areas of Terra could easily reach a five on the Deathworlder scale. They're advised to stay in the Level Three and Level Two zones, like the safer cities. They're also advised to avoid certain Terran festivals, like New Year's. They are warned. Frequently. They are told as they enter the Sol system. They are told which holiday seasons are in play and what phenomena, behaviour, and celebrations to expect.

There is _always_ at least one group of Havenworlders who decide that the warnings are unnecessarily overstated. They go regardless of the warning, and set the offensensitivity filters way too low for their systems, and foolhardily go to Earth to experience as much as they can. Thankfully, livesuits for Havenworlders are fitted with biomonitors and automatic shut-offs exactly _because_ of incidents related to overconfident Havenworlders like these...

"It can't be that hazardous. The death toll from their storms is simply because Humans keep rebuilding where disasters strike." Hiti wriggled into their livesuit. "We've seen the recordings. They're kind of silly."

"The warnings for this season include copious consumption of alcohol by local Humans, sudden loud noises, atmospheric explosions, and startling displays of vivid colour," said Rikku. "This is not a safe exposure for us. We should readjust our settings."

"They always overstate these things. It's to avoid lawsuits[27]. We'll be fine. We're tougher than they think we are."

Long story short - they weren't fine. Two hours in to the New Years' fireworks, their automatic biosensors recognised that they were experiencing red-line levels of stress and shut down their sensory throughputs. The automatic saviour systems blacked out their viewscreens and replaced them with a calm, pastoral scene, their audio was replaced with soothing music. As for their physical safety, alert lights on their suits started flashing, and a signal sent to nearby authorities, who removed them from the scene of contention.

The Terran Tourism Board has since added further education about how Havenworlder Livesuits work. Both for the visiting Havenworlders, and for the Terrans in case they're nearby when a safety shutdown initiates.

No deaths have occurred from Terran tourism. Earth prides itself on that zero death rate, and regularly shames itself on the emergency intervention rates.

[27] This is also true, but caution should always be exercised anyway.

#  Challenge #082: Smouldering Leaf Habit

This is a page from the Safety Manual for Humans.

"...... _even if dangerous and self-destructive, some Humans will continue to light small fires for the inhalation of toxic substances ( To-ba-co) and will do so anywhere, if not provided a smoking-area._

PLEASE ALLOW THEM THIS !!!!!" – Anon Guest

[AN: Speaking as a lifelong asthmatic whose life has been put in peril by smokers - irresponsible tobacco addicts can go to hell. The prizewinner is still the bloke who lit up upwind of me as I was attempting to use my nebuliser -_- He especially can go to hell]

Taken from The Explorer's Guide to Surviving the Edge, by Gorx Thaarkyk...

Those accustomed to the clean air regulations of Alliance space will notice that there are no such regulations within the Edge Territories. Attempting to exercise your rights to clean and breathable air will be countered immediately with others' apparent rights to pollute their own air and everyone else's at the same time. Many who are addicted to toxic lung-delivery stimulants insist on their rights to inflict those toxins on others.

Many fail to understand that their right to inhale toxins ends when they exhale into public air. Most amongst that number are willing to violently defend this right. It should be taken as obvious that those wishing to explore the Edge Territories and beyond should wear their livesuits at all times. Pack twice as many toxin filters as you think you need.

Those who have safely returned from the Edge Territories advise that it is wise to avoid hiring 'smokers' when hiring Humans. These are Humans who are addicted to inhaling nicotine from smouldering leaves of a native Terran plant. Tobacco residue can inhibit an entire environment, and a majority of 'smokers' care only about maintaining their addiction than any consideration for anyone else's environment. 'Smoker' exhalations can contain over four thousand toxic chemicals[28], many of which linger in the environment. They adhere to the walls, and clog the on board air filters, and some who refuse to contain their toxins can cause an entire shipboard cleansing.

Of those who inhale toxins in that manner, if you must hire them, hire the ones who are amenable to inhaling their toxins in an enclosure designed to contain such hazards. Make certain the decontamination booth between their inhalation environment is sealed securely, with its own independent air cleansing system.

See the appendix on extremophiles and toxivorous life forms for the ideal air cleansing set-up in your environment, take special care in consulting the compatibility tables and for common allergens.

Do not attempt to make a 'smoker' Human quit their habit. This will only increase the hostility of the Human in question. If you do not wish to share your adventures with a 'smoker' - do not hire them.

28] From the [Take it Right Outside campaign.

#  Challenge #083: They Look Like Monsters

Humans meet an intelligent species who is nice, friendly, understanding and honest to a fault. A human vessel breaks down and they send the distress call to Help.

The Problem is, they look Like a horror movie Monster. Something that looks somewhat human but mangled, discolored, and just... wrong in all planes of existence. Not to forget their teeth, claws,etc.

They have the smell of rotting meat, decay and blood, when they are happy and they move through the vents for easy access.

How will the Humans cope with helpful Monsters and their Overall nice Attitude? – Anon Guest

It sounded like the plot to every horror movie that Terrans had ever made since the invention of fake blood. A spaceship crew stranded AU's from anywhere. Failing power, failing life support. Dwindling food supplies, and so forth. Stress upon stress with no hope of rescue. Until the Karmorp'se came to the rescue.

The first sign of contact was the docking clamps engaging with someone else's tube. Then came a flood of fresh air that was a blessing to all those survivors grimly clinging to their decor pot plants. Communication came next, first through simple pictograms, then via equally simple words. The greatest relief came with the knowledge that both parties spoke GalStand Simple.

The Karmorp'se were friendly and genial, they had an abundance of compatible supplies, which they eagerly shared through loading apparatus normally meant for Station docking. They were honest about everything and even managed to share a few jokes. They were eminently loveable and their voices sounded warm, sweet, and friendly. Eventually, suspicion raised concerning the lack of face-to-face communication.

The Karmorp'se, honest as always, said, "Regretting, face ours not looking friendly."

The Humans, in joking response, returned, "Species ours not looking friendly, Deathworlders us."

It took further minutes of friendly banter, but the Karmorp'se were eventually convinced to turn on vidcomms. What followed could only be described as an instant moment of regret.

They were Humanoid... sort of. The arrangement of neck, shoulders, elbows and other joints was not contiguous with a Human alignment. Their natural skin tone and hair growth looked almost exactly like a decaying Human corpse. Worse, they perspired a substance with a remarkable similarity to Human blood. In brief, the Karmorp'se had an appearance that was deep in the uncanny valley.

Every Human instinct told them that they should fight the Karmorp'se, reject them, alienate them, and otherwise stay well away from them. The only problem with this was that they had already bonded through verbal communications. There were some intense internal conflicts on the Humans' side. Relief on both sides occurred when the Karmorp'se revealed that Humans resembled legendary monsters from the Karmorp'se's past.

It's difficult to accomplish peace between species when there is an instinctual fear reaction on both sides. Humans, however, find a way. They will literally share their pack-bonding instincts with anyone and anything.

Apparently, the secret is to expose either parties to preparatory videos and briefings.

#  Challenge #084: To Share Caring

An Alien crew of Havenworlders tries to help their security-officer (a Human) to cope with PTSD-Flashbacks, Anxiety and Panic-Attacks. – Anon Guest

The ship's Human had been sedated after the Upset. They lay now in the darkened recovery room with gently glowing screens displaying the words, _You are safe,_ in the Human's home tongue. They would wake, eventually, but the trepidation amongst the Leseu crew was - what had happened to their Human?

Pack-bonding can happen in both directions.

Doctor Slysse faced a group of concerned, reptilian faces. "Human Hen is sleeping for now. Having consulted the reference material, I... I have to give the diagnosis of post-traumatic stress."

They didn't know precisely what it meant, but it definitely sounded bad. Th'ssi asked, "How did it happen?"

"Some traumas are especially shocking to the Human mental system," said Dr Slysse, dumbing it down for her audience. "From what we could decipher of Human Hen's vocal outcries, this particular trauma stems from the surprise meteor shower in Ankhthos V."

The crew winced. They'd all lost their tails in that one, and their Human had carried more than half of them into proper shelter, shielding some with her body as she went, but... "We all survived that," noted T'tenk.

"Humans have a natural inclination to recall bad incidents. This... This was apparently too close a call for Human Hen."

Hisses of alarm. A few frills raised in agitation. They had had no idea. Of course they didn't, because Humans had a bad habit of concealing their hurts until the last possible instant.

"We're going to be working with her to identify the list of triggers and potential calming maneuvers. The finished bulletin will be going out on shipwide comms."

Humans were supposed to be indomitable. When they broke, Humans broke _hard_. It took a lot to kill them, physically, but their minds could be more of a weak point. Sometimes, Humans could break without so much as a mark on them.

Human Hen could still be as strong and agile as ever, but certain things could trip her horrible memories of a worst day of her life. Descending whistles, for instance, or unannounced bass impact noises. Even a sharp crash of breaking china or glassware could get her leaping to cover the nearest Leseu from imagined danger.

The entire crew of the _Scenting Tongue_ loved Human Hen and didn't want her shipped off to a therapy complex.

So they changed their ways for her. They changed all whistle-codes for long-distance and urgent communication aboard the ship. They recycled all glass and china in the matter disassemblers and replaced them with more resilient materials. Metal trenchers and cups, with insulation layers where necessary.

Most importantly, members of the crew were more demonstratively grateful to Human Hen, giving her more than the requisite eight positive touches. They would ask, of course, and thank her for her bravery.

It worked.

Little by little, their Human was healing. It was never a straight path, there were bad days and there were excellent days, and they always took care to heed Human Hen when she fretted aloud about their relative safety.

It's the little things, she would later tell them, that meant the most.

#  Challenge #085: Flakkin' Weebo, Man...

There're always a big group of meme fans. Humans love their funny photos.

Aliens want to run when Big Chungus come and Hit Or Miss is the second favourite song in the room "of course first is Rick Astley's Never Gonna Give You Up." – Anon Guest

Memetic communication is dependent entirely on the familiarity of the recipient with the subject. Some, simple images with even simpler captions, are easier to communicate than, say, a mish-mash of images with contextual dependency that requires familiarity with their embedded memes.

Archivaas will be happy to inform that the peak of 'meme-ception' occurred in the noveau-post-post-dadaist period of the early Twenty-first century, shortly before the Green Revolution, and decades before the Shattering. The surviving images from that period require explanations of well over a thousand words, thus destroying a well-known Terran saying.

Not all Humans are familiar with all known memes, especially since memetic mutation is dependent on large, interconnected communities. Some in isolation have lost some memetic formats and, though re-education is quick, no joke is ever funny after it's been explained. However, some memes are universal, _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , aka "The Human Anthem", is one such example. _Rickrolling_ is another, as is _Loss_. In fact, it is quite difficult to predict the founding structure and subsequent memetic replication once shipboard culture starts to grow.

"Wheep, wheep," chirped one Human to another. The speaker was holding something hazardous and delicate.

The Human who heard this 'message' got up, out of the way, and offered, "Wanna Tom?"

The reply was, "Ye, k'th'x."

Human Diz ran down the corridor and retrieved a trolley and assisted Human Por in gently placing the burden securely onto the trolley.

Diz apparently switched to GalStand Simple. "Why no cart first?"

"None being back."

The remaining exchange was normal Human bickering through a common tongue. However, the initial exchange was noted and logged by the Guimbe crew in the area, filed under _Confusing Human Interactions_. There were several others, including a resurfacing of 'mood', the evolution of non-word noises as shorthand for longer and more complicated statements, and something called 'weebo'.

The Guimbe would _never_ understand 'weebo'. At various times, it was the name of the "ships' Gremlin", a call to cause chaos in a specific area by pointing at it, and a warning of impending chaotic activities during ship-local Silly Seasons. There were other uses for the ur-word, but the meaning escaped the rest of the crew.

It perpetuated rapidly, quickly became part of the Ships' Humans' cultural identity, and refused to be defined, even when the Guimbe were brave enough to ask.

The most they could get out of the Ships' Humans was, "Oh, man. Flakkin _Weebo_..." and laughter.

#  Challenge #086: Survivors

Humans have an oath, a promise they make to the world when they are born:

I will Survive.

Survive out of spite. Survive as a witness. survive as a warning to the future. survive so these stories do not disappear.

I will survive or else. – Anon Guest

Every living creature greets their first taste of life with a complaint. Brief or lengthy, living is worth making a fuss over. Humans, especially, enter their lives and rage at it. Fighting from the first moments of their existence. They are weak, helpless, covered in blood, and raging against the universe for daring to challenge them like that.

Humans are great survivors. They start by battling their Deathworld from day one. They fight the weather, they fight to eat, they fight disease, disaster, and deprivation. They fight their worst and eternal enemy - other Humans.

Some grow up and continue on their Deathworld. Others go out and fight the Universe. They fight the enemies of civilisation. They fight civilisations that are their enemies. They just... fight. Some, judged the most battle-ready of Humans, fight only their own circumstances.

Humans, living on a Class Four[29] Deathworld, invented the concept of penalising poverty by adding more economic stresses to the poor. To be economically disadvantaged on Earth is to be constantly fighting circumstances in which one bill can ruin an entire family's life. In the worst of the pre-Shattering Terran Polities, the poor, in low-value work that naturally exposed them to multiple pathogens, feared incidents of sickness because the bills from being made healthy would impair an entire family and send them into an economic death spiral where crime was the only opportunity for respite from the crushing pressure.

Then, of course, those with the easiest access to all the resources that could make every problem go away then blame those with no power or influence for using their last resort. The revolutions between the Shattering and the Reunion of Terran Worlds were regular and bloody, then ignored by the next generation of the super-wealthy.

The last case, before the Reunion, was known as the Revolt of Whispers. In an effort to control the Have-Nots, those who Had insisted on outlawing speech without a license. All that happened as a result of that particular bad law was that the poverty-stricken found was to talk without the listening devices picking them up. Whispers, as the name of the revolt suggests, were common. As was a form of sign language that the Have-Nots never used in sight of the Haves.

They organised in cells based around the households they served. Then came the Night of Knives. Two thousand wealthy families with the children taken from their mansions and given to families who lived in hovels, or had to travel for miles. With none in charge and none to control, the people left reverted to the true Human nature - sharing what they had and caring about others.

The children were not guilty of the sins of their greedy, amoral parents. The younger they were, the easier of a time they had with integrating into the remaining society. By the time the Reunion came, there were only a very few wealthy enough to influence any laws. The Revolt of Whispers was still fresh in history, so they welcomed the reforms that came from the Galactic Alliance.

At least... they have for now.

[29] Regions on Earth range from Class Three to Class Five (Australia) with periodic incidents into Class Six, which requires periodic bombardment by asteroids. There is some debate as to whether Earth should be classed as a Class four or a Class Four Point Five Deathworld because of this.

#  Challenge #087: Getting Into It

It's hidden in plain sight, of course if you've been Shown or found your way there it's where you go. When you can. When you need to. – Anon Guest

Just about everybody in the school despised Weird Ellie. She was too weird, too quiet, too strange. She'd come out with knowledge that nobody else should ever know about as if it were something everyone should know - once you could actually get her to talk. For the most part, she was silent. In class, she did the work and rarely spoke to anyone, not even the teachers. Nobody knew where she spent her lunchtimes.

Gangs of other kids would roam the campus, trying to find her hiding spot. Somewhere a weirdo nerd like her would conceal themselves to escape the mob justice of the playground. She was never in detention. She wasn't in the shady spots or nooks where the older kids went to conceal more grown activities - smoking, nudie magazines, cussing, and so forth - she wasn't even in the library. It was as if she vanished when everyone else thundered out of the classroom, and reappeared when class came back in.

What's weirder than that is... that's exactly what she was doing.

Mrs Anderson held me in during recess to finish a task before the next class. Of course I treated it like the worst punishment ever. There were only the three of us in the room. Mrs Anderson, Weird Ellie, and me. I was mumbling to myself as I put in only the barest amount of effort into getting it done without getting a failing grade, and Mrs Anderson was watching me.

Weird Ellie, sitting calmly at her desk in the front row, furthest from the door, took a sandwich out of her bag with one hand, and a big, thick book out of her desk with the other. I watched in amazement as Weird Ellie took a bite of the sandwich, opened the book, and... faded away.

It could not have been weirder if she'd opened the sandwich and taken a bite out of the book.

Mrs Anderson hadn't noticed. In fact, Mrs Anderson usually conducted class as if Weird Ellie wasn't there. The few of us who were entertained by Weird Ellie's actual activity in classtimes got no joy out of Mrs Anderson's classes. She was one of the few teachers who'd learned never to call on Weird Ellie.

"Mister Jones? Eyes on your work, please."

"But Ellie just–"

"Don't mind her, get on with your work."

It only took me a few seconds to figure out that Mrs Anderson was not going to believe me even if I did tell her what had just happened. Even with the evidence of the open book - pages idly turning themselves as if someone was still there and reading it - she would say that Weird Ellie had just stepped out to the bathroom. You know she's a quiet girl, Mr Jones.

So I got on with my work and dawdled at the last sentence so I could see what happened with the recess bell rang again.

When it did, Weird Ellie faded back into reality, her sandwich gone. She wiped her face with a handkerchief, put the book away, and dusted off her hands, quietly creeping off to the next classroom.

I hastily wrote the last word and dumped the essay off on Mrs Anderson's desk, chasing after her. "Hey! Hey, wait."

She hovered with her hand on the doorknob of her next class. "I don't like being late," she said. "And you can't hit me in here."

Had _anyone_ been able to hit her? Nevermind. "I saw what you did," I said. "How do you just... go away like that?" I was already thinking of a million things I could do if I could be invisible or vanish on command like she did. I could have all the fun in the world! I could eat my weight in candy at Joe's and never get caught! I could... I could do _anything_.

"It's too complicated to explain," said Weird Ellie, champion of complicated explanations. "Come by the library after school and I could show you. If you want."

Fantasies of being the Incredible Invisible Boy dancing in my head, I was eager to agree.

Three o'clock came, and I almost bolted for my bike, but I remembered. Weird Ellie was going to teach me how to be invisible. That was something worth missing out on afternoon catchball for. I made some lame excuse and snuck off to the library. Where Weird Ellie was holding a book. This was not the inch-thick thing she'd been reading during recess, but a thinner creation. "This is the easiest reading I could find without pictures," she said. "It's easier without pictures."

"What?"

"The imagining," she rolled her eyes. "You read the words and imagine what's there as if _you're_ there. I can Show you the way to get into them, but you have to work at it, too."

Ugh. Work. What was the point of being invisible if it was hard? Then I remembered that she'd made it look easy and decided to knuckle down. "Fine," I grumbled, deciding that I didn't have to like it. "Show me, then."

We sat together on a couch and she opened up the book. Black letters on yellowing paper just... sat there. "Imagine," she said, and started to read. "All children, except one, grow up..."

She took my hand and made me picture the things in the book and then... I was flying with Peter towards Neverland. Fighting off pirates and rescuing Wendy from mermaids and believing in Tinkerbell. It was very different from the movies. This was... this was _being_ there.

And then the story was over and I was back on the couch with Ellie and looking at the world as if I'd never seen it before.

I wasn't invisible. I had gone into the story.

Somehow... that was even better.

#  Challenge #088: Simple Bonding Activities

Havenworlders loves play with Humans Hide and seek. They can use amazing skills to hide. But even this game starts to be boring. So next game was tag.

But they forget that Humans can chase down anyone. Humans are predators and Havenworlders starts to feel like a delicious prey. – Anon Guest

_Humans can pack-bond through games, amongst many other activities. If your ship has an active Human, physical activity games are recommended. Similarly, more phlegmatic Humans can bond through tabletop games. If your Human does not prefer either of these, then ask your Human about their preferred bonding experience._ – From _You and Your Ships' Human_ by Gorx Thorgorx

"Peekaboo. I found you," said Human Ven. They were showing their teeth - a Human sign of approval. They were more lackluster about this activity than they had been half an hour ago.

"Are you getting bored?" asked Twibbit. "Or tired?" This was a concern. The care and maintenance of a Ships' Human was a complicated task. Human Ven was their first and bonding was a very important step. "Is there something wrong?"

"Everywhere I've been, it's been Hide and Seek. Don't get me wrong, it's a good game, but..." Human Ven sighed. "There has to be something else."

"What other low skill games are there?"

"Oh boy... Uh. Hide and Seek, we've done that... There's several chase games. Tag is the basic one."

"What is the game Tag?"

When explained, it seemed simple enough. One ran to capture the others, who were running away. The Lifthel thought themselves fairly fleet. Since Human Ven was familiar with Havenworlders, it seemed low risk.

What they forgot was that Humans were pursuit predators. It's not a fact that comes readily to mind, since most Human activities involve sudden action and long periods of relative stillness. In pursuit, however... it becomes easier to remember that Humans can operate for sixteen hours at a stretch if they wanted to.

Fortunately, Human Ven stopped the game when they noticed panic in the Lifthel. "Whoah. Whoah. Time out. Time out. Are you guys okay?"

Thirrt poked her head out from hiding. The dangerous predator was no longer chasing them, but adopting a posture of harmlessness. The threat had gone. The threat was calmly sitting and waiting. There was a lot of effort to combat instincts. It took a lot of time.

"We can do something else," said Human Ven. "Anything else. Roll-ball, for instance. That's a game that's non-harmful and fun at the same time. That is, if you want to keep playing. Is there a calming thing we can do?"

It seemed like the pack-bonding was working anyway. "We will need quiet time," allowed Thirrt.

"That's cool. We can chill and I can teach you _Kumbayah_."

Twibbit ventured out from a high nook. "Is this another dangerous Human thing?"

"Just a song," said Human Ven, careful not to display their teeth. "It's really easy to pick up..."

Pack-bonding happens in many, many strange ways. This was one in the top ten.

#  Challenge #089: Take My Hand

The tomboyish girl is actually not a tomboy. She has more dresses than you can imagine, she just understands that a dress is not suitable for her line of work – Anon Guest

In every village with a dressmaker, Lady Anthe would order a dress. The rest of their group would hear nothing more about it and honestly believed that they would never see them again. Even Wraithvine was mystified and ze had hundreds of years of experience with almost everything. The best ze could come up with was, "I'm sure she has her reasons."

She did, and she wasn't telling anyone a single thing about them. Not even when drunk. Even Rumtum failed to winkle any secrets out of her, and he could charm the back teeth out of an ogre. The entire affair was a mystery. They even followed Lady Anthe on one of her dress missions to see what she did with it.

The answer to that was to accept it, wrapped, and place it inside her Bag of Holding without any further fuss or bother. It was infuriating to the rest of the group. They despised a mystery that had no resolution besides Lady Anthe's evident and eminent satisfaction with her purchase. Left at a dead end, they honestly believed they may never know. That is, until the evening of the Winterfair Ball at Icecrest Mountain Estate.

It was there that she turned up in one of her dresses. It was astonishing for them, in their fanciest wear, to witness a Kobold in the frilliest, fanciest, most bedecked-to-impress dress she had ever bought. It came with a crown that set off her head frills. She may be small, but an outfit like that made her the centre of attention despite her diminutive height.

She, who had once gone by the name of Thief, who had once thought of herself as nothing, carried herself through the throng as if she were Queen of the entire realm. She commanded respect, and the crowds parted for her.

Rumtum almost choked on his fish. "Whoah..."

Marvin had to agree. "...gods..."

Lady Anthe looked like she'd never lifted so much as an eyebrow in mild irritation, and wouldn't know how to even hold a dagger. Her scales were delicately shined, some subtle makeup graced her face. If there wasn't an inch of her that wasn't glistening, gleaming, or glittering, it was likely concealed under an approximate acre of cloth.

Rumtum elbowed Wraithvine. "You do some good work, reform me, next."

"Some things are impossible," said Wraithvine. "Because most of what you see before you is Lady Anthe's own work." Wraithvine could recognise a few lessons. The dignified pace, the way to walk as if one was in command, the how-dare-you glare... but the rest? The dress, the decorations, the formal speech... that was all Chrysanthemum's doing. This was all her.

"I have to _work_?" whined Rumtum.

"Yes, that is one of the chief aspects."

"Uh," said Marvin. "Did you help out Miss Steelfoot too?"

She had a lovely dress, too. She had coiffed her hair to within an inch of its life. She looked like a competing queen who nevertheless held Lady Anthe as her best friend. Her feet were decorative ones that were made mostly out of glistening quartz, and held in slippers of polished brass and gemstones.

"No," said Wraithvine. "I never advised her on a thing."

"Could you advise me?" Marvin squeaked. "I wanna be worth someone like her."

"Start by telling her that," said Wraithvine. "See what she advises. Listen. Always. Listening is important."

"I could maybe work up to that. What do I talk about for now?"

"You could always ask her to dance," suggested Rumtum.

Steelfoot smirked as Marvin edged ever closer to her. He was slowly turning vermillion, like a– wait. _Exactly_ like a young lad braving himself up to ask a lady to dance for the first time. Oh good grief, he really had never asked a girl to spend quality time with him, before.

"Uh. Um."

"Of course I'd like to dance with you," she said, taking some of the pressure off. She let him lead her out onto the dance floor and started into the formal patterns where the most they touched was gloved palm to gloved palm. Somewhere across the dance floor, Lady Anthe had paired off with a Gnome of roughly equivalent height. Good luck to her.

"You look real nice tonight," said Marvin. "Not that you don't look real nice all the time. I mean. I appreciate– uh. You're usually... like... in pants. And you're hair's all... no frills."

Steelfoot decided to take this as a compliment. "Thank you," she said, "I'm sure you can imagine what would happen if I tried to wear this get-up on our regular adventures."

"Oh yeah, that dress would catch on everything and those feet are not made for stealth. Did you put little bells in them?"

"She shall have music wherever she goes," she quoted. "It seemed like a fun idea when I was making them."

"I think it's neat," said Marvin. "I think you're neat. I wanna be neat like you one day."

Now it was her turn to start blushing. This man was a sweetheart. "Really? Why?"

"So maybe you'd wanna be neat with me. Together."

#  Challenge #090: The Threshold

You'll need the wayback machine. A man stands in front of a door. It can lead anywhere. Dare you step through? – Anon Guest

Presented for your approval, the image of a man in a grey suit. The man is also in tones of grey. To see him, and the door he offers you, is to see into different realities where anything from creeping horror to sublime delight awaits on the other side. It is, without a doubt, the trip of a lifetime. If you survive, it will be a life-altering experience.'

If you don't survive... well... people disappear all the time, don't they? The missing, the absent, the lost... those who are there one minute and gone the next. The shadows in the corner of your vision. The sensation of being followed, only to find no-one there. Those are the ones who failed to learn the lessons in the twilight lands, and are doomed to educate the others.

There's no name for the realm into which the grey door leads. Not one that can be spoken without sheer tonnage of cultural load crushing the reader with its impact. Call it what you please. The twilight realms, the kharma zone, the faewraith... what matters is that those who enter it are luckier than you may believe. Those who survive to come back are forever changed. Whether or not it is for the better is not for us to judge. The judges, after all, have already done their work.

They don't choose just anyone. They can't. It takes someone special to attract their attention. A heinous example. A walking strawman. Someone who deserved it. Someone who earned it. Someone who needs it. Someone... someone like Mel. You might know someone like Mel. They have an opinion about everything and, though it sounds logical, though it _sounds_ reasoned and well-thought out, but is actually a parroting of the most ill-thought-out arguments to ever exist. The sort of calm, rational reasoning that justifies the murder of millions. You definitely know someone like Mel.

They are not always offered the door. Sometimes... they are Taken. Whisked away into the realms of Karma, where the world as they know it is turned upside-down. Where they see things through the eyes of their former enemy. Where the words they say as if they were true suddenly become truth. Where they actually _are_ downtrodden and victimised. Where their lies come back on them as truth. Where they are educated or punished, depending on the whims of those in control.

Sometimes, they are even shown what their ideal world would be like. Just to show them exactly what kind of hell it would be.

You knew Mel. You knew what a pain in the butt it used to be to convince him that lizard people weren't secretly running the government, that the world would not be better without "those types" in it, that women actually needed more rights and men needed some different ones, too. You knew Mel well, before something happened and he was either Taken or he met a grey man in a grey suit and walked through a grey door.

You used to know Mel.

He's changed, now. He's lost now. He's wandering forever in a purgatory of his own making. He's seen the truth. He's seen his lies.

He's seen... He's been... _beyond_.

#  Challenge #091: The Downside of Being Adorable

Humans love of all things adorable. There is an earth-cat like humanoid race that comes asking for help, and after humans find out they purr and act like earth cats protect that race with extreme prejudice while also hiring them to just to groom them and hear the purring. – Anon Guest

The Vrrrau are very different to the Meeyahndans. Though both are felinoid[30], their personalities and presentation are vastly different. The Meeyahndese evolved on the savannah, though a colder one. Their fur was short and close to their skin. The Vrrau, from a much colder origin, are significantly fluffier. They survived like the Meeyahndese did, through pack-like co-operation. They made being friendly their modus operandi.

Thus, when they needed help from the Humans, they knew all about various pack-bonding stratagems and use them for the benefit of all. They were stranded, needing, and in desperate need of some Deathworlders to help them with an otherwise impassable problem. They could hold their own, and survive for the now. What they needed was a way to move forwards and win out over just merely holding their own.

When they sent out the call, they sent it out in video as well as audio. So the Humans saw their voluminous, fluffy fur, their large, gem-coloured eyes, and heard their musical voices. The forces of telegenics won out and the Humans swarmed. Humans could never resist a cute, fluffy being. Especially one that had a slight speech impediment when speaking in GalStand.

In brief, whilst the Meeyahndans command respect, the Vrrrau demand adoration. Normally vicious, argumentative, rough, tough, and no-nonsense space marines were lining up to have a turn at gently stroking Vrrrau fur. The Vrrrau appreciated the haptic feedback, and it was more than some effort to stop most of the Humans from devolving into baby-talk.

Like most real matches, it was _almost_ perfect. There were little snags here and there because that was the way life worked. Hand a Human a being that is smaller, fluffy, large-eyed, and talked in a certain way... and they couldn't help themselves.

"Aw you so fwuffy an' soft, iss sush a dewight..." cooed "Bloodripper" Jones.

Merru, the Vrrrau under his hands, though purring, sighed. "Hyuman Dawwen? I talk wike dis because I have to. You have de awption not to."

"Bloodripper" Jones cleared his throat. "Sorry. You read like a kid and feel like a pet and... you just get at something in my head. If you want I should stop?"

"No," said Merru. "Tank you. I find your scwatchin' dewightfuw."

"And I find you dewightful," he said. Then added. "Whoops. Sorry."

The path of true friendship is never completely smooth.

[30] Their term. Most species are a little bit egocentric. What it's generally taken to mean is that the species are descended from felid stock, and similar in many ways to Terran cats. They do still follow the anthropic model of upright, bipedal stance, with free swinging arms on each side, head atop the torso, et cetera. What we egocentric apes refer to as 'humanoid'.

#  Challenge #092: A Lie For the Lye

The human smiled wickedly. "You know what they say about a man with nothing to lose?" – Anon Guest

His name was Marvin. He was a little bit hopeless, when it came to social interaction. He had started as a fighter in the sway of a bad gang, belittled for everything he said or did. Since he swapped teams, he had grown. Physically, mentally, emotionally. He was still pants at social interactions but the rest of his team were there to help.

Except... not now.

Wraithvine had literally vanished with the Mage Lord's last spell. Steelfoot was disarming the world's biggest trap, attached to the world's biggest literal powder keg. She had said the Last Words[31]. Now Lady Anthe had fallen and he was all that was left. He had nothing left. Nothing but himself, his cantrips, and the axe with the Hazel wood handle that was his casting focus.

The Mage Lord smirked in that oily way he had. "I'm not familiar," he said. "Do educate me and elucidate, I love to learn things."

He also had a Pearl of Power. Given to him by Wraithvine and invested with one of the true heavy hitters. Something that could obliterate the Mage Lord entirely and - because Marvin was within its range of effect, probably him too.

Tears fell, anyway. "There's nothing to stop him any more," he said, and invoked the Pearl.

Several things happened at once.

Lady Anthe's body vanished, and a sped-up voice in his ear -Wraithvine's voice- said, "You idiot, not above the powder keg!"

The world turned grey just as a sphere of flame burst out of the Mage Lord's chest. Even the fire was grey. There was a dying scream, but it was... deeper. Weirder than it should have been.

The world blurred, and he was looking at Steelfoot as she cut a significant piece of wire.

Colour returned. Wraithvine said, "Grab my cloak NOW!"

Steelfoot didn't hesitate.

Later, when the post-use effects of all the Haste spells had worn off, and they were watching the Malicious Keep burn, Marvin realised what had happened.

Lady Anthe had used Feign Death to escape the Mage Lord's notice and Wraithvine had employed Blink during that last attack. In fact, Steelfoot had been mere seconds away from disarming the trap that had immolated the entire town. surrounding the keep.

He'd donked things up but good. "Did they listen? When we told them to evacuate?" Marvin risked.

"Of course they didn't," said Lady Anthe. "That's why I spread rumours of the Itchy Blight."

Wraithvine laughed. "Oh gods, not the Itchy Blight..."

It was another one of Lady Anthe's Snipe Stories. It was -of course- a very deadly plague that started with an ordinary itch. Something you'd ignore on the day-to-day. Then, one might notice a red rash similar to flea bites on one's person. After that, it was too late. There were the spreading sores, and flesh rotting off the very bones of the sufferer whilst they still lived.

The only solution was to flee highly-populated areas and take frequent hot baths before the itch set in completely.

Rumtum, who had been hiding in Wraithvine's pack the entire time, said. "Of course. Five total strangers tell them to leave because their lord wants to blow them up - that can't be real. One Kobold warns them about a plague and all of a sudden it's 'head for the hills!' I can't _believe_ Humanmen..."

"It might have helped that I slipped some poison oak into the washing-house's lye..." allowed Lady Anthe.

[31] "You go ahead. I'll catch up." – the last words of anyone doing anything stupidly dangerous to help the rest of the team survive.

#  Challenge #093: A Glitch is But a Glitch

" _Don't forget me."_

" _My apologies, but I already have." – Anon Guest_

Synthetic emotions are a tricky thing for AI's. Some, like those created by the Consortium of Steam, feel deeply and without many complications. Others despise emotion and suppress it whenever it creeps into their experiences. Between those two extremes are those who have emotions, and are devastated by them when they are negative.

Their coping strategies for this are not always socially acceptable amongst organics. One of the more common methods is erasing all memory banks of things that could cause such upset.

Thus, when R0B-3 bade Human Stef farewell, it got... awkward. The former Ships' Human wrapped his arms around R0B-3's malleable silicon exterior and said, "Don't forget about me," just as R0B-3 erased all memory of Human Stef.

"My apologies," said R0B-3. "I already have." Ze watched the Human let go of hir. There was moisture in the Human's eyes.

"Aw flakk," said the stranger who R0B-3 couldn't remember. "It's okay, bud. I'll remember for you."

It was probably a heartfelt thing to say, for a Human. They literally did pack-bond with anyone. R0B-3 searched hir memory banks and found chunks of freshly-erased data and a memorandum from hirself not to pursue data recovery as the results would cause fatal errors centring around R0B-3's emotional core.

This Human must have pack-bonded with hir. "Thank you, Human. It is reassuring to know you have backups."

This made the Human smile and shed water at the same time. "I'll miss the hell out of you, Rob."

R0B-3 knew that this Human counted hir as important to them, but... ze couldn't miss someone ze didn't remember. Still... "I wish I could miss you without encountering fatal errors."

Farewells are never easy things. Only AI's have the option of choosing to forget.

#  Challenge #094: On Swift Wings

The ability of the human body to survive immense injury while also succumbing to the most bizarre things has always fascinated me.

For example, you hear of people falling out of airplanes and landing on the ground after crashing through trees, yet only suffering a sprained ankle and some bruises...

... _and on the other hand there's events such as the death of famous whiskey distiller Jack Daniels, who died from a blood infection caused by a broken toe which stemmed from kicking his safe in frustration after forgetting the combination. – Anon Guest_

You hear about them all the time and the reputation of their entire race swells until every last one of them seems like a phenomenon. Did you hear? One of them survived an entire fleet of Vorax whilst armed only with a Scootie Puff and a rubber band. Did you hear? They fell from an unsurvivable height and survived anyway. Did you hear? They had a fever beyond even their temperature tolerance and they still made it.

There's legends like Phineas Gage, who survived a metal rod right through their skull. There are numerous tales of Humans who have shot themselves in the head, only to live to talk about it later. Did you hear? One of them had their entire face ripped off by machinery _and they sewed it back on_... Hundreds of stories of barbaric, pre-Shattering surgery flood the rumour mills. The one about the Human who had their hand surgically attached to their leg to keep it alive until their mangled arm recovered enough to re-attach it. The thousands of cases of Humans who had holes in their brain cases. The Humans whose muscles turned to stone. The Humans whose entire bodies turned against them. The Humans who... Who should have died.

Less well spread are the genre of stories where Humans perished through foolish accidents or sheer bad luck. The Human who landed head-first on a set of decorative metal fence spikes. The Human who attempted to fly using a deck chair and a bunch of expired weather balloons. The Human who walked through a glass wall, did their shopping, and then dropped dead after they collided with a bollard. The Human who kicked a safe in anger and died from the infection. The Humans who killed themselves by attempting to avoid much, much milder consequences. The Human who attempted an assassination, jumped off a bridge, broke their leg, took cyanide... and died in jail after the authorities took them into custody. It's the _Humans_ who tell those stories.

They all start with, "Hey I know someone who..." and get wilder from there. They know someone who took a shit on a landmine. Who attempted to masturbate with a belt sander. Who knew what they were doing right up until that fatal moment when they would know no more. _Then they laugh_.

Humanity's resilience knows few bounds, as does their capacity for illogical death. There's one who was patently unkillable, who'd pick up everything venomous, poisonous, or otherwise dangerous only to smooch it and put it back from whence it came. _That_ Human died thanks to an unpredictable attack from one of the most phlegmatic, peaceful creatures known to Humankind. The roughest, toughest, most resilient can end like a candle flame in a stiff breeze - suddenly and without warning.

Some are told they have months to live, and stretch it into years. Some are the fittest creatures to walk their planet, and blink out of life between one step and the next. Nobody, not even Humans, can predict a Human's survivability.

Which may be one of the many reasons why they have the reputation they do.

#  Challenge #095: An Effective Apocollapse

" _Interesting Times" the four horsemen of panic. "Misinformation, Rumour, Gossip and Denial". And Boy! does this remind me of politics, common and the more toxic. –_ Knitnan

_This is the way the world ends,_ T. S. Elliot wrote, _Not with a bang, but a whimper._ How sad, how tragic, that it almost came true. For the Horsemen to ride, it wasn't necessary to have War, Famine, Pestilence and Death in force. No, they started much, much smaller. After all, it is from little things that big things grow. Little things like Misinformation, Rumour, Gossip and Denial. The other four came anyway, of course they did. It was the other four that blazed the trail.

Misinformation whispered in ears, of pseudoscience and ancient wisdom and of how many chemicals were in everything headed for children's bodies. Of how evolution would make children stronger if they fought disease naturally. Of course everything natural was better. Of course essential oils were the cure. That was why they were called _'essential'_.

Rumour tickled assorted earlobes with tales of how _those types_ were small criminals escaping the brutal justice of their more criminal overlords. How _they_ were sleeper cell members out to collapse society. How _they_ were a drain on the economy by having too many babies. People heard about _their_ ridiculous, unpronounceable names whilst on their way to pick up little Maqeyleigheigh and KVIIItlyn[32] from Yoga For Tots.

Gossip just had to hang around and say things like, _there's been an awful lot of missing pets, lately,_ or, _maybe it's a good thing that you can't taste what the meat is._ The already extant racism and xenophobia did the rest. They were essentially phoning it in.

It was Denial that excelled. Thanks to the invention of Sealioning, all they really had to do was use the phrase, _but how do you know..._ with various intonations and inflections to sew the seeds of doubt everywhere they went. There was also, _are you sure they're a reliable source?_ as a reserve, but the first one did most of the heavy lifting. Those already willing to believe in the malevolence of big business, big government, or big pharma were easily swayed, and subsequent prey for Misinformation.

The biggest trick the Devil played was to convince the world he didn't exist.

People stepped away from science in droves. They turned their backs on the truth whilst building altars to lies. Where vegans shut down cattle farms, Famine followed, because cattle land was never good for growing anything more nutritious than grass. Where anti-vaxxers gathered, so too did Pestilence. Where Gossip and Rumour worked together, War grew strong.

Belief is not inherently bad. One person can believe that the world is flat with all their heart. They won't harm anyone. However, when large masses of people believe in it, then trouble begins. Things that depend on the truth have to go, because their mere existence proves the truth. In the need to support belief rather than truth, science, knowledge, learning, all forms of advancement... die. In extreme cases, so too do the Believers.

It's almost happened, so many times. As a civilisation collapses, as the elites become more corrupt, the peasantry becomes more ignorant. Knowledge is lost because faith is more important than the truth. Rage kills reason. The people back-slide into barbarism. Yet there are always a few who cling to knowledge, who pass on science and learning despite the pressure to adhere to pleasant lies.

If you must worry about the fate of humanity, worry when there are no inquisitive minds left to ask even the simplest of questions. Fear not the huge conspiracy to hide the truth, it exists in every conspiracy theory that you may read. Fear, instead, the profit motive of everyone willing to sell you a solution. Ask questions, do research, learn, and especially teach.

The truth will remain without belief. We will not remain without knowing the truth. Seek proof. Absolute proof is that which can not be disproved. Employ the scientific method at every turn.

The true enemy is not the devil. It is the willingness to be ignorant.

[32] Pronounced 'Katelyn' because sticking a roman numeral in the middle of your kids' name makes things oh-so-clear. And yes, I have seen this as an actual name for an actual child.

#  Challenge #096: It Was Not Effective

A human goes to a Havenworld and an animal tries their very hardest to attack them. It is adorable! – Anon Guest

If there wasn't a precedent for optimistically-named worlds turning into ironic hellscapes, Human Caer would have named this world Elysium. The air was sweet, the water contained zero pathogens, the fruit and vegetation were simple and not even remotely infused with all the subtle chemical weaponry that Caer was used to. It was bland, but nourishing, so it had her grudging pass.

She didn't even notice the critter until she got back to her rough landing campsite. There, once the dinner was on the fire, she spotted the small fluffy thing vigorously butting at her right boot. According to the tracks, it had been following her for some time. It was cute - all creatures from a Havenworld were cute - and evidently pissed off.

"You're going to exhaust yourself, little dude..." Caer warned. She sliced off a piece of something tasty-ish and offered it in front of Fluffy's nose. Making friend should have been easy. Not with this little fellow. She laughed as it tried to bite her fingers.

She snuck in a little bit of the native fruit, and at least distracted Fluffy for a couple of minutes. Minutes that she used to slice up more fruit.

"So what'd I do to you, huh? Got too close to your nest? Or did I threaten your territory?"

As long as she kept offering bits of fruit, Fluffy was satisfied. It still sounded angry as it worked on the food.

"I get it, I get it. You want me off your dang planet. Bad news, Fluffy, I'm pretty much stuck here until I can rebuild my Klystron Manifold. You got any clues on that?"

Fluffy made a small growling noise, sounding like a kitten making 'back off' noises to its littermates at the food bowl.

"Yeah, I thought not," sighed Caer, and handed Fluffy another slice.

#  Challenge #097: All Nerds Together

There are many types of nerds. Science nerds, language nerds, sports nerds, food nerds, etc. – Anon Guest

"NERD!"

Al ducked the incoming half-cup of fluid. This was the third time in as many minutes. This was, apparently, what they deserved for wearing a Steampunk shirt, a TARDIS cap, and carrying a Tote of Holding. Not helping were the rainbow socks and the cargo pants with the belt and braces.

Al took a deep breath. Glared at the jocks across the way, and started walking towards the group of athletic types. They started laughing and punching each other. They expected a brief fight where Al was going to wind up in a trash bin. One of them got their phone out to film the happenings.

Al squared up against the big one who'd thrown the cup. They were wearing a sports jersey that Al vaguely recognised from the sports sector of the news. "You're not Albert Albertson. Why are you wearing his shirt?"

More laughter from the athletes. "Uh," said the Spokesjock, as if Al was beyond mentally damaged. "It's cause I like the player?"

"So you're a fan of the game, right? I bet you know every winning play Albertson ever made."

"Duh. Yeah. You probably missed out on all of them with your nerdy bullshit."

Now was not the time to explain how sport was not Al's thing. "So... you're a sports nerd, then."

The look on his face was something else. Al treasured it. "Wait. What?"

"You know everything about the game. You know all the stats for Albertson. You wear the merch to show your love for the game and the player. If you play Fantasy Football, then that's no real difference between that and D and D. It's just the rules of play that alter. In the end, you're still pretending your ideal team is doing what you want."

The Spokesjock looked stunned. The rest of them were questioning their existence. "You... wait. How?"

"So... do I get to throw a beverage at you, next time, or... are we cool?"

"Uh..." said the Spokesjock.

"I'll let you think about it."

With any luck, the new way of viewing the world might cause some peace. Which would be a pleasant change.

#  Challenge #098: Not Any Old Djinn Joint

" _There you are. We have to talk. I have another... project, for you."_

" _Victor Drath... yes... Something worthy of my services... or another one of your vendettas?"_

" _You spoke to me once of a... special item... which your organization had developed, one that could prove most beneficial for... certain goals of mine. Does that development still exist? More importantly, is it for_ sale?"

" _This is the world, Mr. Drath. Everything is for sale." – Anon Guest_

Of course, the Shadowy Figure had something to add. "And, naturally, everything has a price... It all depends on what you are willing to pay."

"First," said Drath, "answer my questions. Does the Crown of Edge exist?"

The Shadowy Figure smirked. "It exists."

"What is your price?"

The Shadowy Figure couldn't smile, being made out of shadows and dark mist, nevertheless, there was the impression of a smile in the shifting, vaguely human shape before Drath. There was a low, whispering chuckle. "Journey to Havensforth. Seek out the one known as Sunni Lethe. Once there, kill them, and leave this symbol in their hand."

It was a simple Cleric's medallion. Cheap pot metal, but the sigil was clear to anyone. "The mark of the Mother?"

"The Crown of Edge suits your purposes. This... suits mine."

Drath backed away. "That price is too steep."

"Then seek another deal, or seek another dealer." The mark vanished into the coalescing darkness. "What else would you have of me?"

Another step back. "Nothing today." He backed up, faster than he should have, to the gloomy door that was never in the same place twice. He was through it in a trice, keeping the pace that would neither attract trouble nor cause it. Through the twisting warren of the Pitts, and into more civilised areas of the city, where he could run without fear of arrows in his back.

He would never be coming back there. He would never seek out that... _thing_ again. Now he knew for certain that that creature had no interest in his success. Just an interest that any workman might have for a finely-crafted tool.

All things considered, this was a lucky escape.

#  Challenge #099: Celtic Legacy

There are some scientists that wants to make human look unbridled and untrustworthy. They make a bullet with weird mixture that makes humans aggressive and bloodthirsty.

Human [name] was spending some time with her co-workers when she feels a little pain in her neck, she blackout. When she wake up she was bonded by her friends and not her blood was on the floor, her and her co-worker. – Anon Guest

Like all problems in the known universe, this one started with ambition mixed well with hatred and xenophobia. Those three have forever been a toxic combination and will ever be so. Beware them, no matter the pretty cover stories they wrap around themselves.

Nevermind the name of the instigator. People like those are best forgotten, anyway. They had their justifications, they always do. The Humans were everywhere. They were outnumbering civilised folks. They had a barbaric faith. They were barbarians. They were toxic. They had horrific traditions and history. They smelled bad. Take your pick. They were always and ever will be pretty words surrounding a core of unreasoning hatred.

It culminated in a tiny dart no bigger than a carob seed. The toxin within was as clear as the soluble material that was its casing. It was a work of art. It was a work of evil. They called it 'berserk', after the raw savagery that some Humans were known to be capable of. What they had done was find the perfect formula to trigger any given Human into their deepest, most brutal fight-or-flight instincts, and ensure that the switch was flipped to 'fight'. This, they reasoned, would highlight exactly what the Humans could do to the Alliance. They were not wrong.

Human Bunni never saw it coming. A brief, sharp pain in their neck almost went unremarked. They thought it was a mosquito, midge, or any number of bloodsucking insects that were a plague on any station or vessel. The casing dissolved slowly, so the connection was even more tenuous. Humans had an extreme lack of connecting the dots between cause and delayed effect. That way, the attacker reasoned, there would be less need for the safety of their Human-proof shelter.

What they never expected was the depth and strength of Human pack-bonds.

When Human Bunni went from sweet and chirpy to irrationally angry in the passage of minutes, the other Humans realised that something was up with that. So, too, did Bunni, but their method of articulating such was incomprehensible to many. They were angry. Incomprehensibly angry. Looking for an enemy to fight and finding none.

It was Human Larz who literally picked Bunni up and let them struggle in hir arms. By then, the other Humans were swarming. They knew what do do with Adrenaline overload.

There were zero fatalities. Minor injuries. One case of post-adrenaline nausea - who was Bunni - and a lot of therapy requests.

No doubt that 'berserk' would have worked - if the Human considered themself in an area full of enemies. As it was, the remainder of the Alliance is retroactively grateful that the hateful one who invented it marked it as a failure.

#  Challenge #100: Kitchen Parley

" _Let's see how strong this little 'rebellion' is." I walked to my son's door and knocked. "I know you don't feel like talking to me, but I wanted to let you know there's pie in the kitchen." I set up the plates and took out the pie, and was very happy to hear the creak of his door. – Anon Guest_

Teenagers had to be the most misunderstood age grouping in the world. They were given all the responsibilities of adulthood but one - the responsibility to make their own decisions for themselves. They were expected to act like adults whilst simultaneously being treated like children. Worse, entire crowds of people were smothering them with conflicting instructions, escalating expectations, and endless insultations.

In a period where biology demanded they rest in order to grow and develop, society demanded that they work as if they were already fully grown. The response to science revealing that teenagers operated best later in the morning, that the human brain absorbed information in smaller bites... was to set earlier school hours and longer classes for more hours. Blend all of that with the growing awareness that the previous generation expected them all to fix the world that their elders wrecked... and the famous teen attitude was a natural consequence.

Attitude like the one that came slouching, slinking, resentfully glaring from his room to the kitchen counter stool. It was the sullen smile that broke at the sight of the garnish on the waiting slice of pie. A flag toothpick, bearing a stylised dove with an olive branch on a white field. The parley flag. I said, "I'm listening."

He didn't even last until he got halfway through the slice. "Carrow Anders died, last week."

The most popular kid in the school. The most promising student in the entire school. I hadn't heard. "No. What was it? How did he die?"

I expected something like a car accident or an overdose or maybe some bloody crime, not, "Walking while black."

The same people who protested that slavery ended "five hundred years ago"[33] would also protest that the 'young thug' deserved to be filled with bullets for disrespecting authority. "But he was so careful... I remember that speech..."

My boy chewed on a chunk of beef. "Sweater vests and bow ties ain't bulletproof."

I took a sip of juice to think. "So... that was the exact wrong time to go into the college and future speech."

"Yeah."

"I apologise for my bad timing. If it's any defence, I wasn't aware of the circumstances."

He stabbed a few peas. "Not your fault. Didn't tell you."

I poured him some of that horrible conglomeration of flavours he loved beyond reason. "I'm still listening, if you want to vent."

A deep breath. Tears that he dared not shed in front of his friends. "What's the point? We all try so hard to get out from under and they keep grinding us down, and they always tell everyone we're worse'n animals. They were in fear of their lives, so Carrow deserved to get like five hundred bullets in him just 'cause he was walking..."

I rushed around that counter to hold him tight. Weeping with him. "We all know that cop wasn't scared. He was stupid. Too stupid to know a good young man from a bad one."

"What's the point? He was the best kid in the school and they just– they shot him for walking wrong. They just–"

"The point is to keep trying. There will come a time when we don't have to work twice as hard to be seen as half as good. A day when we're judged as equals. A day when we're not feared. We have to keep working for that day because they sure as hell won't."

"It's not fair," he mourned.

"I know. It's not fair. We just gotta keep on trying because it's all we got."

[33] True facts: slavery is not over in this sad world. It officially ended in the United States as late as 1990, when Mississippi finally ratified the relevant constitutional amendment. That's not even thirty years ago.

#  Challenge #101: Dem Deathworlder Bones

' _What do you mean, "Earth was more dangerous before humans arrived"?'_

' _One word of you bro; "Dinosaurs".' – AmberFox_

Here's the thing about Deathworlds - numerous extinction events make the surviving branches of the evolutionary scrublands stronger and more terrifying than the ones that got wiped out. Sometimes, that isn't always that obvious.

So when Havenworlders see the reconstructed skeletons of saurian life from the increasingly aptly-named Terra, it's understandable that they freak out more than a little. There's nothing like seeing the ossified remains of a Triceratops and subsequently learning that those were "harmless herbivores" from a nearby Human. It's worse when the Human in question is aged 7-10[34].

Mediks are on hand for the under-prepared. There are even a few _Humans_ who are underprepared for a small child infodumping vast amounts of paleontological information at anyone who asks a simple question.

Vrrri practiced her breathing as she looked at the bones turned to stone. Meanwhile a small and slightly sticky Human was explaining that these weren't the _real_ bones. They were replicas made of far sterner stuff, moulded from casts that they took of the originals, and didja know? They never found a complete skellington. That's a projection of what the whole one _could_ look like based on like five partial skellingtons and a lot of scientific ex-trapping-lateness.

This particular Human was five, and had apparently absorbed all this information with little in the way of assistance. Their parental, sitting on a comfy bench with a big, thick book, absently corrected them with, "Extrapolation."

"Yeah, that one," said the child. They took another inhale-of-doom[35] and took up from where they left off. Didja know? This one is one of the ones with a modern relative? Like some survived the K-T asplosion - _explosion, corrected the parental_ \- and they turneded into _ducks_. Not like magic or anything, they evolved to fly and eat more food and got small over _billions_ of years. That old duck could eat us up in like four bites -nyarng nyarng nyarng nyarng - but if you throw a modern duck a piece of bread, you could make it real sick.

The most disturbing part, Vrrri and other Havenworlders reported, was how graphic and simultaneously _delighted_ the young Humans were to impart this information. What they may lack in vocabulary, they made up for in descriptive mime and vocal onomatopoeia.

[34] Humans aged 7-10 have a boundless enthusiasm for dinosaurs. It's as natural as small girls being magnetically attracted to pink. Some may even grow up to be palaeontologists. Be prepared.

[35] People who mention someone's topic of obsession are familiar with this. That deep and rapid intake of air that means, "Someone has mentioned a thing I love beyond logic and reason and I MUST SHARE EVERYTHING I KNOW!" Those people know how to make themselves comfortable for the nodding and smiling they must subsequently do.

#  Challenge #102: Not Easily Broken

" _Everyone has a point where they snap. Question is, human, where's yours?" – Anon Guest_

"Depends on what you mean by 'snap'," said Human Liss. They were already three-quarters broken. A thousand small injuries adding up to more than a few big ones. They had been caught without their livesuit during this particular raid and over half of those minor injuries were accidentally self-inflicted. The rest were acquired in a way that had "the other guy" in a whimpering ball of pain if they managed to survive at all. "If you mean the point where a Human starts getting violent, then that went zinging by the instant your lot smashed Stabby."

Lord Theep, Conqueror of Worlds didn't appear to notice that one warning. "You seem... subdued. You're paces away from collapse. Humans are tough, but they're not _that_ tough."

"I wasn't finished talking," said Human Liss. "There's other ways to snap. Emotionally, where the heart breaks and thought ends, and a tearing heart comes out in screams. And, as you said, physically. Where the body breaks down and nothing more is possible. Finally... there's the soul snap. Where everything else, every other failure, every other break... simply fails to matter."

Only now did Lord Theep, Conqueror of Worlds realise exactly where Human Liss was in the stages of snapping.

The Human had had a rough journey all the way to this final confrontation. Their body had broken, their heart had broken, their temper had certainly broken... Just when it seemed that a Human was ready to collapse... one last straw was all that was necessary - Lord Theep had thought - to completely render Human Liss helpless.

One last straw could break a camel.

One last straw made a Human into something... else.

Lord Theep, Conqueror of Worlds barely lived long enough to realise his mistake. He didn't live much past that particular revelation. His name lives on as a lesson. Do not attempt to break Humans past their snapping point. When they _really_ break, they break you too.

#  Challenge #103: Some Came Along

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxLa6QgqM2w> _– Anon Guest_

Terrans believe in ghosts. Well. Most of them do. There's some phenomena amongst those sensitive to infrasound, magnetic radiation from electronica, and liminal spaces. There's also the growing Esper population who are unaware of their native abilities and prescribe activities or voices to spirits.

However, there are more than a few... incidents... that defy the explanations of science. Echoes in dark corridors from feet that aren't there. Whispers just out of understanding. Ships made of nothing but light, crewed by wandering skeletons, _that fly through stations that weren't there before they died_...

Then there's things like the Flying Dutchman, the stars of yesteryear, and random entities manifesting small tokens of their presence throughout both Edge Space and any areas of the Alliance where Humans can walk freely. People who never saw the launch of Apollo 11 come to space stations and decide to move in for reasons that elude everyone, even the Humans who seemingly brought them along.

There's a 19th-century housewife who tidies the shelves of Catastrophe Station, piles up dirty dishes, and makes tea and scones. They see her, sometimes, literally bustling along relatively vacant hallways. There's a 14th-century bard who picked up modern ballads and plays them to the night cycle on his lute. There's a 20th-century movie star who peeks into shop windows and sprinkles glitter for the Cleaners.

...all only visible in the dark. All only appearing in the empty places. Seen by few.

They're not all good, though. There's more than a few poltergeists who upset drinking vessels, or prefer to keep a specific shelf clean by ejecting its contents clear across the room. There are those who make the seams of the bulkheads bleed, or effigies weep, or manifest any number of foul liquids in random spaces.

They go where the Humans go. Many say that Humans bring their ghosts with them, and for all that they subsequently say that ghosts don't exist, those words might as well be true. Species who never encountered such phenomena meet with them wherever the Humans go.

It frustrated many, including Troxxam Fenrio, who found a Human Ambassador one day in an Unsuitable Food Eat, working their way through a soda that had been embellished so much that it counted as both liquid and solid food. He introduced himself and thanked the Ambassador for her time, then asked, "Do you know much about the phenomena that follow Humans?"

"Oh aye, I'm familiar," she said. "Sommat ye want tae know?"

" _Why_?"

She snorted. "Yeah, that's a popular one. The usual answer is 'why not', but think of it like this: we bring our faiths with us. We bring our legends with us. Nobody says nowt about it. When we bring our... _oddness_ with us... people start tae comment. Our ghosts come with us.... because they choose. I mean, if you spend near a thousan' years hauntin' a pub, it makes sense ye'd want a wee bit o' variety, eh?"

When she put it like that... it sort of did. In the peculiar way that Humans made any sense at all. "They had opportunity to... wander... on Earth, did they not?"

The Ambassador plucked some fruit out of the flocks of cream in her alleged beverage and ate it. Then she said, "Some did."

#  Challenge #104: A Morbid Fascination

<https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Huo3CtZaYMY> _is a Good example._

Humans are (at least in comparison to other species) obsessed with End-of-the-World-Scenarios.

Aliens find this strange/bizarre and question a human. – Anon Guest

Human Raz was taking personal time to de-stress themselves. In this case, the relaxing activity involved yelling at a screen whilst their hands spasmed along the surface of a small, plastic interface. The Human's dialogue was not coherent or relaxed. It mostly consisted of things like, "Come on," or, "Arse," or, "Eat it!"

Ryx was confused. "I was told you were in relax mode." Ze kept hir distance, just in case. "What is this activity?"

"Playin' a game." Flashes of light illuminated Human Raz's face. "Yes! Die! Die! Die ya bastards!" And then they cackled. "Yes! Made it. This damned level. Shit..." They stretched and let go of their interface. "Zombies and post-apocalyptic survival noise. You wouldn't like it."

"I do not understand," said Ryx. "You play at survival?"

"Well. Most of it is shootin', lootin', and scootin', but yeah. It's something my people have had a fascination with since - I dunno. Probably before organised entertainment." Human Raz shrugged as they rearranged themselves on their rest platform. "We've had stories about the dead coming back since forever. Zombies are just... a little bit of that. The latest incarnation, if you will."

"And the other thing. The post-apocalypse?"

That earned laughter. "Civilisations rise and fall with the control and abuse of power, my little lizard friend. Humans have had a fascination with civilisation falling in an unrecoverable way since we realised that they could." They aimed their control and the screen showed what had once been a magnificent edifice. Now fallen into disrepair and ruin. "Look upon my works, oh ye mighty, and despair..."

Ryx was concerned. "This should be something to be cautious of, yes? The ruin has come and your kind learned?"

Sigh. "Yeah, you'd think that... Nothing as big as a thermonuclear war, but... lots of people being idiots about everything just so they could make a buck. Rebuilding from _their_ mess was a lot more trouble than this game is."

"And there were no zombies?" Ryx guessed.

"No, zombies are made up." Human Raz didn't say anything about apocalypses. "You can watch if you like. I'll turn off the gibs and the jumpscares."

Ryx felt that ze had gained enough of an education on Humans. "No. Thank you. I just wish to ask..."

"Go on."

"You play this to _relax_?"

#  Challenge #105: Some Improvements

You are a therapist who insists that all are welcome. This is why you now know the identities of both heroes and villains. – Anon Guest

Y'know, for a therapist, I'm... kind of unobservant. I mean, sure, I know I can't help everyone, but I listen well and I try my best, so it kind of works out. That, and I take doctor-patient confidentiality _very_ seriously. I'm one of the few people who knows who Captain Magnificent is when he's not in that ridiculously sculpted suit.

I... also happen to know who Master Malevolent is. Sometimes, they're even booked for the same day. They pass each other by in the waiting room and barely say 'boo' to each other. So mild mannered, so cool that butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. But that's not what this is about.

What I've noticed are... safety zones. Master Malevolent doesn't hit businesses or city features where I'm likely to do business, carry out my routines, or otherwise live my life. Similarly, Captain Magnificent steers his Super Battles away from the same zone. People noticed before I did. What I noticed where the huge numbers of people sub-letting, and the sudden rise of Megarise complexes where business and residences merged.

They call them Arks, since they contain just about everything everyone wants to keep safe, and I'm currently pondering moving into one. They're fully integrated complexes with indoor parks, amenities, facilities... everything. Frankly, it would be nice to live in an environmentally sensitive building with a park literally right next door, and edible forests to visit for seasonal fruits and vegetables.

It was when I looked over the new city map that I saw it. Everyone was moving into the districts where I lived and worked. There were large clumps of movement into the area where I routinely jogged to keep fit. There were clusters close to where I lived. There was a thin band along the bus route I took to my office, and another cluster where I worked.

The entire city had noticed that I was, in essence, good luck. Their businesses, their livelihoods, their friends, family, pets... everything was safe if it was around me.

Simply because I helped heroes. Simply because I assisted villains with their problems.

Something else had to be done.

It wasn't enough that I helped them with their issues. I had to resolve the conflict between the two. So I became a messenger of sorts.

"Let's talk about the ethics of the stock market," I attempted to Captain Magnificent. "Why do you think trading in shares needs to be protected?"

"They're a legitimate business. All legitimate businesses need to be protected."

"They may be legitimate, but they're not... good. In order to make share prices attractive to investors, other businesses exploit their employees. Did you know that productivity has risen over three hundred percent in my lifetime, but wages have only increased by five? It's getting to the point where people can't afford to live."

"They..." Captain Magnificent stumbled. I knew what he'd been about to say, _They should work harder for their keep,_ but I'd already stated how much productivity was already underway. "They do?"

"The price of Insulin alone has skyrocketed to the point where one ounce is more valuable than high-market jewellery. Don't you think that's more than unfair, what with more people suffering diabetes?"

At least he walked away thinking. The very next time Captain Magnificent saved a wealthy person from Master Malevolent, the thanks he required was a permanent drop in insulin prices. Fifty percent, he said.

To Master Malevolent, I said, "We can't fix everything with violence. I know it's tempting, but there are other ways to express your disappointment. Besides, destroying infrastructure only encourages the rich to cry poor and demand even more money from an economy that can't support them."

"That is true," he nodded. "But I feel trapped by circumstances. If I try anything too ornate, Captain Sparkly-pants–" his name for Captain Magnificent, "–is going to zoom in and nearly smash my head."

"Have you considered... something more subtle," I had been thinking about this for some time, ever since the brochures started going around for the new Arks. "You have the capital and resources ready to build a fully-eco Ark. Reclaimed materials, green energy, recycled materials, the entire nine yards. Hell, you could even pave the roads with that remastered plastic waste."

"I... don't see where this is going..."

"What you do is sell overpriced lofts to the rich - under lease - and give away others to those who can't afford them for free. Or, if you're economically minded, for the low, low cost of assisting with the running of the facilities. Offer things that no other Arks have so that it seems exclusive and desired..."

"Diamond buttons on the express elevator?" he said with clear sarcasm. "Magnetic keycards that charge for egress? Made of gold?"

"Exactly. Make them think they're getting everything and charge them everything at the same time. Make them _want_ it so hard that they won't care about owning that third yacht. Chip away at their holdings while you're at it. Surely they don't really _need_ a handful of shares in whatever. Surely they don't really need that resort in Switzerland. They can ski in the artificial snow hills, with the best medicine available, should they take one of the slopes a little too hard..."

Light dawned. "Oh. Oh, that is nearly evil. I'm impressed."

"Meanwhile, they're funding all the subsequent Arks, and making certain everyone else is getting fully equal treatment as should be their rights. Homes big enough to be comfortable in, medicine at affordable prices because _your_ factories make them so, and fair wages _in_ those factories."

He laughed, "Are you trying to turn me good again?"

I said, "I'm... trying to find other ways to even the balance. If you want keep Captain Sparkle-pants occupied, may I suggest a little vandalism for those old Civil War monuments?"

"I know just the ones you mean," he left the room laughing. He really should watch that. Even disguised as a civilian, he laughs just like Master Malevolent.

#  Challenge #106: Wait for the Sanitation Cycle

I imagine the first few times Humans encountered other species there where a few, biological problems. I mean, at least one person must have touched something without testing it first. – Anon Guest

There is a general rule for space: never enter an untrusted area without your livesuit. The corollary, of course, is: don't trust anywhere. Even the cleansing booths have to be checked thoroughly for compatibility before you should try bathing in them.

Some species can't go near the solid form of salt. Some species can't abide theobromine. Some species are averse to light. Finding one definitive means of cleansing oneself is complicated at best and impossible at worse. There are species that bathe in fine dust. There are species whose lungs are shredded to a bloody pulp in fine dust. There are species for whom the mixture known commonly as _soap_ is deathly toxic.

In space, there's a multitude of reasons to be careful in the shower.

There have been a multitude of attempts to assure everyone's safety when bathing. After all, there are _numerous_ species whose unwashed essences are toxic to others. Being clean is simply another courtesy and neglecting it can lead to assault charges.

They attempted segregated cleansing spaces, but after three species and fifteen genders, that got problematic. They attempted to allow people to self-regulate their cleansing, and faced lawsuits from cogniscents too tired, too dazed, or too lazy to check the previous settings before they entered a booth. They attempted video tutorials, which the jaded and the impatient skipped.

The current solution is the scanner/booth combo. Travelling citizens of the alliance have to go through decon anyway, so the decon booth with all its stringent procedures became adapted into the modern cleansing booth. The only difference is that the cleanser is toned down to less rigorous extremes of cleanliness. The in-built scanner reads the subject within, and uses the results to provide menu options limited to what would be found preferable in that species. From there, even the most determined, most addled, or mostly asleep can only give themselves a mild, unpleasant, but ultimately unharmful surprise.

Evacuating waste whilst inside, though considered bad form, is tolerated on the basis that everything washed off is recycled one way or another in the end. Since it takes longer for a booth to eradicate solid waste, patrons are politely sequestered until such waste is absorbed by the sanitation process.

That, studies have found, is more than enough to stop them doing it the next time.

#  Challenge #107: Bowls of Fresh Air

And that was the day that they found a "havenworld" that was actually deadly to anyone not born there. – Anon Guest

The Havenworld/Deathworld scale judges only how hazardous an origin planet is _for its inhabitants_. How many factors are in their favour or, in the case of Deathworlds, actively trying to kill them. For the Phyltrathi of Planet Fluff, their planetary abode was paradise. All they had to do was take a deep breath and the spores and threads in their air sustained them more than adequately.

It was quite a shock to them to discover that not _all_ intelligent life were filter-feeders. It was an even bigger shock that other cogniscents didn't derive the same amount of nutrition out of their spores or threads that they did. Worse... it could have easily be taken as a poisoning attempt. Fortunately, more rational minds prevailed.

First, scans revealed a lot. They helped both sides solve a lot of problems before they _became_ problems, let alone ambassadorial incidents. Necessity, the primary parental of invention, created the Spore Fogger, a means to limit the exposure of the toxic Phyltrathi foodstuffs to the Phyltrathi enjoying them. Once they dissipated to less than five parts per million, they were relatively harmless.

Just because a Havenworld's biota is uncomplicated doesn't mean that it's easy for others to handle. Just because it's a Havenworld doesn't mean it will be easy. Five Ambassadors for Humanity were present when the Vorax attempted to conquer a recently-terraformed colony of the Phyltrathi.

They came, they landed, they took three steps onto the fine fuzz that passed as Phyltrathi plantlife... and promptly expired. Their bodies raising clouds of fine particulates that infested and killed the entire Vorax raiding party. Some spores took the opportunity to grow in some substances the ship was made of, as well as the fresh corpses and material on board.

Inside a week, the entire structure was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape. New subspecies sprang up from the hyphae borne by previously unknown metals.

One of the less reliable Human Ambassadors, listening to the happy report about this, said, "Remind me not to flakk with you guys, the next time we get tetchy."

#  Challenge #108: I Smell Your Stink

Hey mom, hey dad.

Glad to hear everything's going well back at home. Hope lil sis is still practising for her band tour. Everything here's good, except for one thing. My roommate is kind if the equivalent of a sentient space skunk. I mean, I don't blame them, but you know how strong my nose is! I bet it's not even that bad! So yeah, everything else is fine.

Love you guys,

Katie – Anon Guest

Humans tend to boldly go where they really shouldn't belong. On a colony world called Gloom, eyesight became secondary to smell, and dark-adapted humans could -eventually- sniff out their fellow beings by scent trails alone. Call it obstinacy. Call it impracticality. Call it being stubborn. The Gloomies simply found it easier to live with their under-lit world rather than bringing the light with them.

Now they brought an intensely perceptive sense of smell with them as well. Not such good news for Katie, who was rooming with a species who had... shall we say... very detectable musk glands. Katie knew it was rude to comment on Thaak's distinctive odour, but...

There was just something about hir that make Katie's eyes water. For the first two weeks at the Academy, she dreaded going back to her dorm. She could sleep there with the benefit of discrete nose filters, but... being awake with that smell everywhere was not her ideal situation. Then, without warning, the strongest notes of the odour stopped cold. Thaak's scent became... way less offensive.

Katie was too polite to ask about it. For two months, things were much better. For two months, she could socialise with Thaak and spend time with hir between classes. She could even begin to add her own personality to her bunk space. Then... without any warning... the Smell came back.

It, like the Foul Ole Ron of legend and lore, was a Smell that had its own personality. It's own presence. Its own gravitas. It was a Smell that should have been paying tuition fees if those were still a thing. It was a Smell that needed its own student pass for sure.

Tears streaming from her eyes, Katie broke. "What happened?" she asked, trying not to overtly gag. "Why?"

Thaak swore. "Sorry. Sorry. It's a fertility thing. Hang on." Ze went scrabbling through hir belongings and ducked into a privacy corner to adjust some things inside hir clothes. "Sorry. I give off more musk when my fertility cycle comes around. I thought you didn't mind."

Oh, so it was like... certain Human necessities. "I was being polite. We don't mention anything you can't fix in a few minutes, y'know?" Crimson mortification invaded her face and razed her normal skin tone to insignificance. "I just... avoided the problem."

"Oh," said Thaak. "Like I avoid you during your bleeding time."

Katie hadn't even noticed that one. "That bothers you? I thought I was being discrete."

"My... predatory instincts can be curbed. Thanks."

Katie took a deep breath. "Okay. Obviously we need to practice being rude to each other. You have a way to contain your... uh..."

"Musk."

"...musk. And I can look at better ways to contain the blood scent for you. We're roomies for a long time. Might as well figure out how to be amenable."

Hospitable Negotiation was meant to be one of their advanced classes. These were among many who got started early on that one.

#  Challenge #109: Cut-price Demon

You are happily going about your day when you vanish in a puff of smoke. Suddenly you're standing in a ring of candles. A sorcerer holding a tome looks pleased at your arrival. Turns out Earth is hell, and we're the demons, and you've just been summoned. – Chara Dreemurr

Most low-wage jobs involve a stupid cardboard hat and the phrase, "can I take your order". None of them involve the chance to sit down because people like to _see_ the underpaid working for their pittance. _This_ one had equally daft plastic horns as part of the polyester uniform because _Caf-fiend_ was that type of place.

So when Mar stepped through the steam of the bean roast and into a circle of runes, it was not quite obvious that things had gone awry. The stockroom was famously blowing out lights and the smell was similar to that of the dungeon. It was the feel of the cobblestone floor beneath her sandshoes that alerted her that something was off. That, and the robed figure with the enormous tome. Also the skulls currently being used as candleholders. The dead chicken on the stone altar was a definite violation of health and safety regs.

"Avaunt, foul fiend," said the hooded being. "Thou art mine and must therefore do my bidding."

"What?" she said.

"Avaunt, foul seductress from the nether pits! Thou art bound and my minion until I dismiss thee! Bend to my will, temptress!"

Mar stared at him. Seductress? Temptress? _Her_? The last time she'd glanced at a mirror, her look was the same as any millennial lucky enough to have two to four jobs - permanently tired, and the sort of skin tone/physique combo one could only get from too little sun and too many carbs. "Sorry. I... didn't get the memo. What's going on?"

"I have summoned you here, succubus, to do my will on this plane, and no more. Thou shalt not tempt me with your perfection, for my will is great and my power even greater."

Okay. Whatever. It beat the shit out of scrubbing toilets. Mar shrugged. "Yeah, fine, don't expect much, though."

"My first demand, demon, is wealth. Render unto me treasure enough to purchase a kingdom."

Mar snorted. "Listen. If I could do that, I wouldn't be wearing this sucky uniform or working four jobs just to pay the rent. I can't snap my fingers–" she snapped her fingers, "–and make it... rain... pennies... from heaven..." but she had. Pennies were manifesting. Spontaneously appearing close to the rafters and jingling down on the cobble floor. She snapped her fingers again and said, "Silver." Now the copper coins were bright, shining silver coin. Snap, "Gold," and gold coin rained down. Snap, "Diamonds," bright, sparkling diamonds worth millions. Snap, "Rubies," blood red and glistening with richness. Snap, "Emeralds." Snap, "Pearls."

"Cease!"

Mar snapped her fingers again, laughing. "Holy shitballs that was amazing! If I could do that back where I'm from... _Damn_ , son."

"And cease your blasphemous tongue."

Okay. So he wasn't hot on swearing. She could deal. It wasn't as if he demanded she pay for her own hairnets or follow some heinous instructions for out-of-fashion makeup or had a dress code. Hell, it had been twenty minutes and he hadn't even tried to touch her anywhere. As far as bosses went, this was a win. "Sorry. I could never do that before. Like. Just a handful of this mess would solve _so_ many problems, you know?"

He was busy sweeping the wealth up into sacks. "You cannot bring the things of this world into your realm, demoness. Even the lowest of fools knows that that is folly."

Mar sneaked one of the gemstones in her circle into her pocket anyway. Worth a shot. "So... what's next on your wish list, bossman?"

Sweep, sweep, sweep. "The heart of the fair lady Ellysandra."

Mar winced. "Okay. There's a _lot_ that can go wrong with that wording. One, I could actually remove her heart and have it here and her dead. That's not in my moral calendar, so no snappy the fingie. Two, forcing love would not be real. That's... euw. That's just gross. That's nasty. Not doing it. _However_... I could give you some pointers. Some hints and tips. Some ways you could win her attention, you know?"

Sweep. Sweep. "Why would I want her attention when you could just give me her love?"

"Don't be gross. Love has to be earned or it isn't worth it. I mean, what do you even like about this woman?"

He described her physically. There was nothing in there about her personality, the things she liked, or even the little flaws that he thought were cute. No, it was all breasts and raven hair and milky skin. Mar gagged a little, and decided to see if she could manifest a person matching that description.

Snap. There was someone like that. Or something _like_ someone like that. It was a puppet. Empty of will. Mar was fine with playing with that. Mar snapped her fingers again and made it perform abject adoration towards her 'master'.

He seemed happy, and dismissed Mar back to the stockroom of _Caf-fiend_ without any further care. No time had passed, apparently. At least, the supervisor wasn't chewing her out for taking too long to fetch another batch of frozen cruller dough.

At her first chance, she checked her pockets for the gem. It was just a rock, here. Damn.

Two weeks later, when she was working in Hamburger Hell, another cloud of smoke had her standing in the circle again, with a much better-dressed, though pissed-off, dude in a robe in a basement. His 'lady' was attached to his leg. "MAKE IT STOP!"

Mar snapped her fingers. "False love isn't what it's cracked up to be, is it, Tiger?"

"That - that _thing_ is not what I wanted!"

"It's what you said you wanted. Milky skin. Curvaceous breasts. Raven hair. Everything you liked."

"But it's not _her_."

"Yeah, like I'd do that to a real person. You see how gross it is, right? To love an object and not a person?"

"Yes, yes. Dismiss that homunculus at once. I am done with it."

Snap. It was so much smoke. "So. This lady Ellysandra. Do you talk to her?"

"Uhm..." said the sorcerer.

Typical incel nerd. Mar restrained herself from rolling her eyes. "You're just infatuated with the idea of her. You can't really love someone without knowing them first. Talk to her. Strike up some conversations. Get to actually know the person."

"But that's hard," he whined.

"Yeah," said Mar, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Want me to snap you up some courage?"

"No, no, nonononono..." he urgently waved his hands. "No. Thank you. I shall do this myself."

Two weeks later, and he had her back. "SHE'S DUMBER THAN A BAG OF ROCKS HOW THE HELL CAN I HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH THIS WOMAN, OH MY GODS..."

Mar laughed. "See? This is why you should get to know people. So she only talks about surface stuff? Weather and the price of pomegranates and how good so-and-so's surcoat is looking?"

"Needlework," he said. "As if I care what an overhem lock stitch is."

"You might if you made your own robes," Mar told him. "Don't sneer at fibrecrafts until you've tried them yourself."

"The point is that she and I are in totally different realities. She doesn't care about the natural philosophy behind why a flower is shaped the way it is... she just goes on about the spiritual significance of the _colours_ and whether fairies would sip from it. Faeries _don't_. They much prefer the blood of foolhardy men."

Mar laughed. "Sounds like my kind of people."

"She can't tell the difference between astronomy and astrology, and that hurts," he complained.

Mar said, "Yeah, you need yourself a nerd girl. Just... don't geek check her as a means of making sure she's worthy of being your friend? That's a guaranteed turn-off. Nerd girls have a hard enough time just being nerds, okay?"

"There aren't any–" he stopped. Paced the room. "They said the third time I summoned a demon, I would set it free of the circle. They said it was inevitable. Now I see why." He had a pair of silver bracelets. "If you put these on, you will not be able to perform acts of purposeful harm, but you will be free to roam my world and go where you whist, and do as you whist otherwise."

Mar said, "What's the catch?"

"That _is_ the catch. You are free to go where you will and do as you will. I... I have a much better time conversing with you than I have... any other maiden in my world."

She said, "Dude, in this universe, I can literally make it rain money. Just let me have a comfy chair and some wifi and I am _great_."

That, and it didn't exactly hurt that her pasty, padded self was an example of high-class beauty in this realm. Or that she could do other demonic things... like getting a USB to connect on the first try. It was not a shock to learn that her place of origin was hell. It actually made a buttload of sense.

#  Challenge #110: Self-Entertainment Hazard

" _Oh god. Please, I beg you, stop this terror-inducing nightmare!!!"_

"... _dude, I'm just clicking my pen."_

" _W H Y ?"_

" _I dunno, I'm bored"_

(highly sound sensitive alien meets human with non-stopping clicking habit ^^) – Anon Guest

Fact: Humans need enrichment in their environments for the best mental health. Fact: Humans can accept a vast variety of potential entertainments, even whilst performing other duties. Fact: If a Human's environment is not sufficiently enriched, the Human is capable of making their _own_ enrichment.

Fact: Clicker pens still exist.

Thorqak tried not to twitch as the Ships' Human erratically played with their clicker pen. All attempts to confiscate it had failed. He knew this because he had a dozen of them in a secure storage area, and yet Human Zi found more. Or, Thorqak was starting to suspect, the Human could manifest them out of thin air. All of Human Zi's time on duty, when both hands were not needed for a task, were accompanied by an arrhythmic click-click-click-click-click.

Five days in, Thorqak had run the gamut of alternative enrichments for Human Zi. Music only gave Zi a rhythm to maintain. Visual entertainments distracted. Actual, quieter fidget toys failed to grasp Zi's attention. Tactile fidgets became neglected. All that persisted was the insistent click-click-click-click-click whenever Human Zi was on duty.

It sawed away with a blunt blade at Thorqak's last nerve.

"Can. You. _Please_. Cease that nightmarish noise?"

"Dude, I'm just clicking my pen."

Thorqak _knew_ that. He could hear it. He could do nothing else but hear it. "Why?" he begged, oozing exasperation.

Human Zi paused, and paused clicking their pen. They contemplated the object in their hands as if seeing it for the first time. "Uhm. I dunno. Just bored, I guess."

Thorqak had already guessed that much as well. "Then what could you possibly need to keep you interested enough to not peck my soul away _with your infernal clicking_?"

Human Zi put the pen away. "I'll install some casual games on my station. That'll give me something to do when I have nothing to do."

Thorqak could only pray that it would work.

#  Challenge #111: Dire for Dairy

" _Just go out and do it, it's not that difficult."_

" _I mean, everything is difficult when you have anxiety, so yeah." – Anon Guest_

Everyone thinks anxiety is just being nervous. _Just go down to the shops and buy a thing of milk,_ is not that easy. For an anxious person... it's more like this:

First, one must prepare for the journey. Supplies checked twice and preparations for the journey ahead inventoried thrice. Once that is done, the brave must face the dread portal to the unknown and unpredictable. Exposed to the judging eyes of all around, the journey is just beginning. Any neighbour cannot be your immediate friend. One performs the rituals of normalcy, but they are not heartfelt. Perhaps the others can tell.

The path lays before one. There are many routes one could take to reach one's goal. They all have their hazards. The back way, past many unfamiliar places, where you are instantly an outsider just by setting foot there. The secret path, where the walls are high and the sun doesn't reach. Where the visitor can not see the other end of the path. Where an attacker could be lurking and ready to strike. The open way, where all can see, and all can watch. Where there are many crossings and many avenues for traffic to cause one harm. One must choose wisely.

Whichever set of perils one chooses, one must face them. The vicious hounds, the birds that might attack if the season is wrong. The speeding vehicles all driven by people not paying attention to where they are going or what they should be doing. The lurking fellow or the wandering maniac with sudden murder on their mind. Following the rules is not enough for these hazards. One must always be on watch. One must always be wary. One can not let one's guard down for an instant.

Finally, the goal is in sight, but the perils are not over. What if the price has changed? What if there has been a recall? What if there is a rush for the milk? What if the apocalypse is happening and people are entering into fights for the last of the lactose because _that_ is the only known cure? What if currency has changed? What if the bank has voided one's credit card? What if the maniacs were waiting for one _here_?

What if the door snaps shut on one whilst one is reaching for the prize? What if it's expired? What if it's infected? What if it's both? Then, prize in hand, one must face the most foreboding obstacle in one's way.

The final guardian.

What if they hate one? What if they won't take one's money. What if they steal one's identity? What if they secretly mark one for the maniacs in the shadows? What if they actually want to know how it's going today? What if _you're_ the customer that finally makes them snap and go on a murder spree?

Then the same perils await on the way home as they did on the way there. Maniacs on every corner. Terror in every shadow. Risks with every step. _There could be someone following you home._ So you had better pick another path, but which one? The shortest? The most convoluted? And what about the milk?

Finally, through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, one reaches one's sanctum sanctorum with one's body intact, but the mind and soul in tatters. One contemplates the final prize of this adventure, and wonders if it was worth it.

Next time. The roomie can go get the damn milk.

#  Challenge #112: From Twilight to Darkness

Someone from an Eyeball Planet experiencing a rotational planet. Or Vice versa...

_Eyeball Planet;_ <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9NOW3AormJc> _– AmberFox_

It had taken a long time for the Stremath to reach the stars. They thought that the winds blew all through the Universe, before repeated proof showed that the winds would only ever blow them so high. On the plus side, they had what one might call a 'boost' into reaching the upper atmosphere before rocketry had to be employed to get them further into the reaches of space.

It was only there, after they had found other worlds more suited for themselves, that they found that the Universe had other surprises. Alien life would _not_ always evolve in twilands like they had. These creatures had never needed special pads on their hands and feet just to adhere to the landscape. They had never learned to farm moss nor invented mist baffles. They had never burrowed into the earth beneath them nor found the windless shelters far more prosperous no matter their internal heat or cold.

They had tiny eyes and an upright stance and did not reflexively grip the ground as they raised themselves upwards... ever upwards. They had limbs that just... dangled loose. If they set foot on a Stremath world, they would be literally blown away and then torn to ribbons. They were, entirely, too alien.

Yet they were also willing to attempt to understand. They wanted to communicate. They were expert mimics, plucking repeated sounds out of the air and copying them almost exactly. It was almost frightening how quickly they did it.

It was even more astonishing when they learned that these creatures were closer to the Galactic normal than their own. They referred to the Stremath and others like them as "laminar life", and meant no insult by it. When explained, it was plainly descriptive and not at all diminishing. They called themselves "Deathworlders" and did so with a trace of pride. Though they weren't the roughest nor toughest of the qualification, they were patently indomitable; dangerous only when they set their minds to it... and "mostly harmless" the rest of the time.

The really interesting bit was when they learned that they, too, classed as Deathworlders. It was something they had simply never considered before.

#  Challenge #113: Halfway There

Humans always enjoy finding anyone they can have a "same hat!" moment with. This time, it was over "Livin on a Prayer" by Bon Jovi. – Anon Guest

The Humans were bonding memetically. Grurx had heard of this, but never seen it happen, so she picked a safe space to observe.

Human Sem and Human Rys were singing, and showing no signs of stopping. The lyrics had the same beginning, but the finishing couplet was always different. The singing seemed to be a competition, immense fun, and creative, all at once. For Grurx, it was merely confounding.

"Whoooaaa, we're halfway there," one or the other would sing in turn, then they would add a handful of nonsensical words that, though they scanned and rhymed, would not - could not - be part of the original melody.

So far, there had been: kitten on a stair, lipstick on a pear, lizard in a chair, drumstick for a were, tuutuu on a bear, and the lady maiden fair. The Humans were laughing themselves _silly_.

"I got one, I got one," said Human Rys. "Whoooaa, we're halfway there... whoa-oh! Kid beyond compa-are!"

More peals of laughter. If Grurx didn't know any better, she would swear that they were inebriated. They did not have, and had not consumed, any alcohol at all in the hour that Grurx had been watching.

On one hand, the Humans were bonding, and that was always a good thing. On the other hand... This would be another Thing to investigate for the already overworked Human Interaction Catalogue.

Humans. They had to make everything more complicated just by being there.

#  Challenge #114: What's in a Name?

There is an old myth among the Edge folk that the only thing that could stop an overly enthusiastic human from causing unwanted destruction is to command them using their full names. But in order to do so you must first find their secret name. Their "Middle" name!

And it must be true or why else would they have it hidden? – AmberFox

Tyroq had seen it happen. The young Humans were causing trouble in a public zone. Climbing structures that should not be climbed, throwing things at each other, and racing around slower cogniscents in a hunting game that involved too much shrieking.

Their parental unit tripped their final nerve and barked, "Thelis Jaime Marsden, Allie Rys Marsden, you stop that nonsense _right now_!"

Like a miracle, they did. They walked sedately back to their parental, much more subdued than they had been a few mere moments ago. They remained docile - even for humans - for the remainder of their time in the public zone.

Tyroq was so astonished, ze forgot to document it. Nevertheless, it stuck in hir memory for years. Therefore, when they were stationed on a vessel with a Ship's Human, the first thing ze did was take the opportunity for a rude question.

"Is it true that your whole and complete name has power over you?" ze asked.

Human Zare answered, "Well. Yeah. When your pripa uses your entire name, you know you're in deep dung. You gotta use it on official documents, like the super-official ones, and all that jazz. Gotta sign your whole name on them, too."

That... was an interesting concept. Humans had 'nick' names, first names, family names... and now they had a secret name. Their middle name. To be given it was an exercise in trust, and to use it offensively was a violation of that trust tantamount to stabbing them in their back.

Tyroq had spent more time around Humans than many others. Ze understood. They were peculiar creatures, these hairless mammals, but they were honourable in their own way. Trust like that was never something ze used lightly. Which was, interestingly, one among the many reasons why the Humans trusted hir so easily.

#  Challenge #115: Expressions of Exasperation

any day is a good day when you're not on fire

alien looks over nervously – Anon Guest

Humans have such interesting ways to express disappointment with their life at the moment. They can range from the simple and insincere, "Kill me," to the complicated and difficult to explain to newcomers, "Today... the spiders flakked me." One can never tell which of the multitude of expressions any given Human would use.

Qosyk, the roommate of Human Jae, kept hearing different ones for every bad day that Human Jae had. They were not frequent downturns, but they were always varied. The first, Qosyk would always remember. Human Jae came back to their shared quarters just as Qosyk had settled into hir sleepy sack. This was not the typical exchange.

Qosyk said, "How has your day been," in a display of casual non-information gathering. Ze expected the usual, "Same old same old," but didn't get it.

Human Jae said, "What a wonderful day for the creative spirit," in a blank monotone, and then tipped themself from vertical to horizontal across their slumber platform. They bounced a couple of times, but otherwise remained immobile.

Concerned, Qosyk checked to make sure that Human Jae was still alive.

"I'm okay," said Jae, face-down in the duvet. "For limited definitions of 'okay'... I just had a real bad day."

That should have been it. A definite signal from the Ships' Human that they had had enough for that day and would like to go sulk in a pillow fort for a while. But such was not the case. _This_ Human had a different saying for every single horrible day they had had.

"I need a diving board and a singularity to use it on."

"Can I wake up from this nightmare yet?"

"I need to acquire my own weight in luxury chocolate ice cream."

"This has been a day for Murphy."

"Veni, vedi, vagivi."[36]

"Oh, for a time machine and a baseball bat!"

"Any day is a good day when you're not on fire."

"Where the flakk is the reset button?"

And of course, the universally popular, "Aaaaaarrrrrrrgggh!"

Qosyk adapted. They let Human Jae have an hour to be lax, and then prepared some of their favourite comfort food in the nearest food printer. Once the unsuitable food was consumed as a sort of plaster on Human Jae's emotional wounds, it was time for low energy, low involvement, easy entertainment that Human Jae thoroughly enjoyed in moments like these.

Human Jae would inevitably absorb Qosyk into the wrapping of soft, fluffy blankets that usually surrounded the Human. It was a mark of acceptance and pack-bonding. Besides, Human Jae insisted, some days you just needed to hug your best friend.

[36] I came, I saw, I cried. [and yes, I know I probably got it wrong]

#  Challenge #116: Adequate Testing Procedures

The History of crash-test dummies is one of Sheer Deathworlder Thinking. Instead of doing the sane thing and wait, till the technology is safe enough, they relied in the past on test with crash-test dummies.

Fun fact: Aliens did not know, that the First Dummies were actually other Humans. – Anon Guest

There's a crucial difference between Havenworlders, Deathworlders, and what one might consider normal cogniscents. That particular difference is in how they approach the relative safety of technology. For most cogniscents, new technology is treated as a curiosity until such time as it has been thoroughly tested for all plausible hazards, and then only employed with all due caution. Havenworlders go overboard on all possible safety measures before going near new technology, exhausting every single thing they could worry about until it is fretted into never having a single thing to cause harm.

_Deathworlders_ dive headlong into new technology, often before it is tested at all, and find out about all potential dangers through 20/20 hindsight. Humans, especially, did this a lot. They took the starter knowledge that radiation could treat and eliminate some cancers, and expanded it into a health treatment to eliminate _all_ cancers for more than a decade before discovering... whoops. Radiation can also cause cancers, too.

They put motors on carriages formerly drawn by horses, and then make them go as fast as possible. Then they wait half a century or more before figuring out that - _perhaps_ \- the bodies within should be restrained for security in the event of an unexpected collision. How do they test this? In the most logical way that Deathworlders are capable of. By using the bodies of their deceased. It just gets worse from there.

A Human scientist used _himself_ as a test subject to find out exactly how much a Human body could withstand before encountering harm. He rigged up tests and filmed them. He waited until he was healed whilst devising the next test that would \- with enough weight and impact force - harm him anew.

Humans are insane. If anyone needed further proof, they need look no further than the intense debate surrounding safety restraints in their everyday vehicles. The companies responsible for the manufactory of them refused to devote any portion of their profits towards acting responsibly _about_ their manufacture. They spread lies, misinformation, and ridiculous 'what if' scenarios that were then taken up by the larger portion of the populace who were reluctant to change.

Finally, after mountains of evidence and mounting death tolls, restraints within vehicles became mandatory. However, depending on the region, the legal need to use them was not.

The same pattern repeated itself in other fields, especially the field of medicine. When testing drugs for efficacy, science selected only the male half of the population for Human tests. They cited the female reproductive cycle and its unreliability of consistent hormone output as a reason why this should be so, as opposed to the reason why it should not. Then, once the medicine was "in the wild", the problems abounded. Safe dosage in relation to body mass, the aforementioned hormone fluctuations in regards to side effects of the medicine in question. Whether or not the medication was safe for a gestating person... the list went on.

As did the atrocities. Not just for decades, not just for generations, but for _centuries_. Anyone else would have developed synthetic bio-replication devices to test the entire gamut of hormonal, reproductive, and allergen-specific reactions. Not Humans. Humans continued to test _everything_ on Humans and then complain about the price in lives lost, lives ruined, and of course, in money expended on recompense.

Humanity, upon encountering the synthetic biological test dummy, immediately decried it as 'disgusting' and attempted to argue the benefits of testing on actual living Humans as opposed to a mere machine.

There was not a similar hue and cry to using crash-test dummies instead of Human volunteers. Possibly because of the dearth of Human volunteers to strap themselves into a speeding vehicle and maybe die. There was no parallel shortage of Humans so desperate for a cure that they were willing to take a chance on being poisoned to death. Some companies, surprising no-one who's analysed late-stage capitalism, made huge amounts of money out of this.

Fortunately, there are always groups of Humans who make choices based on the best morals, and since capitalism profits off of pain and murder, the moral side won through the eventual power of sheer numbers. The market realised that there were more options and a greater likelihood of correct dosages and accurate medical predictions from the simulator-tested medicines than the ones used on the more traditional 'sacrificial victim' option. Therefore, went flooding to the more reliable choices.

It only took three decades for the 'sacrificial victim' model of medical testing to go extinct.

Now, if only the Galactic Alliance could gently remove Humanity from its tendency to do things first and figure out how they went wrong later...

#  Challenge #117: Alternative Uses

Aliens discover energy drinks. The substances are highly corrosive and toxic. They first use it for maintenance of equipment.

Then they learn from the ships' human, that it is supposed to be DRUNK.

Fun for the human. Terror for the Crew.

Update for the Human-Manual. – Anon Guest

Some products made by Humans for Humans simply perplex the other species within the Alliance. There have been a multitude of alternate uses for the things Humans made. Most of all, for their products with extensive shelf lives. They reached into places that Humans had yet to wriggle into.

The furthest-travelling product has to be an unlikely mixture of carbonated water, sweetner, and assorted stimulants including - but not limited to - caffeine, taurine, and gaurana. None could read the Human writing on the suspiciously small cans, but that never stopped anyone from attempting to divine its purpose chemically.

On many worlds, they used it as a battery acid. On many others, an industrial grease stripper. Some, with heavy fortification against the acid, used the sugars in some containers as a protective coating after the acid stripped away anything else. Nobody said that the uses had to be _intelligent_.

Human Jef knew none of this when tasked with escorting some small fluffy creatures from the vicinity of Alpha Centauri. Ze just grinned at the sight of some familiar cans at the end of a long and painful day and said, "Yes! Excellent!" Then, to the horror of the assembled fluffies, opened a tin and drank the contents.

The fluffies surrounding him took one to five paces backwards, as if expecting hir to explode. Human Jef merely belched.

"I needed that," ze sighed. "That'll help keep me up until the end of third shift. Thanks."

Thyrr found the courage to speak. "We use that for activating our chemical batteries. And cleaning up tough stains."

Human Jef laughed. "Yeah, probably. Hey, did you hear the one about the bunch of Havenworlders who used it as a torture vat? Didn't work so great on my lot." Then ze noticed that the fluffies were cringing. "No, it's okay. You hired me to be tough. I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm here to prevent anyone else from even trying. It's cool, okay?"

"You are not about to dissolve?" worried Thyrr.

"Not any time soon. I hope." It took some time to explain. When they asked for Deathworlders, the agency had taken the request _seriously_.

#  Challenge #118:...Now You Do

Once all of the children had a comfort item, it was time to pass those that remained to agitated adults. – Anon Guest

Where there are disasters, there are the aftermaths. Wreckage and ruin are there, for certain, but the heart of it is always with the people. Sheltered in temporary structures. Huddled under blankets or hiding from the world. The bleeding and needing, the vacant-eyed ones who are broken on the inside... and the children.

There are so many pairs of arms available. Only so many who are free to comfort the young, upset, and distraught. When that supply is exhausted, all that can be offered in that place are objects of comfort. A blanket to help maintain temperature. The warm drink to rehydrate. The seemingly mandatory stuffed toy. The sad truth is that soft toys are a decent replacement for actual, living comfort, and they can be easily manufactured.

There aren't enough arms for those children. There aren't any at all for those full-grown. Emergency responders know that, once the children are seen to, the stuffed toys are also welcome in adult arms. Every species with tactile senses much prefers something soft and fluffy to touch.

Medik Brues patrolled the bunks of the waiting wounded, seeking out the quiet ones. You always had to watch the quiet ones. There were many among them who would not call attention to themselves and patiently, quietly, get into deep medical trouble and perhaps perish from self-unimportance. Some, they knew, would just find a bunk and sit there until someone could see to them. Brues was that someone, tonight.

There was just enough light to see by, not enough to disturb these patients' sleep. Brues would whisper apologies to anyone they woke in the process. One did not need an apology because they were still awake. They were sitting quietly and seemingly in good spirits, so Brues checked by them anyway. They had something in their arms, but it wasn't the mass-printed teddy bear of interesting hues.

Brues checked them for injuries and hidden killers, and in the process discovered that the patient's soft and fuzzy comfort object was an animal. A random cat was settled smugly in the patient's lap with the air of one who has found the best place to be. It was a quiet creature and even allowed Brues to pat it.

"You have a very good kitty," cooed Brues, chucking the little creature under its chin.

"Oh, this isn't my cat," said the patient. "I don't have one."

#  Challenge #119: Love Hateful Relationship

youtube.com/watch?v=7KwzVus9xds _2:56_

Humans love Alcohol. No Point in denying that. However, that just takes the cake.

Aliens are mortified by that. Even other Deathworlders. – Anon Guest

They _say_ that alcohol is a basic form of inebriant amongst any carbon-based lifeform. The ones saying it the most often are the ones who have made alcohol an inherent portion of their culture. Many Human cultures claim that alcohol brewing should be integral within the stages of civilisation advancement.

This says more about Humanity than Humanity might want you to know.

As do other events when history repeats itself in areas most desperate. Some might say that it is proof that history repeats. Others will say that it's proof that history is only repeated by those incapable of learning from it. Far more accurate sorts will say that it's an example of how certain philosophies should be made extinct.

It doesn't matter what they named the world, as it was founded on certain socio-political adherences that inevitably lead it to be something about deregulation. Sometimes, they name it after liberty. What inevitably results is slavery, fascism, and oppression in the name of their opposites.

What also proliferates, also inevitably, is some form of drug culture. Religion may be the opiate of the masses, but when oppression crushes from every angle, the masses also prefer actual _opiate_ -opiates. Alcohol is merely the simplest to make, the hardest to stop, and the simplest to conceal.

_This_ world had decided to make money from the masses by using their addiction. The corporations shaved the bottom line closer and closer, raising the prices to ceilings _almost_ beyond the reach of the common citizen. Of course, there were higher quality brews for the higher-quality people, and those were heavily advertised as ultimate goals for anyone who came within glancing distance of getting ahead. Just one bottle could send a family into abject poverty for three generations.

So of course, when the vats broke because the corporations making the alcohol insisted on using the lowest-bid contractors... the filthy streets flooded with alcohol that would have cost absolute fortunes.

Those desperate poor who survived the initial waves of high-ticket grain alcohol almost immediately began drinking the adulterated and unclean beverage that was knee-deep in the unkempt streets. They were desperate for the release it held, opportunistic to taste what amounted to forbidden fruit, and possessed of a unique kind of greed born of a literal lifetime of missing out.

Large swathes of the populace drank themselves into an early grave.

One could call it a cautionary tale concerning the dangers of aggressive capitalism. Some would point the finger of blame at the alcohol itself, though it is more a symptom than a cause. Of course those responsible, directly and indirectly, for the disaster laid the blame squarely on all the deceased victims. Thoughts and prayers for any families may have always been expressed.

The dead cannot fight back. The dead have no rebuttals for the accusations of those in power. Yet, those in power forgot some important factors in their 'system'.

The dead cannot work. Factories shut down because there were none capable of working in it. Families without income were left on the streets as their houses were boarded up and patrolled to prevent squatters.

The dead cannot buy. The alleged savings on wages flew to the coffers of the powerful, and they had a brief spate of 'growth', but following that, things crashed. No wages paid resulted in no products purchased. Though there was a surplus of supplies, families starved and froze in the gutters.

Thousands died because of the initial flood. Thousands more perished in the aftermath.

The dead cannot create children. The usual inflow of young workers failed to boost the powerful back into a climb of more economic power. Because the rich let the poor starve as 'motivation' for them to 'work harder'. The surpluses of supplies started rotting in their warehouses.

They could not afford to make more products that would not, could not, sell to those rotting in their graves. Therefore, the powerful stopped buying the supplies to make the products. The farmers growing them, already on the knife-edge of instability, were soon exiles from the property that their ancestors had tamed.

The world was in a death spiral. The powerful were in denial. Even if there _had_ been warnings from experts, those with the power to change things would have refused to listen.

There were two ways this could end. There always had been. Revolution... or demise for all. Either way, more would die. More would be ruined... the only difference is that revolution merely starts the same cycle all over again.

#  Challenge #120: Intuitively Harmless

Chinese Water Torture is in the best cases extremely effective and in the worst cases useless against Humans. It's debatable.

Unsurprisingly Aliens of all species are not familiar with it and subsequently belong to the first Category. – Anon Guest

One drop... falls. It lands on the brow of the captive, who cannot escape its icy touch. One drop of water is no physical harm to anyone. Theoretically, they could eventually fill the room, were it not well drained. Some drops don't even make it as far as the drains, evaporating from the captive's skin and hair.

Another drop, and another, and another, raining down in slow and steady beats. It's the kind of force that wears holes into stones. It's the kind of force that wears away mountains. It is the relentless force that could tunnel through to the centre of the world, should nothing else stop it.

But it is a single drop of water. There's no way that one drop could hurt or harm a living being. After the third hour of one drop after another, that truth seems less and less likely. Every drop is like a bullet. Time ticks away, and the captive starts to dread the next drop.

The heartrate increases. Panic responses elevate. The fear of one drop of water raises to ridiculous levels. There is no escape. There is no respite. There is only the drop... and the wait for the next one.

Some Humans can withstand it for days, carefully kept alive by their captors. Fed and cleaned, but always, _always_ under the relentless force of the drip. Others can't make it more than an hour. Many Deathworlders don't last anywhere near as long. Havenworlders don't last much longer than twenty minutes.

It's one of the multitude of reasons why torture is banned in Galactic Space. However, on the Edge, anything can be legal. On the Edge, even the most heinous acts can be ignored for expediency's sake. On the Edge, it is simply called Human Water Torture.

One drop at a time. Wearing away at sanity. Like the seconds of a clock, wearing away at a lifespan.

Drip... Drip... Drip...

Humans, who may or may not have invented the concept of 'micro-aggressions', certainly invented Water Torture. Some of them don't see the parallel between the two.

It doesn't hurt anyone. It's just a little thing. How could anyone be upset over this small fraction of an infraction?

They don't see it. They choose to ignore it. They don't think about the next drip.

That, perhaps, is why Humans are the most dangerous creatures known to civilisation.

#  Challenge #121: Made it Home Alive

Rules for Fighting Humans:

Rule Number 1: Don't fight Humans.

Rule Number 2: DON'T FIGHT HUMANS !!!!!

Rule Number 3: IF you fight Humans, aim for the Brain!

_Rule Numb......:_ en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phineas_Gage _....................... FUUUUUUUUUUUCK – Anon Guest_

Humans are Deathworlders. Some think they are unstoppable. Many think they are monsters. Rumours fly about their unkillable aspect. News like Phineas Gage gets around. They have all kinds of procedures surrounding what to do if one spots a Human.

Step one: Retreat. If possible, retreat expeditiously. Step two: If retreat is cut off, hide. Corollary: Humans are very perceptive and may find you anyway. Addendum: Humans are tireless and can track you down if you run. Step three: Loud noises and sudden movements can startle a Human long enough for you to engineer an escape. Corollary: They can also startle a Human into attacking. Do not give Humans enough time to react beyond getting out of your way. Addendum: Humans have a grip capable of crushing aluminium containers. Havenworlders are advised to be especially cautious when exercising this step.

All of this good, sound advice was written by the survivors. Those who had managed to escape Humans and lived to tell about what happened to those who hadn't. It had worked for many, who added to the extant files. All of it went flying out of Yekys' head the instant ze realised that there was a Human in the same facility.

_Obviously, there had to be life. Someone had to keep the machinery running..._ Yekys just never expected them to be... well... Deathworlders.

This Human didn't match the surviving footage. For a start, they weren't encapsulated head to toe in space-rated armour. _They're not wearing a livesuit..._ Yekys thought. Then the impossibility of a Human ever needing a livesuit temporarily fused hir brain.

The good news was that the Human wasn't reaching for a weapon. The bad news was that Yekys didn't have one either.

Humans could use anything as a weapon. They had phenomenal skill at picking up literally anything and using it against anything else.

The good news was the Human wasn't making any moves. Yekys didn't know whether to maintain eye contact or avoid it. The rules? What did the rules say? Ze couldn't remember even the first one of them.

Yekys took a careful step back the way ze had come. "Stay calm," ze said, more to hirself than anyone else. "Just stay calm. Nobody is attacking. Stay... calm..."

"Shdaaayyy... Kaum," said the Human.

It almost startled the life out of hir to learn that Humans were alarmingly good mimics. Right down to copying the body language Yekys was using. They were twice Yekys' height. Easily four times hir weight, but they were doing everything to copy Yekys' own frightened, flight-ready stance.

"Shdayy... kaum?"

Yekys ran. There were no thundering Human footfalls. Just a distant, wordless noise. A descending note without any meaning to hir.

There were Humans here. Yekys set hir ship to get as far towards safety as possible as fast as possible whilst adding notes of the encounter on hir maps and logs. Sending as soon as they were done, just in case...

Just in case they came for Yekys' blood. Just in case they were offended. Just in case this meant war.

Humans excelled at war...

No Humans followed hir. Not out of the conglomeration of old vessels, asteroids, and scrap. Not out of the debris belt. Not out of the solar system, and certainly not down the wormhole. Yekys counted hirself extremely lucky that this ended in hir life remaining with hir.

For decades afterwards, encounters with Humans would include the mangled attempts of the Deathworlders saying, "Stay calm," in GalStand... Humans could pass on memories.

"I'm telling you, I saw a real life flakkin' alien," said Tyn.

"Crap. Footage or it didn't happen."

"For reals, Don. It was in the dead zone we're tryin'a get online. Large as life."

"And it was thiiiis big," Don made an exaggerated motion with their hands.

"No. You ass. It was about three and a half feet tall–"

"With grey skin and really big, black eyes...."

"It was _red_. And I couldn't see the eyes 'cause of the visor."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell me what it said." Dan finished off their tin of carbonated beverage and crushed it before tossing it towards the recycling chute.

"I didn't get all of it, but I heard something repeated a bunch. It sounded like, _Shday kaum_. I'll never forget it. When I said it back, I think I hit a nerve."

"Sure you aren't saying 'flakk you'?"

"...no?"

#  Challenge #122: Raise Your Voice

<https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=scWkCJ8xDmI>

Humans are one of the only species where Things like a Flashmob or something similar ever could happen.

Alien gets the feels OwO – Anon Guest

It was late. Even the Humans in this particular well of stairs and doors were quiet. It happened spontaneously. Someone sang a note. Others joined in. Once harmony was accomplished, the Humans fell silent for a moment.

One thousand Humans, all agreeing on the same song. Those non-Humans present could already guess what it was.

"Is this the real life/ Is this just fantasy... Caught in a landslide/ No escape from reality... Open your eyes/ Look up to the skies and seeeeee..."

The Human Anthem.

This particular well had perfect acoustics. There were many times when one or more Humans would belt out a popular song, either one of the many memetic ones or something everyone seemed to know. Most agreed, there was little more intimidating than a horde of Welshmen spontaneously breaking out into a common song. No prompting, no key chorus. Just however-many hundred bursting into one song without any kind of prompting.

Some came to this area of Song Echo Station just to have the chance to hear a lot of Humans singing. Some came to attempt to discover the key behind the phenomenon, more than the typical Human response of, "Come on, who can resist that sort of temptation?" _Most_ just want to get through their day without encountering another chorus.

_This_ time, it was yet another Foursday. Outbursts of _Bohemian Rhapsody_ were to be expected amongst Humans who were relative strangers. It was their way of saying, _We are Humans together. We have common ground. This makes us all Us._

Humans had far scarier songs, after all.

Along the Edge territories, closer to Song Echo Station, they have a saying. "You don't know true fear until you've heard five hundred Humans singing _I Can't Decide_."

For those who test it, there is also the amazement of discovering how _true_ that saying is.

#  Challenge #123: Paradise Cracked

Our Utopia is the Dystopia of the Future.

<https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=cDeMzg31T2I> _– Anon Guest_

There is no such thing as a perfect world. We try to imagine them, but our present shapes the future we envision. The writer of the first such utopian fiction couldn't imagine a perfect world without slavery. Others in later eras and other cultures could only imagine rugged individualism as saving the day, instead of steadily ruining the country.

Some didn't get much further past, _No hunger, no greed, and all the children know how to read._

For every perfect world, there is a downside. For every one with their head in the clouds, ten labour with their feet in the mud. Resources have to come from somewhere and there is always _something_ that cleverly-engineered machines can not do. Even if it is fixing the cleverly-engineered machines.

The worlds we imagine to be perfection have flaws. Taxes must be paid, to support the structures that should be free for all. The rich man's paradise is the poor man's hell. The poor man's paradise is the rich man's nightmare.

There is little more threatening to a businessman than a post-scarcity world. Meanwhile, for those struggling to keep a roof over their heads and a meal in their bellies... it is nothing short of heaven.

A perfect world... never ages well. Someone dreams of a world in which every child is assigned a gender, a job, and a life's path; and less than decades later it is seen as the worst of dystopias, because the freedom of choice has been removed from the equation. Someone imagines a world that has gone back to nature, and the realities of the old ways are argued by those who have actually done their homework.

In the end, no Utopia is true. There are always the greedy, the venal, the ignorant who strive to have more, do less, or just stab some other guy in the back. All we can do is take our unsteady steps towards a dream of a better world and hope, one day, it is achievable.

In the meantime, we write them down, and hope to inspire others with our dreams. Hope, as well, that our dreams are not the nightmares of later generations.

#  Challenge #124: Attention Commanding

Sometimes you can meet someone whos one loud scream "SILENCE!" can make everyone look at this person and stay quiet for long time.

Imagine a small Havenworlder who try to show presentation on business meeting and everyone ignore him. And then human stand up, scream "QUIET!" and everyone is terrified.

This little Havenworlder's p.o.v could be really interesting. – Anon Guest

Business is business, they say. It can certainly make strange bedfellows out of disparate entities for the sake of profit. Especially within the Edge Territories. Here, Thrrt was facing a room full of dangerous species, including Deathworlders. Of course she wore her livesuit. There was no way she was going to go without it in the Edge. Some of the others were also in their livesuits, a measure of expedience. Others went without - a measure of their confidence in their ability to withstand whatever the environment could throw at them.

They didn't seem like the roughest and toughest. Many of them were wearing the greys of civil service and at least three of these... _Humans_... looked meeker than mist. The room was rowdy, all the same. Even the quiet ones were talking. Everything seemed too loud. Too busy. Thrrt spent an illogical minute pondering the relative benefits of running back to proper society and letting these immense monsters have their room of noise. She had to force herself to remember that she was the one signing their paycheques.

She took a perch up high, on the back of one of the tall, Human _chairs_... this entire place was made for them. She had to steady herself against its automatic articulation whilst also looking authoritative and pretending she meant for things to happen like that. "If we may commence," she said. Her voice was lost in the babble.

Her kind did not have the volume of these Deathworlders. They could create sound that could carry across mountain ranges, most generated within their own bodies and not needing much in the way of amplification tools. They could make noise loud enough to damage their own hearing apparatus. All the speakers and all the amplifiers known to Thrrt and her people couldn't cut through the casual volume these Deathworlders employed.

It was one of the quieter Humans who noticed Thrrt's predicament and stood up. "EY! Th' Boss is _talking_!"

Silence in less than a second. Thrrt almost fell off her perch. "Thank you," she said to the quieter one. Thank the Powers she had an automedicator in her livesuit, or she might have to be carried out, after that. They didn't need to know that, though. If she proceeded as if these shenanigans were completely normal, then she had a chance to gain a little status in their eyes. To that end, she fired up the display. "This is the Valerathi Sargasso, an area of five thousand cubic Distance Units..." she began.

#  Challenge #125: Lightning Bottles

" _Because it's people like us who do the strange stuff who think up all the technology you take for granted." – C. M. Weller/InterNutter – c/- Anon Guest_

Anything invented before one turns ten is normal and everywhere and expected. That's what they say. Anything invented between the ages of twelve and forty is new and cool and interesting. After that, there is an increasing risk of it becoming strange and frightening and alien. Such is the theory put forward by Douglas Adams. A man who wrote quite a lot of strange fiction.

It's always the weird ones that come up with stuff like this. It took a strange kind of genius to be Nikola Tesla. It took an odd collective of odder people to come up with the different types of personal computer. For the allegedly normal, for the everyday sort, the way things always were is the way things always shall be. Normal people make incremental progress. They add clocks to extant technology, for instance.

It takes a peculiar kind of genius to invent the Gravity Drive. Equal parts advanced physics, peak engineering, and cargo cult... there is no such thing as mass manufactory of such a device. Miniaturisation, yes. Even remote activation of specific... call them 'receiver units'. Yet there is no such thing as a Gravity Drive that was made start to finish by automation. There certainly wasn't such in the conglomeration of experiments involving ten grams of the rarest of rare Earths, a peculiar amalgam called, in another man's notes, Unlikelium.

Unlikelium could, eventually, be smelted and created. Just... not during the invention of the Gravity Drive. It had to be found, a process that involved collating a lot of disparate and confounding data. It was a long process, and many would have protested the lengthy span of experimentation, of returning to failure after failure until, finally, there had been a success. No normal person would have ever gone through the years of frustration that Wen Min-Jun had undergone.

It took an even stranger form of genius to take up the methods he created and make a strange new faith combined with science out of it. The cultural atmosphere that birthed the Nae'hyn, who in turn birth the Gravity Drives that made a majority of Human space travel possible.

One being's science is another's unfathomable messing about.

One being's waste of time is another's irresistible fascination.

One person's weirdo... could easily be the next generation's mis-understood genius who was generations ahead of their time. All they have to do is keep thinking around strange corners.

#  Challenge #126: Versus Machine

We have Vending Machines. We use the regularly to get stuff easy and convenient.

(If you want) This story can be about a vending machine for Deathworlders and Havenworlders alike with various Special Items. – Anon Guest

They've had many names over the years. Dispensing machines. Conveniences. Some species add the suffix 'bot' to whatever their contents are, like "drinkbot" or "foodbot" or "findingsbot", but such practices have fallen by the wayside since the rise of the AI Alliance. It was the Humans who gave the automated commerce cabinets a permanent name, especially if there were arrays of them in one place.

"Vendomat."

It neatly encapsulates the concept in a minimum number of syllables whilst conveying the maximum amount of information. In this case, "a place where two or more vending machines can be found." Like all Human portmanteaus, it is both intrinsically useful and inherently ridiculous at the same time. It certainly takes a lot less time to say than the more complicated and clear sentence. Hardly any of that history mattered when one has just swallowed your last Seconds and not delivered the refreshing beverage or snack of one's aspirations.

That is when the dark side of any cogniscent can come to the fore. Violence, cunning, vengeance... they are all employed by one cogniscent or another. Deaths by overturning vending machines still occur, even in a more advanced era. Therefore engineers do their best to be certain that the machine delivers the goods without a hitch. Their best, unfortunately, is not always enough.

Submitted for your approval - a hungry JOAT in battle with a vendomat that has just taken the last of his Time and delivered none of the shelf-stable food he had attempted to summon. It was stuck on the rails, and had gone through the automated jiggling process that should have jostled the sanitised parcel into the pickup zone.

No JOAT is ever defeated that easily.

He had the right tools, and all the knowhow necessary to take the entire machine apart. He probably could have done it, too. Fortunately, the spectre of restraint showed itself. The hungry and impoverished JOAT satisfied themselves with merely triggering the jiggle function until such time as their mass-produced treat made it all the way into the pickup area. They then put everything back together and left a thoughtful note for the engineers and technicians involved with the machine's lifetime of service.

It's not every day that you find a vendomat in the JOAT quarter that hasn't simply devolved into a cabinet and an honour box.

#  Challenge #127: Unexpected Mineral Deposit

Toilets are necessary. Each species their own. Some don't even produce waste, because they literally use EVERYTHING they have. Others recycle.

Toilets in outer space are subsequently vital for Most species of Aliens and so as Clean as they can only be. You could AND can literally eat from them.

However, they didn't realise the hygienical nightmare of an outer space toilet in an Asteroid used by Humans.

(I think everyone knows, how a toilet on an interstate section with Zero Maintenance is) ^^ – Anon Guest

Everyone uses the low-G toilet in the same way - in a state of near-permanent confusion and reading the instructions with a baffled squint. For everyone else, there are multi-species amenities with mobile additions that are confounding to everyone who has no idea what they're for. Speculation, of course, abounds.

At Podunk Station, however, the chief question is, "Who the flakk left this disaster zone?" it is a station so remote that hardly anyone ever stops there to begin with. As an experiment in a fully-automated rest stop facility... it makes excellent salvage. The Cleaners and the Skitties there are feral. So are the actual vermin, but people _notice_ the Skitties and the Cleaners.

Just like Trucker Marjoram did when she _had_ to stop there. The vendomats contained the topmost selling snack stuff, including the most popular beverages... and the waste elimination facilities... were practically a cesspit on their own. Throwing a Cleaner or three in there didn't help by much. The giant blue slugs just slithered straight out of there again. Marjoram didn't blame them, really.

This place was a nightmare. At least Marjoram's rig had its own facilities, but... this? This could not be left the way it was.

Cleaning this in its entirety would cost her so much Time. Marjoram literally couldn't afford to stay and clean. However... one being's waste is another's gold mine. Therefore, the scanner was the answer. Sooner or later, someone would come with appropriate mining tools, and literally chip away the solid coating of villainous scum laying in and on an otherwise innocent multispecies toilet.

There was, according to the scanner, some fifteen Hours' worth of mineral deposits there. Sooner or later, someone would come to collect. All Marjoram had to do was post the word.

#  Challenge #128: We Don't Eat That

In the Time of Spring, Easter Grass is often sold for little Money.

It's nearly completely without Problems. All it requires are Water and Light + Heat

(i even Recall someone saying, that it would also grow in zero G, If provided with the above).

Ideal for the Use as easy to eat Food supply for Herbivore Aliens and their tiny children...

Another Product from Earth with high success. :-) – Anon Guest

[AN: I looked this up and even a minimum amount of research shows that this is not one specific species of grass. It can be anything from wheat to breeds of quick-growing grass to barley and anything that looks cool when it's about five inches high. Therefore, I'm inventing a specific species of millet]

They called it - eventually, Erasgrain. It grew copiously, it grew well, and it could grow in a sponge watered with pre-distilled, filtered water from the hydrous recycling systems. Spacefarers loved it, especially the herbivorous ones. Allowed to grow unchecked, it would yield thick carpets of greenery up to a foot and a half tall. The seeds it yielded were small, light, and could easily be vacuum-packed and kept in stasis for up to hundreds of years. Not that any were ever kept that long.

The seed was not always digestible by the cogniscents who grew it. Some could only digest the young, fragile sprouts. Others had no problem at all with the lengthy stems. A rare few discovered the nourishment potential of a porridge made out of the seeds. Recipes are exchanged. Secrets given to others like handy hints to the random travellers they encounter.

_Full-grown Erasgrain contains copious amounts of silicon. If your digestion cannot handle this substance, we recommend that you steam, boil, or otherwise heat the stems and leaves until they are soft. This breaks the re-enforcing silicon down to the point where even the softest digestive systems will receive no harm for them. Similarly, processing the stems with whirling blade machines can cut the silicon to a smallness that cannot bother a delicate digestion._ – The Spacer's Guide to Ship-grown Fare.

It was another ambassador for Humankind. They, too, grew Erasgrain on their ships. For the air they made, for the fibrous stems, and for the seed that could be made into anything. Even utensils with which to consume the foods they created.

When the Alliance discovered that Erasgrain was originally a Deathworlder plant... the reactions varied.

"Well, it kind of makes sense. You just can't kill Erasgrain easily."

"Deathworlders did _what_?"

"Of course it's versatile. So are the Humans."

"I thought Deathworlder life killed everything it touched. Huh. Live and learn."

"No way is this a Deathworlder plant. I've been eating it for years and not even a blip of cancer."

"Oh. Did someone gengineer it to be non-toxic?"

Humans would explain, eventually, that they meant that particular millet to be a fast-growing decorative grass for a specific religious festival. Which did nothing to improve anyone's opinions of Humans.

#  Challenge #129: Not Paranoia If...

A ship's captain is particularly paranoid and adds stun guns to all areas of the ship, for emergencies. – Anon Guest

In the years that ze was captain of the _Twitching Whisker_ , Thragaak was derided as a delusional paranoid with a persecution complex. Now, we know hir as visionary who was years ahead of hir time. Plying the sargasso as ze did, surviving close calls with Deathworlders and unfamiliar peoples, it was, perhaps, wisdom to believe that They really were out to get hir.

The historic decision is on record, following too close a call with a Vorax Raider Scout, who was repelled by a hypersonic device designed for pest control.

"The crew of this ship," said Thragaak, pacing in front of hir chief officers, "have never been closer to death than they were yesterday. We had a lucky escape, and we cannot expect another. We must prepare."

First Officer Tenyi regarded the plan in front of them. "Stunners in all quarters, by all workspaces, and five DU's apart in all corridors? Captain, this ship mod will end up costing us two Years in finances."

"We'll begin with the corridors, ten DU's apart, then the upgrade will be for the key point workspaces. Next, we arm the quarters of key officers in each shift. Earnings should take that plan," said Thragaak. "We can't be complacent. Space is big and full of dangers. Just as we have our livesuits, we must have internal defences against invasion."

"Captain... this is madness..."

"Is it? We've encountered Humans twice, Vorsyk. One of them came close enough to _touch_ you."

"I remember," said Vorsyk. "But... that many stunners? Why not have the crew go around armed?"

"We tried that. Engineers and maintenance are in the habit of disarming to access trouble spots. The Mediks take theirs off for surgeries or complicated procedures. The bridge crew take _theirs_ off whenever they sit, and leave them wherever happens to be convenient. We might as well not be armed at all."

The chief officers had to admit that Thragaak had a point. Some of them even looked, embarrassed, at the holster belts slung over seat backs or armrests or, most incriminatingly, under the table where they had been kicking them about.

"If a Vorax crew invaded this vessel right now, we wouldn't have the time to reach for our weapons," said Thragaak. "We have to have a means of defence for _all_ crew. Regardless of where they are and what they're involved in, nobody on board should be more than a short dash away from a weapon."

The chief officers glanced at each other, looking for someone - anyone - who had a salient argument.

Finally, the _Twitching Whisker_ 's chief Medik said, "Well. We knew the job was dangerous when we took it. That doesn't mean we have to make it more dangerous by being silly about things. I want it on the record that I'm adding my bonus to the funds pool for this ships's upgrade."

The others fell in line after that. A Medik's job was to preserve life by any means. If that meant by preventative measures, then they would move mountains to prevent. The rest of them considered the pros and cons and, weighing their bonuses against their lives, came out in favour of their lives.

In ten years' time, every ship, every station, every base in civilised space and out of it, had at least a Stunner kept at every junction or door. As a preventative measure, it was supremely effective.

#  Challenge #130: Little Souvenirs

Tattoos are a big part of some Human cultures.

Others see it as an expression of their youth.

And some see it still as a thing, that should only be worn by prisoners and sailors.

How react Aliens (especially Havenworlders and other Deathworders) when they first make contact with a Human and their tattoos? – Anon Guest

Human Stef was favouring their right arm, being very careful about it colliding with random surfaces. This was not the first time that the Human had returned from shore leave with hints of an injury. Human Stef called them hir 'little souvenirs', and otherwise seemed happy about them.

Then again, Humans _were_ insane... Nevertheless Xoryq was concerned. "Human Stef, are these souvenirs of yours long-term damaging? Must we be concerned for your extended health?"

Human Stef laughed as they laughed at most things. "Nah, don't fret too hard. I just got some more ink." It took some time for Human Stef to explain and more time for Xoryq to understand. Every single one of Human Stef's 'little souvenirs' was a form of body-modding art traditional to the local area.

"Some people collect postcards. Some people get tchotckes. Mate of mine over by Hardhaul Station collects snow globes. Another one does hats. It's a thing. Me? I collect tatts, scars, piercings, and subcutaneous implants."

Xoryq said, "What?"

They had to borrow the Medik's decon observation booth so that Human Stef could safely disrobe and Xoryq could safely observe. Human Stef's body was a map, sort of, of wherever ze had been. There was a pattern of triangles around hir upper arm from their stopover by Beach. A celtic knot melded with a briar pattern from New Scotland. Some scarification from N'Oz. There was even a subcutaneous wristwatch from B'Nar. There were holes in Human Stef that had been made by experts, and maintained by small, shiny objects. Objects that had been made in some places that didn't have anything "that interesting" otherwise.

There was art, imprinted permanently into large areas of Human Stef's skin. Ink, ze said, injected into the dermal layer where it would stay for the rest of hir life. Every form of art from realism through representational through impressionistic to... incomprehensible. A blue box in a field of stars. A pattern of triangles that formed a diamond in the middle. A cat made out of a semicolon. None of them were that large, but they were significant to Human Stef.

"My body is my testament," ze said, pulling hir livesuit back on. "I'm a creation of the universe and I take wherever I go with me. Heart, head, and form. If I'm going to be a radioactive mummy on the moon, I'm going to be an _interesting_ one."

Xoryk had been correct in the first place. Humans truly were insane.

#  Challenge #131: It Says 'Dood'

What if crop circles were just that species' way of leaving a calling card? – Anon Guest

When tumbling along uncharted byways of Space, it's considered polite to leave something in the way of a marker. A tag, a sign that you were there. A temporary message that will soon be absorbed by nature, lasting just long enough for others who may follow to see... _I was here,_ or, _I'm headed this way._ All the better for finding your way back if other avenues are not available.

The system eventually known as Sol was an especially problematic for having temporary exits from Hyperspace and no followup entrances that did not lead down a thousands-year temporal trap. Otherwise known as a one-way wormhole. Sol 3, being the only planet with a surface mutable enough to mark and stable enough to retain said mark for a passage of months, is often selected as a place to leave a mark.

Terrans never understood the Standard Marking System, and never decoded it before their meeting with the Allied races. It is a fortunate thing, since some marks beyond the simple circle or set of circles are... of a dubious nature. More than one roaming cogniscent has left an image of their own genitalia in a monoculture field. Others...

Well.

The Achivaas have worked tirelessly with other historians and some of the more complicated designs that were definitively not Terran art projects read thusly:

Eat at Florg's!

Yorknaab was here.

Plyrtho sux.

Wot, no dinosaurs?

Yaz is a plonker!

And the ever-popular, _Five centuries before this place explodes._ Followed by someone else's, _Too optimistic, mate._

This is, of course, one of the rare pieces of information that the Archivaas do not easily share.

#  Challenge #132: Unexpected Reaction

One human captain has a very, intense, reaction to adrenaline. Thankfully, the crew is understanding. (I was thinking crying/sobbing but if you get a better idea then that's perfect.) – Anon Guest

Adrenaline is a powerful chemical. It does not, as many expect, make Humans violent. This is just one way for Humans to react. The typical reactions caused by Adrenaline is one of two: Fight... or Flight. Without emotional direction, the side-effects include nausea, an urgent need to vacate the bowels, and tremula in the extremities[37].

In the case documented by the _Baron Munchausen_ , their Captain Rhees suffered from anxiety, and the use of an adrenaline dart against him did not turn him into a ravening ragebeast as the opposition expected. It augmented his existing fear, which can have interesting angles. Fear can do odd things to a Human.

In this case, Captain Rhees fell to his knees, screaming and crying. The attackers paused, first because they were not expecting that reaction, second because they reasoned it might be a ruse. Third... because a screaming Human usually meant an _attacking_ Human. That last one was the thing that broke them. They were unfamiliar with this reaction and broke to flee the field.

The crew of the _Baron Munchausen_ rescued the day, because they knew and loved their Captain, and knew what to do when his anxiety got the better of him. First, the standard treatments for Adrenaline overdose - keeping the patient warm, moving, and hydrated with sucrose solutions. Then, once the chemistry started to wear off, came the comforts. One by one, crewmembers offered haptic therapy, and the assorted comforts that Captain Rhees used to combat his personal troubles.

In this case, it was a fluffy blanket, a hot chocolate, and an hour or two of quiet meditation.

[37] Not just research - I had adrenaline administered when I was having a nasty asthma attack and... yeah. All of the above.

#  Challenge #133: And Then They Kiss

You cannot tell me that there wasn't at least a SMALL group of humans who took one look at the Karmorp'se and got super happy! There are people who LOVE horror movie monsters! I bet SOMEONE was excited! – Anon Guest

AN: This prompt references [ this thing for those of you who don't want to do an archive trawl]

Humans have an astonishing number of sayings about their own mating habits. Just one is: _Love is many things, none of them logical._ Many Humans will acknowledge that love is, indeed, strange. At least when it's coming from Humans.

The discovery of the Karmorp'se lead to three general reactions. The primary one being disgust since the species model represented a mangled Human zombie. Secondary were the jokers and comedians who immediately formed a thousand and one semi-polite and outright impolite forms of alleged humour based entirely around the Karmorp'se's appearance. Then, the third and most unlikely group of Human reactions surfaced. Those who, despite everything, still wanted to mate with them.

The more Galactic saying about Humankind is very true. If there exists a cogniscent body model, there is a Human somewhere that will wonder about the mating potential. They can, have, and will apply their genitalia to _anyone_. There is no such thing as a non-Human that is not attractive to some Human, somewhere. It was... amazingly shocking to everyone except the Humans.

The Karmorp'se were mildly delighted by _most_ of the offers of friendship, companionship, and merely casual sex. As always, there was a small percentage of those "companionship offers" who were profoundly creepy. Humans have a phenomenal capacity for Humans to be creepy beyond belief.

Samples still reside in Archivaas information stores under the header of, _How not to approach a potential non-Human mate._ They have a level five trauma warning, and the act of reading them automatically qualifies one to psychological counselling whether or not the reader taps out from exposure to the samples.

Humans, depending on their culture of origin, can get really, _really_ gross about other species' physical attributes.

#  Challenge #134: Quill Dip'd in Poison Vile

Humans write a Letter in the style of Titus to Joseph Stalin to an Alien-Aggressor.

Fun for the Humans. Nightmares for the other Race. – Anon Guest

[AN: I have immense trouble getting that style, but I shall attempt the spirit of it]

From: Admiral Eddington, Commander in Chief, Vanerio Colonial Armed Forces. To: Lord Commander Warchief Xyrkyrkyz, Head of the Vorax Raiding Fleet.

Sir, we had left you alive in Panrinton, chiefly so you could warn your fellows in regards to our presence and determination to maintain said position. You have clearly not performed the duty allotted as price for our mercy. You have, instead, raised some significant forces just beyond the reach of our long-range weaponry. This is an unprecedented act of hubris and gall.

Hubris, because you assume the range of our _longest_ -range weapon, and gall because _we did warn you._ Obviously, the reputation of Vanerio Space Marines has yet to reach your... whatever you use for ears. We are undefeated. We are well armed. We are now pissed off.

By the time you have read this far, our longest-range weapons have finished powering up, and the strike will initiate in a few more minutes. This will give you a Standard Minute to attempt to vacate our system, or to make peace with your gods.

You have fifty-six seconds, assuming you're a fast reader.

The message wasn't only sent to the Vorax, it was sent to their allies. It was sent to their agents. It was sent to all the civilisations who thought that the Humans sparing Warchief Xyrkyrkyz was a sign of weakness. From there, it spread to the rest of the Allied civilisations. It can still precede the spread of Humanity towards any given portion of the Edge Territories and beyond.

It terrifies many. Including other Humans.

#  Challenge #135: Where the Mouth is

" _That will never Work!"_

" _Bet you a (Insert Currency) that you can't."_

" _Be ready to lose that (Insert Currency)!!!" – Anon Guest_

If there is anything that a Human can be relied upon, it is their ability to take on ridiculous wagers and then win them. No matter how impossible the task. No matter how ludicrously low the bet. Humans will move galaxies to get those bragging rights. Even the tenderest and least offensive Havenworlder can goad a Human into action with, "Bet you can't do it."

It's so inevitable that it's practically a law of nature. Many amongst the Allied polities are campaigning to have it recognised as a natural aspect of Humanity. The law of Human nature. Any Human can accomplish the impossible if there is a bet to the contrary against them.

However, for every rule, there is an exception. The statistical outlier who should not be counted. The fly in the ointment of every statistician and surveyor everywhere. This one was called... Human Mark. Human Mark was well aware of Galactic goading techniques. Compared to most Humans, they were also remarkably cautious. In Mark's on words, they were, "not stupid, not expendable, and not gonna do it."

When challenged with a wager, Human Mark would extract the monetary denomination and add, "Here. You win."

That is not to say that Human Mark was a coward. They just knew what the limits were. They would still take a risk for a teammate, but they made certain that risk was lessened first.

Nevertheless, the crew of the _Surveyor 298_ persisted in the attempt. It all came to a head in their fortieth mission, when the Ghyreithi botanist wanted Human Mark to climb a tree for one of its fruiting bodies.

"Nope," said Human Mark. "I'm not stupid, I'm not expendable, and I'm not going to do it."

"Bet you a Minute you can't do it."

Human Mark almost dug into the money drawer of their livesuit. Evidently frustrated, they said, "And I bet you _two_ Minutes that you won't ever stop with that crap."

Ghyreithi and Human faced each other down. It was an intense moment. Those observing were concerned, for a moment, that it might come to blows, or the Human abandoning the crew at the next port.

Lythik, who had made the first bet, dug into _her_ livesuit's money draw and handed over a Minute. "You are correct."

#  Challenge #136: At Least They Don't Speak Owo

Humans meet a species that looks very similar to a creature from a franchise. – Anon Guest

Ensign Jans was vibrating in her seat. She was evidently using every atom of restraint to keep her reaction to a minimum, but Captain Thorne had learned to react to crew-member's tells before said crew-members could explode. In this case, Ensign Jans was a lit keg of fandom enthusiasm and would therefore be unfit for duty in seconds or less.

Therefore, Captain Thorne said, "Ensign Jans, perhaps you should take a break. This _has_ been an unexpected development." With one sentence, she had probably saved everyone from a war or worse. That, because the aliens known as Thumruth looked... well... they looked _exactly_ like the _Qu-tze Bears_

They were small, fluffy, adorable, and had impossibly large, gem-coloured eyes. They were shaped like a friend and candy-colourful with it. To look upon one was to risk saccharine overdose. Worse - there were more than a few crew-members of the _Fortune's Favour_ who were foaming-at-the-mouth flakking _fanatical_ about the _Qu-tze Bears_. Keeping them the hell away from the Thumruth just made _sense_.

If fortune favoured them indeed, then the Thumruth would not be able to detect the united squealing that the onboard fandom would be doing. In fact, Captain Thorne might even be able to talk them down from said squealing long enough to explain that reality and fantasy rarely meet in the middle, that the Thumruth were _not_ Qu-tze bears, and they should stop referencing their fandom for a minimum of five consecutive minutes.

That was the plan. Nebulous and half-formed in Thorne's head. Graduating to noble dream as they met, livesuits on, in the dock between two vessels. Captain Thorne offered her hand in friendship, and shook a Thumrauth paw. _Even their livesuits have beans. Jans is going to be jumping into lightspeed without the ship..._

Then the Thumruthi called Chechin said, "We came to find you because your transmissions say you know us..."

"Transmis–" _Oh no._ They had picked up some episodes of _Qu-tze Bears_ themselves. "We meant no insult to you. In fact, we hadn't thought such a cogniscent design was possible... Those transmissions were -uh- fabricated entertainment. Made for children." Honesty compelled her to add, "Children of all ages."

"Oh yes, we are aware of the inaccuracies," said Chechin. "We were hoping... when the trade agreement begins... You could add that entertainment feed into the bargain."

Wait. Was that bright purple Thumruthi in the corridor _also_ vibrating with excitement?

Chechin was cute when he was embarrassed. "We also have children... of all ages."

#  Challenge #137: That's a Lot of Samples

An Exploratory Team stumbles upon a Pirate Hideout and gets ambushed. The scientists make peace with their imminent demise and the pirates begin to prematurely celebrate....Until the ships human shows up, very very angry. – Anon Guest

They had been excited to see smoke. Specifically, controlled columns of smoke. That meant controlled fires. This, in turn, meant that there was intelligent life present. Science Team Four proceeded cautiously. They didn't want to pollute a starter civilisation with sightings of alien life.

Their Human had taught them well. _Tread softly, keep low, and never look directly at your quarry,_ they had said. _Stay downwind if you can and disguise your scent if you can't._ Fortunately, livesuits didn't have much in the way of scent, but they took caution to roll in some of the more pungent local flora anyway.

A starter civilisation on an assumed uninhabited world. This was scientific gold. Anthropological fields would be celebrating all over Allied space. The opportunity to study infant civilisation was rare and any scientist would leap on it with avaricious intent. What they found, unfortunately, was not a starter civilisation. It was a hide-out camp. For pirates.

They certainly weren't marooned or shipwrecked travellers, not with that semi-orderly array of pre-fab shelters and _certainly_ not with those stacks of crates, or the campfire kitchen where, up until a few moments ago, someone had been preparing a huge pot of stew. It was a semi-permanent base, made to pick up and move off at a moment's notice. In fact, there were fast-launch transit pods for just that purpose at convenient places all over the camp.

Trryl had just enough time to wonder where the stew's chef had gone before the distinctive whine of powering weapons forced her into stillness. Science Team Four had been sneaking up on assumed primitives. They hadn't thought of countermeasures against securicams, infra-red tripwires, or lifesign monitors in a central intelligence hub. Starter civilisations just didn't _have_ those.

They were scientists, and therefore unarmed. At least, unarmed in the sense that what they could use for weapons wouldn't have a chance against their highly illegal handheld plasma cannons. It was far, far wiser to surrender. It was also wise to use one of Human Dae's little tricks to send a covert, streaming signal out on a non-standard band. Their scouter vessel was set to pick up such things and record them. Once it only received silence for forty-eight hours, it would send out the data in a distress call. Evidence aplenty to secure justice.

To die would be an awfully big adventure...

The pirates rounded them up into a jail they had made out of a shallow cave, then proceeded to have a loud argument about their next set of choices. Five of them didn't want to pack up and move _again_. Five of them just wanted to kill Science Team Four and send them off into the black so that it looked like an accident. Five of them wanted to run a hostage game. Five others wanted to make it look like Science Team Four had suffered an 'accident' on planet. They knew several places where the bodies wouldn't be found for decades. Five of them knew a few places that would swallow search teams and never spit them out.

Well. Since the votes were more in favour of Science Team Four's death rather than their survival... Trryl murmured some last messages home into her comms. They would go out with the distress call.

Those who are about to die...

A dreadful, ululating shriek echoed through the valley, causing the pirates to startle for their weapons... but it was already too late. Human Dae had sworn that nobody fell for the hidden speaker trick, any more, but this lot had. They triangulated on the sound and didn't see Human Dae until it was too late. Machete in each hand, blades lazily whipping at their livesuit joins. Each blow hit, slicing through the weak points that would not autoseal quickly or easily. Many blows drew blood.

One swing per pirate, one crucial blow each. Human Dae moved fast, slicing two at a time. Swing and backswing. Left and right. They had gone through a majority of them before they had a chance to grab their plasma cannons. Then Human Dae set off an EMP grenade. All technology within a three hundred DU circle fell dead.

This also included the livesuits of Human Dae and Science Team Four. They could still move and breathe for two hours, twice the time they needed to reboot.

Human Dae didn't even pause, letting the surviving pirates realise the big guns they had were useless _and_ that they were facing off against an angry Human with two very sharp knives.

"What's up, scumflakker?" said Human Dae. "Cake or death?"

It was the first planetary survey to come back with prisoners, recovered stolen goods, and a hold full of a disassembled pirate base. All of which took some time to sort out.

#  Challenge #138: Recommended Serving Size

(I thought of this and didn't know what to do with it. My apologies if it is not your style.)

" _If you got drunk ONCE by ACCIDENT then you CANNOT call yourself an alcoholic!" – Anon Guest_

Most intelligent creatures have something close enough to alcohol for Humans to drink it and find it close enough to get drunk on. Elves have a potent honey brew that, after a few beginning incidents, were served to the Humans in thimble-sized glasses. Elves drink it out of tankards. They _know_ how to party.

Kobolds, by comparison, shouldn't have alcohol. Their draconic heritage means that they do not react to it as if it were a depressant. However, they do brew up a thick, dark liquid that is ordinarily served in shell-like spoons.

Marvin had, only yesterday, made the mistake of trying 'a swig'. This was the morning after. He walked in a world of broken glass, splinters, and ear-splitting klaxons that nobody else was sensitive to. His squint said that light was being mean to him as well, even the dim light of the candles. Lady Anthe, watching him creep painfully towards the table and sit as if he were performing a penance, decided to be merciful. "Have we learned something?" she murmured.

"...ow," Marvin whimpered. "I'm going sober. I'm an alcoholic. This is a sign. I hit rock bottom. Now I'll never touch another drop of alcohol -or whatever that was- ever, ever again."

Wrong lesson. Rumtum, drinking something that was originally milk, was closer to yoghurt, and definitely not for staying sober, said, "You can _not_ get drunk _once_ by _accident_ and then call yourself an alcoholic."

"It's true," said Lady Anthe, "If anyone in this group is an alcoholic, it's Rumtum."

"Absolutely," Rumtum agreed. "Alcoholics never have hangovers 'cause they're always drunk. Like me!"

Wraithvine descended, graceful as always, as if the prodigious amount of wine they'd imbibed had happened to someone else. "How's our poor Human?" ze said.

"In pain," answered Lady Anthe. "The lesson, Marvin, is accept the given serving size."

"Even then, sample cautiously. Good fare for one is oft poison for another," added Wraithvine. They strode off to the bar to have an intense discussion with the bartender, then came back with something in a large mug. "Sip slowly, now."

Marvin had evidently learned his lesson. He sniffed the mug and said, "It smells like tomato soup..."

"It more or less is," said Wraithvine. "With a few little extras. Small, slow sips, now."

He did that, and Lady Anthe watched as his private splinters and other tortures faded from Marvin's world. By the time he was a quarter through it, he noticed it too and gulped the rest down. "By the gods' mercies..."

"The things that make Kobolds drunk are more than a little toxic to humans," lectured Wraithvine. "You're strong enough to resist the worst of it, but many of them linger. The stuff in that 'soup' you just drank has started the chelation process. It'll help clean the lingering poisons out. Unfortunately, the downsides are–"

Marvin bolted from his chair, headed to the privy. "Gotta go!"

"–a need to vacate those poisons as quickly as possible," said Wraithvine. Ze sat in Marvin's vacated chair. "Tried to tell him last night," ze murmured. "Those who do not listen will learn..."

#  Challenge #139: Playtime With Humans

There was one human who always pack bonded with others the same way: laying on the floor and talking, softly singing, and telling stories. – Anon Guest

Some habits are hard to shake. For Human Steve, it was bonding with the ships' babies. Not every cogniscent species has the same lifespan as a Human. Some have very brief lives, indeed. After twenty years with assorted short-term ships, it was hir habit to go directly to the nursery and play with the little ones. Lying on the floor to be less intimidating. Speaking in a soft, singsong voice so they could get used to hir. Telling stories because babies loved them and would soon love Human Steve.

_Then_ ze got an assignment with a long-span ship, and the habit, so ingrained, became a quirk. Instants after introduction, Human Steve lay down to play and took twenty minutes to realise... _there were no babies._

It was impolite to mention it _now_ , so Human Steve just made it part of hir bonding ritual. Besides, everyone had fun after a few moments and it always helped to get in touch with one's inner child. Some even recognised that the willingness to be silly was a powerful thing with a Human on board.

It was actually a pretty good tactic. Human Steve could quickly assess which crewmates were going to go along with hir shenanigans and which would have to be convinced... and which would have to be _carried_ from whatever the scene happened to be.

Ship after ship, Human Steve used the tactic to get to know hir new pack of aliens. Ze stayed in touch with kiddy media, just in case. Even became a fan of more than a few. Sure, ze knew ze was strange, but it generally got written off as Human Insanity. After a good while, it was just... background noise.

Ah. The Human is being strange. Typical Human... lol.

It was getting back into a group of fellow Humans that was the trouble. Steve almost got down, but remembered in time that other Humans didn't bond that way. Interestingly, though, hir reputation preceded hir.

Everyone _else_ in the room got down on the floor. After a minute, they chorused, "Play with us, Steve!"

They all laughed. It was good to be weird.

#  Challenge #140: Take Art

it is not hard to tell the difference between a human run ship and one that is run by others, for humans love color, ships run by humans often have painted walls and images everywhere, for ships that have a 'ships human' it is often best to allow them to decorate their living spaces to avoid agitation from staring at monochrome walls all the time (humans that don't decorate generally enjoy music, writing or other creative acts) – Anon Guest

Every species has an aesthetic, even the ones who don't have eyes. The Pteropts, for instance, prefer smooth, sound-baffling walls and keep sculptures of incredible intricacy. The Cephaloda, a water-borne species, arrange gardens of rocks, shells and coral surrounding their ocean homes. Humans... love colourful things.

There's a reason why most public spaces - excepting designated graffiti zones - are grey. It is the least offensive colour to multiple species' eyes. Well. Those who have eyes to see with. There is only one species offended by Public Property Grey, and that is, of course, Humans. These Deathworlders, whose life is often interesting in deadly ways, hate bland and inoffensive tones, especially when those tones are _everywhere_.

Humans are the reason that designated graffiti zones exist. They see a blank expanse of wall and feel obligated to fill it. Words, pictures, a mix of the two. Cartoons, if they can get away with it. There is not an empty wall that a Human will not attempt to improve, somehow. When Humans are forced to cohabit, it is best to use a mediator to assist in co-ordinating the group aesthetic.

Some Humans use things to decorate their personal spaces. They mark their territory with small toys, objet d'art, tchotchkes, books, and pictures. Some of those pictures aren't even _of_ anything, they are just artworks with meaning exclusive to the Human who possesses it. Some prefer to watch their decoration, in the form of entertainments recorded across history. Their spaces, too, are decorated with shelving and the contents within are the preferred media forms.

Some... fill their spaces with sound.

Human Voen carried a box full of flat objects, all colourful of course, on board the _Interrogating Squeak_ , bound for strange old places to see if anything interesting might be found there again. She greeted her Pyltaki crewmates with sunny cheer and found her way to her quarters. Which was when, as part of the general bonding procedure, Thyrkyk offered to help Human Voen set up her space.

Helping move in was always good for designated Human companions to bond with their Human. Most of it involved removing things from containers that were shipped separately, and helping arrange them according to the Humans directions.

In this case, it was something called _the comfy chair_ and a _stereo_. The chair was old and had been repaired, reupholstered, and refurbished so much that it was almost a ship of Theseus in itself. If there was an original part inside it, it was crying because it was alone. As for the _Stereo_...

It looked like nothing more interesting than a group of black boxes, held together with cables and added to the ships' power network. Sure, there were knobs, dials, and switches on some, but others were just a sleek, black mystery. Thyrkyk investigated the box of flat things. They, too, looked like art. Preserved inside clear sleeves, each with words and pictures, but on both sides.

"Where and how is this displayed, Human Voen?"

"Call me Vonnie," insisted Human Voen. She gently took the large square from Thyrkyk's hands. "And this is media. Old school media from way before the Shattering." She opened one of the boxes, revealing a circular platter with a spike in it and what appeared to be some form of lever. "It's a vinyl record, and this is my record player."

The square concealed a black disk with a groove on each side. It fit neatly on the platter, which began to spin at the direction of Human Voen's flicking fingers. The lever was added to the surface. There was a pop, and a slight hiss and crackle.

Music. "Dear Prudence," sang a Human's voice. "Won't you come out to play..."

There was printed data on the square sheath. It included some dates from Human history. Past centuries. Centuries _long_ past.

_I am listening to the voice of a dead Human,_ Thyrkyk realised with a chill. _Many dead Humans._

Human Voen noticed Thyrkyk's trepidation and gently lifted the lever, turning her machine off. "Is it distubing you? I did request sound baffling so I don't upset the neighbours..."

"I was... I was marvelling at this," said Thyrkyk honestly. "The dead can still speak. Or... sing."

"I know plenty of people who are bothered by recordings of the dead. I can stick to extant artists if that's a thing?"

Thyrkyk put the sheath back down. "It is not a thing," ze said. "I was struck by it, is all. We... usually don't keep using media more than a century old. We have found new ways, by then."

"Ah, but everything old can be new again." Human Voen swapped one black disk for one that was coloured gold. "This is one of my favourites."

This time, it was a familiar voice. "Goin' up the river... Takin' all my friends..."

Thyrkyk said, "This is one of my favourites, too."

#  Challenge #141: One Quiet Evening a Long Time Ago

" _I do not sleep. I Wait." – AmberFox_

Marvin didn't understand a lot of things. He certainly didn't understand how an Elf and a Kobold managed to sweet-talk him away from the gang. The gang who -they had said- he should be grateful to forever because they let him live. The Elf and the Kobold said he shouldn't have to be grateful for table scraps and daily beatings.

He was sixteen, and already taller than most grown men. Some folks whispered that he was part Gargantuan, and the gang had complained that he was always hungry. The Elf and the Kobold didn't complain. Lady Anthe - the Kobold - said that he was as big as a horse, so it was only fair that he'd be able to eat one as well.

Marvin decided to stick with cow, pig, and chicken. Horses were nice. He didn't want to turn them into food. He didn't know about the Elf and the Kobold, though. Something about how nice they were made him afraid of their anger. Which was, despite having a proper bed for the first time ever, Marvin couldn't sleep. Lady Anthe had curled up on a pile of pillows by the fireside, under her cloak and a small duvet, and was sound asleep. Her snout poked out, but that was the only sign she was there.

"You can sleep," said the Elf. Wraithvine. Marvin couldn't tell if they were a he or a she and apparently Wraithvine liked it that way. "You need sleep."

"So do you," said Marvin. "Right?"

A smile. "Elves don't sleep."

Marvin said, "Neither do I." He felt compelled to add. "If someone's awake, I get a beating for being lazy so... I don't sleep. I wait."

"You don't need to do that any more," murmured Wraithvine. "You can sleep."

Marvin curled up on the bed, sitting up with his knees to his chest and his back to a corner. He folded up his arms on his knees and settled his chin. He tried, he really tried, to close his eyes and relax. He couldn't do it. Not for more than a few minutes at a time.

Wraithvine had folded themself up in a special way on the bed. Legs in a tangle with both feet on top of the opposite knees. Hands resting palm up on those. Back straight. "Sit like this if you can," said Wraithvine. "Breathe with me."

Marvin took his boots off to do it, and struggled with getting his feet to go like Wraithvine's were. If he got it wrong, the Elf didn't say. He followed Wraithvine's directions.

"Close your eyes and breathe as slowly as you can. Feel the softness of the bed. Hear the crackle of the fire and Anthe's snoring. Listen, and know. Sense what is around you."

He could see without using his eyes. Wraithvine still and calm on the bed opposite. Lady Anthe curled up in her huddle hoard. The slow midnight business of the night shift in the inn. The clip-clop of the night soil carthorse as the dunnikin men went about their business. There was no anger in the air.

"Now go back. Back past the pains of recent memory. Back past everything your conscious mind remembers. Back... to the peace you knew with your mother..."

He could feel it. Warm and a heartbeat and pure darkness and pure rest and... Marvin woke up with drool under his face and a platter of breakfast in front of his nose. He sat up and wiped his face. It was mid-morning and nobody had a stick or a chain.

"Eat up," said Lady Anthe, bearer of breakfast. "We have a big day ahead."

He would learn, eventually, that these were good people. This was what good people did.

#  Challenge #142: Just Playing

Human: Floor is lava!

Alien: WAIT, WHAT?! — Anon Guest

Humans love to play. This does not always mean games of logic and reason, since many Humans lack the capacity for one or both of those attributes. Humans will not always play physical games with solid rule sets, either. Sometimes... they prefer to play with reality.

Human Jef and Tharyx were standing on an inactive console and an otherwise vacant chair, respectively. Xarq stared at the tableau. He knew their Ships' Human was relatively young, but... Surely they were trained in proper furniture interaction.

Without prompting of any kind, Human Jef said, "The floor is lava."

Xarq blinked at this information. Delivered so casually, so factually, that it might explain everything, yet the floor was definitely carpeted deck plating as it had been since the day the _Crusty Treasure_ launched. "The floor is structurally sound cerametal rated to thousands of degrees kelvin, thousands of SWU's pressure[38], and covered in noise-reducing carpeting."

Tharyx turned to Human Jef and said, "Game over, dude?"

Human Jef sighed and sat on the console in a pout. "It's. A. Game. We're playing pretend. Like... the simplest game of pretend there is. Basically, you have to get around without touching the floor."

Tharyx, being helpful, added, "It is an excuse for physical activity and creative mental exercise."

"And you get to jump around and be silly," said Human Jef, no longer doing either. In fact, Human Jeff looked more than a little down in the dumps. "It's... fun."

"Fun," sighed Xarq. Of course it was fun. That seemed to be the chief motivation for a Human to do anything. "You are still performing your duties whilst engaged in this... fun?"

"Er," said Human Jef.

"More or less," said Tharyx. "More less than more..."

"Just deliver the progress reports on time," said Xarq. Having a Ships' Human was useful in emergencies, but between them... they needed certain things. Opportunities to be silly was just one of those things. Xarq decided to have a word with the Captains.

Twenty minutes later, the slightly confused message went out over the shipboard PA. "Attention crew... for those who wish to participate... the floor... is lava."

[38] Pronounced, SIH-woo's. Standard Weight Units, each roughly equivalent to a kilogram.

#  Challenge #143: This is How a Heart Breaks Back

Human teenagers had terrible lives in their intergalaxy school. When humans joined to Galaxy Alliance they're started to sending their children to schools on other planets. Well... Teenagers have been harassing and bullying without any kind of defence because "humans will always be barbarians and if they do something to someone is abuse and they should be held in cages like animals". One time some Havenworlder starts to offend [name]. He choose wrong person. This was last time that anyone tried to piss of human teenagers. – Anon Guest

Integration is always a rough time. Just ask Ruby Bridges[39]. Of course, in the intervening centuries, assorted people have become more... subtle... about ostracising the different.

Imagine coming into a group of peers, every day, and having them feign being afraid of you. Imagine being unable to tell that they are feigning those fears. Imagine being singled out of shared classes because your mere presence causes upset. The teachers do not want to teach you. The administration wants to get rid of you, to shunt you away and declare integration a failure. They want to blame you, because _you_ are the newest factor and the change is in correlation to your presence.

Imagine trying to handle all this at four years of age. Imagine continuing to handle it from there to the age of fourteen, when hormones and growth patterns both begin to do things to the body, to the brain, to the mind and heart and soul. Imagine all those stresses for an otherwise kind and gentle soul who has nevertheless held out hope against the face of it all that they could still make friends, in spite of all evidence to the contrary.

Imagine being fourteen and a half, having your own body turn against you, facing another day of continued shenanigans from your surroundings, and tripping over a misjudged distance between oneself and the furniture. Imagine the laughter. Imagine an otherwise respected and loved teacher, one who was far less cruel than everyone else, casually saying, "Wreck the whole school while you're at it, Barbarian."

What would _you_ do?

For Barbera Menanis, it was the last straw. She curled up where she had fallen and burst into tears, wailing like an infant.

They had expected her to react like the legends. They had expected her to go on a very Human rampage. Wiping out civilians. Destroying the community. Extracting the apocryphal pound of flesh from everyone who had insulted her.

What they got was a Human reacting as if they had broken her bones.

Nobody around her knew what to do. Panic ensued. Comms were opened. The other children, lost and afraid, went into their home rooms and waited, listening, for any kind of news. _Now_ they knew what being afraid of and for a Human was like, it wasn't such a fun game any more.

Eventually, a school assembly was called. Staff, students, and one of Barbera's parentals, all in one room, to hear an important message.

"Physically," announced the Parental. "Barbera is fine. Not that any of you cared about that until today. Emotionally? Emotionally... what you just witnessed has been what we, her family, have been witnessing every evening. Our Barbera is a brave girl. She kept hoping, kept trying, to add you to her... her friends... to join with you with our pack-bonding faculties, for _nine... years._ Nine years of day in, day out fecal matter from the lot of you. Nine years of nobody trying to be as nice to her as she was to you. Nine. Years. Of daily verbal abuse, hate, and fear. Nine! Years! Nine years of alleged professional educators missing the point. Nine years of you not being taught how Humans like us work because it was easier to run on old prejudices. Our family means to sue this school, all educators, and all the families of all the students for those nine years. From each and every one of you."

The ripple of realisation turned into a tsunami of growing horror. Some families would have to eliminate their entire savings. Some families would be working off their debt for a decade.

The parental waited for the murmuring to die down. "Some of you will blame us for waiting this long. Some of you will blame us for sending her back here. Every day. We had no choice. _You_ had the choice. You had the choice to put aside prejudice, you had the choice to make a friend. You had the choice to actually heed your lessons on non-violence and peaceful interaction, but you didn't. Now you pay the price."

All because they refused to even try and accept a child.

All because prejudice was easier than acceptance.

They would learn, thanks to Barbera's parentals. They would learn... because that was what schools were for.

[39] You still can at the time of this writing. The age of overt racial prejudice has yet to end, and she is still alive to tell the tale.

#  Challenge #144: Unexpected Testing Results

Due to the educational curriculum, I am unfortunately good at regurgitating information. Thus, my speaking patterns are about 90% references. – Anon Guest

Shayde didn't like the SPOEns, mostly because they disturbed her on an emotional level. This was a pity because, as a group, they were among the few that could understand her. Rael, one of that select group, had to reflect that it was the fault of the pre-shattering education system of the late twentieth century.

Creeping featurism on a system designed in the era of steam had to mess kids up. The fact that Humanity hung onto it for an entire century after it was no longer necessary was a testimony to how ridiculous Humans could be. The advent of computerised assessment systems just made things worse.

It began with a need for clerks to do the paperwork. Thus, education focussed on having a neat hand and an ability to recite multiplication tables. A grounding in classical literature and the ability to comprehend the written word for nested information was also important to the managers of the era of steam. Then the world changed... War disrupted everything. Leaped technology forwards, and the system once reliable began to decay.

The aggressive majority could not run the country during a war that took them to the front and left the previously silenced minorities behind. They took up the slack, and realised that they did not need the aggressive majority to run the country. Social revolutions changed the workplace. Educational testing, once used on one select group, was applied to those previously excluded. The results... were judged to be offensive, because the minorities performed better than the ruling populations.

Therefore the administrative peers did the only -to them- logical thing. They altered the test to prove how the minorities should remain minorities and those in power were naturally superior. Once a false superiority was established, technology leaped forward again with the rise of digital technology. Standardised tests, with multiple choice options, came to the fore. School funding became tied to the students' performances in such tests. In the wrong order, of course. Those that performed well got more funding.

This lead to schools teaching students how to pass the tests. Some with increasing desperation because school funding was also tied to surrounding property values and demographic zoning dictated that some groups and associated areas would never have the money they needed. Which was just the way the majority liked it.

However, the minoritized groups rebelled. They could see how the system was rigged against them and did their utmost to defeat it anyway. Their volume lead to successive efforts to improve an already broken system more than half a century out of date. Which, of course, resulted in the only thing that the automated systems could judge fairly - more standardised testing.

It reached the point, in the earlier half of the twenty-first century, where classes were teaching how to pass a test that would be delivered at the end of the week. The system finally broke when it finally became public that students were learning more from the internet and independent sources than they ever did from their hours in formal schooling.

Shayde was from an era somewhere in the middle of that entire mess. Forced to absorb entire quotes and recite from memory at the drop of a hat. Able to pick one of five potential options as the correct answer to a question. Her education also left her with a tendency to speak in references that only a SPOEn, or someone like Rael, could understand.

It wasn't her fault. It was her environment. Rael knew this... and yet... This was the fifth time _today_ that someone had enquired if interviews with Shayde came with a reference file so they could understand her.

#  Challenge #145: Non-Solutions

" _We need options."_

" _Well, I would say 'kill them all', but none of you ever remember it's a joke."_

" _HOW IS MASS MURDER A JOKE!?"_

" _How is mass murder NOT a joke when we're not actually gonna do it?"_

" _Ok new rule, no more dark humor during meetings." – Anon Guest_

"This isn't a meeting, it's a tragedy in progress."

" _How_ is _death_ possibly _funny_?"

"All of you. Can it for a sec'. We actually need a working plan," Grax sighed as the Humans in the team held out their hands for a small coin. "Please."

Human Stef said, "Business faces," and the rest of them put their hands away and straightened up. "You gotta admit, boss. This is something of a comedy of errors. Mistakes were made, Humans are wont to find that funny. We're trying to get over it, honest."

"Some of us are merely trying," said Human Dav, elbowing the still-giggling Human Jor in the ribs. This started the low-grade tousling that those two Humans regularly engaged in for social reasons. The rest of the Humans ignored this.

"Okay. SNAFU protocol," said Human Nii. "We're cornered in this temporarily safe zone. Can't bug out because the lift ship is literally on the opposite side of the country. Can't fight because we're _supposed_ to be stealthing it, _Jorge_..."

Jorge had the decency to look embarrassed. She mumbled, "Accident."

"Yeah, we know. Inventory. Whaddawe got?"

"Three medkits, two ration packs, a laser cutter and a roll of ductape," said Human Stef.

"One medkit, a jet booster, three rolls of ductape and the package." Human Nii checked his livesuit slots. "One stunner at fifty percent and two rations... and one stick of stim gum."

Grax, alleged leader of the crew, said, "One ration, three air cleanser pods, a ball of twine, and the evac's remote lock fob."

Jorge said, "Five rations, some shiny things, a bunch of tech parts I stole outta doors on the way here, and some connecting fibre and shit."

This pleased Human Stef. " _Now_ we're cookin'," he announced. "We got enough shit to Macgyver up something _cool_."

Grax really regretted running through hir supplies of anti-stress meds in the first three hours. This was going to be the kind of _interesting_ that would wind up in textbooks...

#  Challenge #146: We Can be Heroes

Almost everyone remembers where they were the week the Sun turned Green. Scientists the world over confirmed it was an interstellar dust wave caused by an ancient supernova that had interacted with our atmosphere.

Humanity had continued mostly unaffected. But this was the stuff of comic books and movies. the changes were subtle at first. People noticing enhanced benefits from consuming certain plants, others started tapping into new abilities, and as time progressed things became... strange

now we had almost legitimate "supers" people who were double fast, double strong, who could levitate, or sense peoples thoughts.

And then there were the men and women that Previously called themselves "witches" or "Druids" or "Magic users" (that were always just considered whacked out hippy types, or at worst devil worshipers by the fundamentalists), were actually performing, for lack of a better description, magic, by mixing herbs and plants for enhanced effects.

And in my head keeps circling that damned Bob Dylan lyric about changing times... – Adam from Darwin

Call me Tetris. I was a little kid when the Green Sun happened, and I remember loving it because the world had gone lime. I was five. Lime was my jam and I loved everything green. I didn't like it when things went back, I remember that. I remember watching every single Youtube video about the green sun because I wanted it back.

I guess that was why I knew everything about the Power Creep when it happened to me. They can't call it Mutation, because nobody's DNA got changed. They can't call it Manifestation \- I think someone has the copyright on that. So they call it Power Creep. Me? I can instantly know measurements of things by eye and mentally fit stuff together without even trying.

Bugs the _hell_ out of some dudes. Girls aren't supposed to know that your metalwork project is two millimeters off, for some reason. We're especially not allowed to pack things neatly, efficiently, and in one quarter of the space they say they need. My first paying job was sorting out someone's old warehouse. I cleared up half the volume of the place and pissed off my boss. I help builders with things, sometimes. The ones who can get over gender roles, anyway.

There's all sorts of meanings to 'Differently Abled' now. It's interesting. All those close-minded bigots? The ones who have an Opinion and are usually not afraid to yell about it? The white-abled-privileged-males, most of them, and the ignorant-white-privileged-females, too... Not one of them got an Ability. It's like... in order to be Able, you had to have enough imagination to see things another way.

So yeah, all those people who have nothing better to do than belittle people? They got squat and they hate it.

There's a little kid who needs a motorised chair to get around. Their Ability is to make people's physical body match their personality. She is _real_ popular with the trans community and keeps the politicians in line. She's an absolute sweetie, though. Insists that people in power keep their promises and reminds them of what she can do.

She has turned one guy into his personality. Everyone agreed the scumsucker deserved it.

There's the Witches, Wizards, and Magecrafters... they can put together whatever and -boom- instant magical artifact. More than a few of them are going around curing diabetes and stuff like that for free. Pharma companies are _pissed_. They can stay pissed. They're the ones who made illness a profit industry. They deserve to be disassembled.

There's grandmas who can bend I-beams, helping with Habitat for Humanity because they can also fly. There's little kids who have phenomenal powers, helping because they want to. My absolute fave? The little toddler who helps with their dad's moving company because they can lift an entire couch in one hand. It's so adorable, I nearly died.

All over the world... the people who used to be cast out and ignored or talked over are helping out the world just because they can. There's a kid in Australia called Dynamo who just... powers the entire country. They're gently divorcing the Australian Government from its love of the coal industry because _their_ power comes free.

Going green is becoming more than a trend. I can't say I feel good about the cluster of people who are just... plastic magnets. On one hand, they're getting all that noise out of the ocean, but... on the other hand? It's gotta be gross.

The right wing are yelling about it. Thank the deities of your choice that they can only yell about it. I mean, can you _imagine_ it? The most venal, petty, vicious people in the world with Abilities? They'd break the world even worse than it's broken already. They're crying about how the world is being made better without them and, frankly, it's making them look like a bunch of whiny babies. But mostly? They're whining about how it isn't their turn any more.

It's _been_ their turn for - what? Three hundred-and-so years? Minimum? It's about time someone else had a go at this sort of thing. Me and the whole rest of the world reckon we're doing pretty okay. They can't do anything about it. We've got someone who can mess up guns or bullets in every single public facility and area.

Let them whine. They're not even popular with their kids. People are turning away from their hateful messages and violent rhetoric. They'll be dying out soon enough.

More than likely, they'll be whining with their dying breaths.

#  Challenge #147: A Challenge Presents

The darkest place in the universe, as distinct to a black hole which traps light, is known as the the Nothingness, the Big Black or the Deep Dark.

Some species even Deified it as the 'anti" to whatever particular flavour of saviour their belief systems held on high. and appropriately avoided such an abhorrent place. Officially it was called Boötes Void (a distinctly Human moniker, as only humans would NAME such a place)

So naturally the humans wanted to explore it.

The interesting thing wasn't that they found anything, they didn't, it was a VOID after all;

Rather it was exactly what humans can and will do with a Massive, completely empty, unclaimed, unregulated, space... – Adam in Darwin

There is nothing so fascinating to a Human as an empty space. Show them a gap, show them a void, show them something vacant of what they think should be there, and watch them go. They study it, they fill it, they come to stare at it, they go inside to see if it's really as empty as they think it is... All of those and more. Nature may hate a vacuum, but Humans despise a void.

So it was when they encountered the Great Gap, a space between stars within the Octopus Galaxy. Humans swarmed, surrounding it in all three dimensions. Beaming transmissions through it, sending probes into it, working out how to traverse it, and soon running competitions to do so. The argument that there was no point to traversing the void, that travel via wormhole _around_ it was quicker, made no impact on the Humans.

They never could resist a challenge, even one they had appointed themselves. Ever-increasing wealth in the prize pot became an irresistible temptation to the insane Deathworlders.

Piece by piece, ship by ship, failed attempt by failed attempt, Humans did fill the Great Gap. They filled it with their ambitious dead. With probes unable to make it to the other side, with jetsam, because there is nothing empty that Humans won't use for a garbage dump. They filled it, also, with the opportunistic, the graverobbers, and the people who did the math in regards to how much profit was waiting in the emptiness, but not the math involved in getting in, getting their haul, and getting out alive.

The Great Gap became testimony towards Human insanity, Human indomitability, and Human pig-headedness. All in one.

Some day, the Alliance knows, a Human or team of Humans will bridge that Gap. They'll find a way. They'll _make_ a way to conquer the unconquerable. Because that's what Humans _do_.

#  Challenge #148: Words May Never

They meant to hurt you with words and bring you down by demeaning you. You became inspired to do something entirely different. – Anon Guest

Say something long enough, it becomes true. Words like _weirdo, freak, idiot,_ and so forth don't hurt in small doses, but if they are said often enough, by enough people, to one, that one can easily believe they are worthless. It happens so often, but it does not happen to all.

Consider Suz' Mayberry, iconoclast of Elderwine Falls. There, almost everyone is a vinter, knows a vinter, or has a vinter in the family. It's practically a law that if one lives in Elderwine Falls, one has to have a job related to the local wine. She lives in an old tower that used to be part of the landlord's Keep, in times of war. She doesn't grow elderberries, nor pigs nor chickens nor cattle. The land is no good for any of those. It was why, legend said, the long-absent landlord chose it.

Suz' Mayberry likes it there because the land has interesting rocks, and the tower has a good view of the stars. In the day, she studies rocks, and in the night, she studies the stars. The people of Elderwine Falls have all kinds of names for her. _Stupid_ is a favourite, since everyone else _has_ to be smart. Elderwine Falls is known for its Elderberry Wine, and the freshwater falls that give their vintages that extra special sparkle.

No. Suz Mayberry would talk about _rock formations_ and how a spring deep in the mountainside is responsible for the water that helped give Elderwine Falls its name. She would spout on for hours about _trace minerals_ if you let her. Idiot girl. About the only thing she's good for is letting people know the seasons are turning and when to expect the right kind of weather for growing elderberries. Or how good the crop might be.

Don't get her started on the animals inside stones. Just... don't. Not if you don't have all day. She's stupid, she has to be. Stupid, and certainly not dumb about it. It's as if she's starving to talk to people, but she'll talk your ear off about nothing that _matters_. Stupid girl.

When she's not looking at rocks and looking at stars, she's messing about with distinctly non-wine alchemy. She makes good soap, the people of Elderwine Falls admit, but that's about all she's truly good for. Soap, and halfway decent crop advice. That was it. Sometimes, a decent excuse for being late anywhere. Useless girl. No sane man would want her.

Yet despite all this social pressure, Suz' Mayberry kept on with what she liked to do. She studied rocks, messed about with alchemy, and looked at the stars. She sold her soaps or traded them for food and was, despite it all, happy in her life.

Then came the day that the ground shook, and the falls dried up, and so did the town well. The rains weren't enough to keep the elderberries happy, and the townsfolk started to bewail their fate. Some moved out. Most pooled their money and offered a reward for the return of the water. Suz' packed some supplies and clambered up the cliffside and vanished inside the cavern where the springs were.

She was gone for days. So long that the remaining people of Elderwine Falls thought she may have died up there. A week... two weeks... and then there was a distant report and, in two more days, the water and the falls returned. And so did Suz' Mayberry. Battered, bloodstained, and a little deaf in one ear.

Suz' explained, a little too loudly, that when the ground shook, some rocks became dislodged and blocked off the springwater. She used a 'special exploding mix' of saltpeter and an oil she made from plants, to get rid of that. She could show them everything she knew, if they wanted to listen. She had, after all, set up a classroom in the old Keep. All they had to do was stop by and ask questions.

The people of Elderwine Falls stopped calling her a stupid girl, after that. She became a bright woman who knew her stuff. And perhaps some of the third sons or daughters could learn a few things about soap and why it went bang when saltpeter was involved. Or how special rocks meant that the town had its unique water. Or why certain stars predicted the weather.

Always the third child, or later. Because you couldn't waste your heirs on the risk that they might go weird. They would scoff and say things like, _Of course a little weirdness can be useful from time to time,_ and then explain how they had to be sensible, and reasonable, and logical about these things.

Suz' Mayberry explained it the same way. You had to be sensible, and find out how the world worked. You had to be reasonable, and find the reasons why things happened the way they did. You had to be logical, and use logic to solve unexpected problems. Weirdness isn't a curse, she insisted. It is a way of seeing things in a different direction, and thusly seeing things that others won't even look at.

#  Challenge #149: Taking Account

Political Hopeful scouting for votes and says "Those Words" - "How can I help?" You can spin this anyway you like. – Anon Guest

There's two ways to be a Politico of the People. One is to take the vocal majority's word and run with it all the way to a populist poll... and the other is to actually listen to _all_ of the people. The latter is far more difficult to do and harder to accomplish, so many Politico's don't even try.

Not Solomon Grady. Sol absorbed a popular speech about choosing to do the things _because_ they were hard. The difficult things to do were, ultimately, the most rewarding. Science is _still_ ploughing through all the data and samples they got from going to the moon. Therefore, he gathered data from the neighbourhoods where he was running.

Not just a survey, but opinions. The phrase, "How can I help?" became his catch phrase. The data he returned with was phenomenal, but it became a plan. Step one: ignore the racist and sexist trolls with self-entitled whining about how such-and-such group of people 'stole their job' or any other like thing. It is the peak of entitlement to claim something as one's own before it is ever earned.

Sol's plan focussed on things that the _community_ needed. Accessibility for all, a boost for local business owners, paid for with a tax on the multi-billion-dollar chains that set up shop there. Of course, Sol was declared an enemy of Capitalism, which then got him the Millennial Vote.

The single biggest block of voters since the Boomers, who were dying out. _They_ were in favour of all the things Capitalism hated, like the environment, sustainability, wages where one was a mere shrug of an insurance agent from falling into poverty, homelessness, and despair. People who believed that food, shelter, and adequate medical care were human rights.

It was quite a shock to the right wing when Sol became president. They had, after all, attempted to sabotage him at every turn. But since it was President Sol or revolution, the right wisely decided to slink out of his way. Reformation wasn't easy. It was an uphill battle the entire time, with businesses attempting every last dirty trick to get out of it, get away with it, and get going before the tax laws came in.

Ultimately, they failed. Ultimately, reformation restored human rights, and spread them throughout the globe. Ultimately, the world became worth living in again.

It wasn't easy. The worthwhile things never are.

#  Challenge #150: Situation Under Control

During an enemy attack on their cargo ship.

Human: "Be lucky you still have legs, because I collect those ! :-)"

Alien Crewmate: "Can you please Stop quoting Isaak from Battleborn?"

Human: "It works though! Just look at those wannabe Pirates!!" – Anon Guest

There is a saying, _Human is as Human does,_ and it has a multitude of meanings. In this case, the Human is one thin moral line away from outright sociopathy and psychopathy at the same time.

"You're lucky you still have legs," grinned Human Jon. "I collect those." The delivery was right from the depths of the deepest nightmare, and made the would-be pirates retreat to the safety of their vessel all the faster. Leaving behind them a trail of semi-valuable items and, perhaps, personal effluvia as their fight or flight instincts kicked in.

Hyroq sighed at the rescue, knowing that Human Jon had a remarkable capability for acting. "Can you please stop doing that? It's very disturbing." Then, because he realised that was the point, he added, "To more than your intended audience."

"What? Isaak from Battleborn has the best lines... You know it's all a doddle..."

"I may be the only one in the room who is aware." Hyroq tried another way of putting it. "You're scaring the babies."

Human Jon stopped cold, letting the pirates get away. Looking around her as she noticed all the young ones attempting to hide with a distinctive lack of hiding places. "Aw. Aaaw, babies... Aaaaaawwwww..." She immediately hunkered down and started singsonging, "It's okay... It's okay. Da hoomin's jus' bein' a big silly... you safe... it's good. It's a _pretend_ game to scare away the _bad_ people..."

Also, that saying can mean that Humans can go from savage to ridiculous in a picosecond. Especially if small creatures are around.

#  Challenge #151: The Perils of Convenience

Imagine a Shop for Adventurers that sells nearly everything.

Including Scrolls to Talk to other Races and even with Animals and invokal Things.

Of course those Scrolls have a Price, however they can be found on Dead People or in the Dungeon. – Anon Guest

The chain was called Infinite Needs, and catered exclusively to Adventurers. The secret was that each pokey little shop front lead to a pocket dimension of a warehouse that was, theoretically, endless[40]. The shop had already lost points with Lady Anthe because of a sign at the entryway. _All classified Small creatures must ride in the trolley seat._

Wraithvine had had to employ a cardboard barrier to stop her and Rumtum from battling each other, _and_ put a Geas on Marvin to stay within sight of Wraithvine at all times. If the stock wasn't so blessedly _convenient_ , none of them would have been otherwise bothered. With the help of a Location Disc, they didn't need to endlessly roam the plane, nor retrace their steps via respooling the twine. At least, they didn't need to do that _often_.

"I want a sausage," grumbled Rumtum. Unseen on the other side of the opaque barrier, Lady Anthe was making a mock of him by flapping her hand like a mouth and pulling faces. "And _don't_ tell me I can keep wanting. I'm hungry."

"There's something about them kiddie seats, I swear," said Marvin. "You both know better to eat fae food. 'S got things in it that make it taste better'n mortal fare."

"It's called _sugar_ ," said Wraithvine, who knew these things. "That, and _empty calories_. They love it as a joke. Food that makes you hungry, has zero actual value, and will kill through both obesity _and_ malnutrition. Stay away from it."

"Yes, master Wizard," chorused the three. Two of them with evident sarcasm.

Wraithvine spared a quelling glare for both the beings in the kiddie seat. "It's this or go dungeon crawling for the special items. Do you _really_ want to go dungeon crawling?"

Another chorus, "...no..."

"Then kindly try to behave for at least five consecutive minutes. Thank you." Wraithvine took a clearing breath and made sure Marvin's Geas wasn't going to wear out any time soon. Surely actual children wouldn't be _this_ much bother.

[40] Sort of like Costco, only without any visible walls. Just... shelves like that bit at the end of _Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Arc_. They say that if you go deep enough, the signs allegedly telling you what they have there are in a language incomprehensible to mortal eyes. Make good use of a ball of twine and never make a deal with the Fae staff.

#  Challenge #152: Skill Building Exercise

A school with different Races Like Humans, Havenworlders and other Deathworlders have a Projectweek.

Of course at the End of the Week the Pupils present their Projects each one at a small stand and get their Grades for their Work.

(Go with this anywhere you want and have a great Day ^^) – Anon Guest

In a Mixed Toughness schooling environment, certain things are forbidden. Sudden shocks can be bad for Havenworlders, and certain Deathworlders play by using shocks on each other. The older the children are, the better they are at understanding this, but for the young ones... precaution is the byword.

"This project week, we are building dioramas," the instructional model hologram rotated for the awed class of eight. It showed several examples and how they could work. Some showed how to make the lightbox style, others showed scenes the children could make. "The theme, should you choose to participate, is _favourites_. This can be a scene from your favourite book, movie, or show... it could be your favourite room, activity, or even about your pet." There were some giggles, some faces were lighting up, and one child was already making a plan in their art app.

"Usual class rules apply... _Jason_. No blood, no gore, no dismemberment, or depictions thereof." Educator Kriis waited for the disappointed 'aw'. "Similarly, any characters in your diorama who are interacting must be interacting in a manner appropriate for public display." Which, when boiled down to the basics of communication, meant _no sex scenes._ Yet saying it like that to a group of children was dangerous territory.

Jason, one of _those_ kinds of kids, mumbled something incomprehensible and doubtless started planning to get as close to crossing the line as he could. The Educators of the class exchanged a Look. There was always a little rebel, and their job was to gently divorce Jason from any avenues of approach that could plausibly cause harm. As it was, his skating close to thin ice could well help the Havenworlders in the class toughen up their genome via epigenetic influence. Which was why Mixed Toughness classes existed in the first place.

There were a few kids who wanted help, there always were. Just like there was always one who wanted to push the envelope, there was always one who was afraid of touching it, and wanted to know if any decision they made was okay. Those kids were encouraged to push their envelopes a little.

There was also one kid who _had_ this. They grabbed materials they needed and attacked the project with enthusiasm, zeal and, if they didn't watch out, an inevitable upset when something didn't work out the way it was supposed to in their head. There was a lot to keep an eye on, and asking questions about that kid's plans and giving them a few hints and tips kept the frustration at bay.

The hardest thing to do, of course, was to keep their interest on their projects throughout the week. There was always one child who was frustrated that they hadn't finished their project _that day_ , and always one who wanted to stay behind and get it done.

When the week was over, there would be prizes for the most creative, the most detailed, the most accurate, and the most improved at skill-building. 'Best' wasn't a word they used in beginning education. That was a relic of a bygone era that didn't value anything that couldn't be sold for a profit. Regardless of prizes, though, one thing was guaranteed. The parentals would be proud of them.

#  Challenge #153: To Fill the Serried Ranks

<https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Saragarhi>

Duty, Honor, Sacrifice.

I don't know if you have heard of Saragarhi before, but it would be nice to see a story from you over the subject.

Have a nice day. – Anon Guest

[AN: I've seen the Extra History on the topic. It's a tragedy]

It was a small station. Only meant to relay information from one defensive outpost to another. Most of the staff there were locals, and they had allied with the Galactic Alliance for convenience's sake more than anything else. There, on the border, Relay Station 54R4-G4R81 faced what every border has faced since time immemorial. Raiders coming from outside the border.

There were more of them than the defences could handle. Long range scanners on the defensive outposts said that _this_ raid wasn't merely raiding. They had to be working on an all-out attack, and they were headed straight for 54R4-G4R81, the weak point in the defensive line. The plan had to be to destroy Relay Station 54R4-G4R81, and then, once communication between the two fortifications was weakened and their scanner array broken, pick off the defensive fort stations one by one.

After that, they could go where they liked, and do whatever they liked to whomever they liked without fear of retribution. The distant forces of the Allied Spacefleets were busy quelling other fires on other borders caused by other raiders, they never had enough ships. Therefore, the local fleets were all 54R4-G4R81 had to rely on, and they were too far away to be very useful.

All this, their commanding officer explained to the crew. They each had a choice. Leave their post and warn their host system, friends and family, or stay and offer what resistance they could, right up until the bitter end. Re-enforcements would be arriving from the fort stations, but they would be arriving too late to help anyone in 54R4-G4R81. Right at that moment, they were scrambling the fastest carriers, crews of fighters, the best they could spare, but they could get there no faster than CTL speeds, which meant they would arrive _after_ the raiding parties had overwhelmed 54R4-G4R81's defences and killed the crew.

Not one crewperson left for the evac ships. They gathered together everything they could turn into a weapon - even the evac ships - and spent most of their time making sure that the Raiders would pay dearly for every inch. Piercing weapons coated in peanut oil, booby-trapped airlocks, booby-trapped doors and elevators, and in every hall, people willing to fight with everything they had.

In order to cut off communications between the stations, the Raiders had to physically sabotage the central comms hub of 54R4-G4R81, because if it was rendered inoperable by combat, the alert would go out across all neighbouring systems, there to spread virally across every other comms relay station like this one. They had to get to the hub and shut it down in a way that made the automated safety systems think it was a perfectly reasonable way to shut down.

In order to do that, they merely had to overwhelm the existing defences, make it past the booby-trapped airlocks, survive a crew who was willing to fight to the death, _and_ all their toxic, terrible, and torturous traps. This was, of course, the furthest thing from 'easy peasy' as one could get. The crew of Relay Station 54R4-G4R81 made certain almost a hundred Raiders paid with their lives before they paid with their own. This included rigging their livesuits with 'dead man' switches and explosives in order to knock out as many of the surrounding horde as they could.

Bulwark by bulwark, crewmember by crewmember, the Raiders gained ground. The staff of 54R4-G4R81 knew they would, yet they fought on. They activated bombs that would impair the Raider vessels and create a cloud of razor-sharp chaff that would impede other Raiders from docking. They employed chemical weapons made from ordinary, everyday cleaning products. They used everything they had until they had nothing left, and even then, used their deaths to take down as many Raiders as they could.

Comms Officer Davril kept a constant stream of updates for the fort stations and the approaching ships. Right up until the raiders were at her welded-shut door. After she attained permission to pull the wires and set off the alarm that the Raiders had hoped to prevent, she sent four final words.

It's been an honour.

Securicam footage shows Davril pulling the wires and turning that motion into a rude gesture for the Raiders watching through the combat-rated windows. She then pulled her weapons, armed her switch, and waited calmly for the first of them to burn through. The black box in her livesuit recorded her repeating a mantra from the pre-Shattering era of 2D entertainments. One adjusted slightly for the situation.

"I'm not stupid. I'm not expendable. I'm not going easy," she said. Over and over. "I'm not stupid. I'm not expendable. I'm not going easy..." as she fired lethal energy blasts through the hole in the wall. "I'm not stupid," as she ran out of battery power and switched to her field blade and dagger. "I'm not expendable," as the hundreds overwhelmed her and she _still_ cut into as many of them as she could. "I'm not going easy."

One hour before the local forces arrived, three days before the closest ships in the Alliance Fleet could get there, and two months before the heavy hitters of the Fleet could arrive to permanently discourage the Raiders once and for all... Comms Officer Lavendar Davril exploded, sending shrapnel into three hundred Raiders who had filled the room.

They didn't kill all of them, those in the raiding party who had survived a frankly heinous amount of destructive traps did not show as great a will to fight when the local enforcers surrounded them and demanded surrender. The fight had gone out of them by the time the Alliance Fleet dealt with the last of them. It was understandable. They had picked 54R4-G4R81 because it was under-staffed, under-defended, and an obvious weak point in the Alliance border.

They had found that even the weakest parts of the Alliance were stronger than they thought. They had paid for this knowledge with their lives.

#  Challenge #154: A Reason for the Season

Due to the Fact, that tomorrow is the 1st of May (Tag der Arbeit) and subsequently free of Work for me, this Prompt came into Existence:

How would free days be regulated in Space? Different Countries and Cultures have different Holidays/Offdays and Rules. How would Ship humans deal with it? How their Alien Crewmate?

(Sorry for my Bad English, im working on it ) – Anon Guest

[AN: Never apologise for bad English, Nonny. English is a terrible language that beats up other languages for useful lexicon, then abominates it into unrecognizability. It has a spelling system so convoluted we have contests to see who's the best at it. It's a terrible tongue. Never should have made it the Lingua Franca]

When travelling through Galactic Alliance territory, it is wise to key into the Calendar of Events, as both fair warning and a kind of map to know which commercial ventures are most likely to be open and on what days. Every agrarian culture has harvest festivals co-inciding with their autumn, but each planet has a different autumn. Allied civilisations with close ties tend to synchronise their festivals. Either so they all party together, or so they can keep their shared businesses open.

All festivals are generally synchronised to the calendar of their home planet. This means that even the most regular holidays can appear to be erratic when placed in the Galactic Standard Calendar.

When five or more festival type holidays line up in close succession, the risk of Silly Season increases. The Humans love a party and when there are multiple ones, the risk increases of all Humans likelihood of continuing the party to the point of ridiculousness. Security forces rate festival intersections according to their likelihood of starting off a Silly Season.

It was a great risk, since Silly Seasons had Humans disregarding usual safety conventions in favour of anything they thought of as fun, or funny at the time. Security are on full alert to protect those more vulnerable to Human avenues of 'fun'. There are, of course, more sombre parties, ceremonies, and holidays. Those are _not_ at risk of starting a Silly Season.

Which was why it was such a shock when six memento mori type celebrations co-incided, the station Humans went, for want of better words, do-lally. The sombre mood of the ceremonies _should_ have kept the Humans under relative control, but apparently, too much seriousness can encourage Humans to be silly.

Too much seriousness, or too much alcohol.

The securicam recordings show the Humans gathering and trying to be respectful, waiting for the latest parade to pass. Which they did with much serious success. One of the Humans in the group took a deep breath, threw back their head, and yelled, "FLAKK! THIS!"

That was how that particular Silly Season started. Xenoanthropologists attempting to unriddle this phenomenon can only guess that Humans are also vulnerable to boredom and may need excitement to survive.

#  Challenge #155: Stressors

There are a great many types of Phobias.

Fear of Holes, Fear of Open spaces, Fear of Rain, Fear of Francesco and their Culture...

However, only Humans develop Phobias. No other species do.

(Go wild Writer ^^) – Anon Guest

It certainly follows that those with irrational imaginations would naturally also possess irrational fears. Some have coping strategies to get around them, but some irrational fears mean never setting foot in a shuttle or small vessel. Those Humans tend to stay planetside, for the open spaces. Agoraphobes, on the other hand, adore going anywhere in livesuits.

For Humans, letting the people hiring them know about their phobias is an important process in the employment procedures. One cannot maintain employment as an Edge Territory bodyguard if one suddenly goes to pieces around an arachnid. Well, not if your crew doesn't know about this sort of thing in advance.

Phobias are not a weakness if they are handled correctly. If worked around, or approached with care, they can be advantageous. Anxiety and fear can make the sufferer hyper-aware, hyper-vigilant. Which is a very good thing when one is a bodyguard in the Edge Territories. Even if the first threat addressed is that of small, crawling creatures.

The fact that your bodyguard can dead-eye a cockroach at fifty SDU's tends to make an impact on otherwise threatening forces.

What you don't get in Allied Space is claustrophobes. Well. Not often.

Shayde stood in the centre of a field in Big Tree Park, it was one of the higher-level greenswards, where the next level up was arrays of walkways through the branches. Her eyes were closed, and she had her limbs spread-eagle, but not completely akimbo. She was taking slow, deep breaths that occasionally shuddered as they went in or out.

She was having a bad day.

Rael, having witnessed these before, stopped a good three SDU away from her and said, "It's me. May I approach."

"Aye... yuir always fine..."

He approached. "There's several urgent messages for your immediate response and five self-declared urgent complaints."

"If any of 'em are from the Dereggers, tell 'em they can fook off," she said. "I'm no' apologisin' fer not wantin' tae be their fookain doormat, ye ken."

"Unfortunately, they also demand your personal and tailored response."

"Aw, bugger 'em sideways wi' a pineapple," Shayde muttered. She jittered in place. "The blue I see is sky, th' birds I hear are flyin' free... there are no walls..." reluctantly, she opened her eyes, head tilted towards the distant, duck-egg blue of Big Tree Park's distant ceiling. The fact that there were clouds must have helped, but she still fell into a sitting position on the grass. "Awreet," she muttered. "Let's get it over with..."

She started with the complaints, so the enquiries could potentially get 'the taste' out of her brain. Rael counted three rude gestures, four uncivil suggestions of where they could 'shove it', and one anatomically impossible haptic interaction suggestion in amongst the five tailored responses. By then, Rael had retrieved her a 'ninety nine' as an emotional balm[41].

"Ta," She used the chocolate as a spoon. "Ye know ye got it bad when yer brain knows all yer tricks and decides not tae play."

Unfortunately, Rael had been there. He had an entirely rational aversion to B'Dauss genetechs in general and ones from Wave of the Future in specific. Just seeing their uniform and logo had him flinching in anticipation of the failure klaxon. The tricks he'd used to get past that response were not always efficacious. "Would you like a diversion? I know the birdseed cart should be coming by, soon.

"Aye, that'd be lovely."

Even the worst phobias can be dealt with, provided one knows enough strategies.

[41] Soft-serve ice cream in a cone with a 'flake', or ribboned chocolate in a square prism shape inserted into the matter above the cone. Once sold in England for ninety-nine pence. Now available at a food printers' for a Minute.

#  Challenge #156: Darby O'Gill Sends His Regards

 https://cheeseanonioncrisps.tumblr.com/post/169821900050/a-lot-of-humans-are-weird-posts-play-with-the

Dear InterNutter,

Since you have blessed us with all your lovely writings of the many wondrous worlds you have created while juggling life, kids and painful weather phenomenon I would like to give you something to enjoy reading instead of writing about. Although it's not mine to give, please enjoy it.

Thank you! – Amberfox

[AN: the text in this link is way too long to transcribe, so please read it in a new tab or something. I'll just get on with the tale]

The Irish dreamed of Little People, the fair folk, and the Gentry. The Danes imagined Nisse, the Household spirits who lived in _between spaces_ and occasionally made things vanish. Mary Norton conjured the Borrowers, who lived in small spaces and only took small things that may never be missed.

Many cultures have come up with smaller people who live in our unused or unseen spaces. You can imagine Humanity's collective shock when they discovered the truth. It was _Humans_ who were the small folk. Even the tallest of Humans would have trouble reaching the average alien's knee, should they stand on the same surface together. Life is a peril at that scale, and only the bravest and the most nimble went out into space with the others.

Those who went, adapted well. They took up residence in the spaces between. They took advantage of the neglected things. Many rode on alien shoulders, some with the invention of a form of saddle, others by clinging to whatever there was to grab. Some peoples made sure there was accommodations. Runways, stairs, ladders added into the architecture. Humans, in return, provided new meaning to _miniaturisation_.

As a species, we're obsessed with small things, so taking electronics and other technologies to interesting extremes was second nature to us. By the time we took to the stars, we were pushing the very limits of what electrons could do, and were looking seriously at taming photons instead.

It became very good luck to have Humans in your ship or station, their presence always greeted with offerings of food, kind words, or the delivery of things known to be useful to Humans. With them around, the ship was always in tip-top shape. Nothing ever went wrong.

Which, of course, lead to some nefarious folk attempting to _force_ Humans into their vessels or stations. Abducting them, stealing them from their colonial worlds or their homeworld. In one case, they filled the entire ship with a somnolence-inducing gas and tore the ship apart to get every last Human on board.

This one went worse than the others.

Once the Humans recovered their senses and realised what had happened, they went out of their collective way to create mayhem, chaos, and disorder. Some went small, by deliberately misplacing, then replacing small but important objects. Some... well. Humans have a saying, _Go big or go home._

This time, it was, _Go big AND go home._

The food printers started printing glitched fare, then started printing the opposite of what the crewperson ordered. Repair units went haywire and almost injured the people trying to use them. Infants woke in the night, crewpeople woke with minor injuries. Basic self-care articles went missing. Clothing sprouted holes, when they didn't go missing. Insidious chemicals, known to be dangerous, started invading the overall atmosphere. Always at vents where the most crewpeople were likely to be.

The Humans never showed themselves on that ship. The most a crewperson could hope for was to detect a scurrying of little feet as a warning that something bad was about to go down.

Humans had also had centuries to practice being destructive little shits.

When they found the raiders, about the only thing working reliably was the distress signal, and the one the Humans had made for themselves, calling for their original ship/home to come find them. The perpetrators were arrested and charged for the damages they caused, and the Humans returned to their rightful place.

That incident was the origin of the saying, _When you deserve Humans, you get them._ Which was more warning than it should have been.

#  Challenge #157: The Human Solution

Earth defense force/starship troopers based.

The galactic alliance, about the same time humans came in the alliance (but long enough for the alliance to realize humans' nature), is at war with a unintelligent but somehow space traveling insect race and are slowly losing. The alliance asks the humans for help to defeat them, asking for ships, attack vehicles, weapons, and soldiers. The humans misunderstand what they meant and take it as "Our equipment can only hold them, we need you humans to push them back". – Anon Guest

For the longest time, the Galactic Alliance thought that the Human Motto was _Make love and war_. No efforts to correct them on this assumption proved efficacious. After all, Humans were both persistent _and_ good at both of them, as evidenced by numerous close and even closer encounters before the Alliance finally welcomed Humans into their club.

The mistake they made was in underestimating just how much practice Humans had had at war. When the swarming Acridith threatened, and the Alliance fleet had to hold them back from their expanded and expanding territories, they asked the Humans to help. Specifically, "help push them back." They expected the status quo, where the new allies re-established the neutral zone and thinned the population to the point where the Acridith could live well for another century or so. Thing is... Humans don't think like that.

Humans have been at war since one tribe thought another tribe was looking at them funny. When ideologies weren't enough, they declared war on concepts. When concepts weren't enough, they declared war on actions. When actions weren't enough... well. They'd found other civilisations by then, and their trigger fingers always itched. They dived into war like ducks into water. It was, after all, their element.

They drove the Acridith back, all right. They had weapons violent and varied at their fingertips. They drove them back past the neutral zone. Back, past their outlying verdant planets. Back and further back. The front line kept moving and the Humans never once uttered the phrase, "Say when..."

They used chemical weapons. They used radioactive weapons. They used dirty bombs. They salted the earth for the Acridith, making certain that they would never advance again. They used everything in their extensive arsenals, and then invented _worse ones_.

Humans are very creative at destruction. Horrifyingly so, actually.

They drove the Acridith back, all right. Back to their origin world, where they deliberately sent meteors to the surface and the Alliance had to beg them to stop. This was not a genocidal mission, the Alliance insisted.

The Humans, to an individual, were puzzled by this. They're a clear threat, they argued. Let them come back and you'll just have to do the same thing over and over again. It's not like they're cogniscent. They show no signs of ever being so. We could end the threat they represent... _it would be so easy..._

They have the right to exist, argued the Alliance, so long as that right doesn't impede on anyone else's rights to do the same. They're not impeding anyone any more. Stop. Let them live.

It took some months and more than a few self-sacrifices to pull Human hands away from buttons that could have wiped out an entire species. Very careful negotiations to secure and protect a series of systems as a 'reserve' for the Acridith. As well as a series of 'rangers' to keep them within those borders.

Nevertheless, the Humans were proud of themselves. They had, after all, secured a large number of systems which could be settled by Allied peoples, used for resources, or even farmed for foodstuffs.

The Alliance, horrified, started drafting up protocols for exactly how to be very specific to Humans in times of necessary conflict.

#  Challenge #158: Adjustment Phase

A human gets scared and jumpy around anyone who is angry, and yes, I mean anyone. – Anon Guest

Humans have a reputation. It isn't necessarily bad to be seen as one of the biggest, toughest, roughest marshmallows in the universe, but it's still a reputation. Being a Human and having a reputation for being both a savage warrior _and_ a sweetly nurturing protector does certain things to a crowd. Ange rather liked it. It meant that people didn't get too close.

She had had too much of people being close. Especially within punching range. The world she had managed to escape saw nothing wrong with "corrective violence" and she had escaped whilst black and blue. Those injuries were healed, but the scars of her previous residence were all on the inside now. They twinged and ached -metaphorically- at the oddest of moments.

Mental scars were like broken bones, and Ange was familiar with both, by now. They both were wont to cause trouble at random moments. The strangest thing could set off old pain and hurt her all over again. Yelling was an annoyingly common one. Common enough to be homicidally annoying, if Ange could summon that kind of rage. Sure, she understood the concept, but she feared anger in all its forms.

The problem with that was, hardly any single one of the various creatures around her were primed to believe it.

"Shouting? Human fearing shouting? How being so, you _Human_..."

"But... you guys are like space orcs or something."

And, of course, the shouted, "You can't be afraid of _my_ shouting!" Which just goes to show that ignorance has many faces and one of the most annoying ones is the Shirley Exception[42]. The ones Ange did her best to stay away from were the ones who laughed and insisted that her flinching was all an act.

She had spent a life running away from those who yelled and then caused her pain. Yelling was inexorably linked to getting hurt. Getting hurt, in turn, was inexorably linked to getting the blame.

Ange had only been away from her original torments for a handful of months, and old habits fought hard for their deaths. She finally summoned the courage to talk to her therapist about this issue in the _Soft Cafe Drink_ , where everything was comfortable for a maximum number of species at once. There was something tremendously calming about a place where it was minimally possible for any given being to get hurt. Where, Ange learned, her mere presence comforted others because Havenworlders knew that Humans were both Deathworlders and instinctively protective of Havenworlders.

The very idea that she was a balm to others' shattered nerves was oddly comforting.

"Here," Lyn, her therapist said, "you are allowed to say whatever is on your mind."

It still took her three deep breaths and a sip of warm chocolate[43] to do so. "I can't stand yelling. I tell people and they still yell. I don't know how to make them stop, and you said self-isolation was harmful, but they. Keep. Yelling."

Lyn nodded. "I know exactly what can help, but I think you need the rest of that chocolate and oatmeal before we go shopping."

When they went shopping, Ange followed to a little nook of a store that sold things to benefit Havenworlders.

"We don't belong in here," Ange whispered, holding tight to her therapist's hand. "This isn't for us."

"There is an understanding that those who purchase here, purchase what they need. Ah. Here we are." It was a turnable rack of buttons and sashes. Some in GalStand Simple symbology, some in GalStand... what caught Ange's eye was one word.

Offensensitive.

"These," said Lyn, "are official. Nobody will question them or challenge them."

There were so many. Sudden movement, unknown creatures, known hazardous creatures, and... loud noises. They were available in all profession colours. Ange's hand shook as she took a sash for loud noises in Botanist Green, and was amazed when the cashier made sure to speak in soft soothing tones when they interacted.

Even the littlest things can change the path of a life.

[42] "Surely there must be an exception for _me_ ," and by implication, all others like 'me'. "There are no exceptions, and don't call me Shirley."

[43] In a place where minimal harm is guaranteed, warm is the hottest any beverage can be.

#  Challenge #159: Encounter After Bedtime

So, what would you do if there WAS a monster under your bed? – Anon Guest

_From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties, and things that go bump in the night..._ Saen took a deep breath. Dark plus imagination lead to some degree of fear, and tonight's degree was too harsh to handle. Crying about monsters under the bed was too childish, now. She was six. She could read and dress herself and pronounce funny dinosaur names and being scared of monsters in the dark was just way too baby.

Time to face her fears.

She armed herself with a torch, and ducked over the edge of the bed. Turned it on and yelled, "HA!" at a terrified creature that instantly flinched into a curl and whimpered. It wasn't a dog. It wasn't a cat or a possum or even a monkey. What it definitely was, was terrified.

There _was_ a monster under her bed, because it was scared. Saen stopped being scared of the things in the night and turned on the night light as she turned off her torch. "It's okay," she singsonged at a whisper. "I won't hurt you... Can we be friends?"

It wasn't quite an animal and it didn't talk and maybe it was a baby monster, because it was small enough for Saen to pick it up. It had soft, brindled fur and a pleasing coo once it got used to Saen's hands brushing it. It could walk like her when it wanted and play with toys like her and it was fun to play with, but it was also late.

Saen let it share her bed, but in the morning, the monster was gone.

She decided not to tell the grownups. They didn't like peculiar things, and wanted to make up different stories about it.

#  Challenge #160: Scrounged Family

Scary looking friends are the best! – Anon Guest

AN: Inspired by [ this Tumblr post ]

Magic and technology can be imperceptibly similar. Technology and the occult... let's just say they have amazing similarities. Take the case of Servot 666 and the demon-possessed Silly Sally doll. Both do not do what they are supposed to. Both are considered unwanted by their Human creators. Both found each other in piles of wreckage slated for destruction.

There are millions of ways to make lasting friendships. Sally had Servot 666 at 'Hewwo'. Precisely, one of her rote, pre-installed phrases, "Hewwo, will you be my fwiend?" Servot 666 had only very recently heard of friends and friendship and was therefore very curious to try some for hirself.

"He-lo," said Servot 666. "Yes I will. I have never had a friend." Ze triangulated the source of the voice and found what ze assumed to be a very small robot. Part of their face-plating was cracked and Servot 666 couldn't see very many moving parts inside. Therefore, ze assumed Silly Sally was a less well-made, or otherwise broken robot. Ze had no idea that Silly Sally was busy assuming that Servot 666 was another demon inhabiting an otherwise inanimate body.

Neither knew at the time, but they both rather thought that the other was somewhat excellent. Servot 666 considered Silly Sally's broken face to be an excellent artistic juxtaposition and possibly a statement regarding the duality of hir creators. Sally, on the other hand, could really use a big friend to carry her places like... out of the junkyard where they were slated for destruction. Besides, in order to move when one's vessel was being observed... that was some _classy_ possession. That, and the skeletal metal hand was pure awesome. That was scaring people with _style_.

"I'm scared," said Sally. "This place is fwightening."

Servot 666 picked her up, like ze had seen many Humans picking up small effigies of themselves. "We should escape this location," ze reasoned. "This is a dangerous place."

The escape was easier than it should have been. Rubbish depositories are not exactly rife with theft. If there's any security at all, it's to prevent the wrong sort of stuff going _in_. Therefore, it was relatively easy for the two of them to get _out_.

After that... well... There are empty places all over civilisation. Plenty of places for a broken robot with a growing soul and a soulless demon to conceal themselves. Plenty of sources for what they need. Neglected storage houses. Empty shopping malls. The abandoned suburbs and other rejected locations of Humanity. Neither needed to eat, but electricity was less of a 'must' when Servot 666 found some camping gear solar panels. The rotting cardboard declared that they were for the geek who wanted to get away from it all.

Silly Sally said, "If they want to get away from it all, why'd they wanna take that wif them?"

Servot 666 said, "Evidently, they did not." The panels were intact in their unnecessary layers of plastic packaging and, once the instructions were followed, they could both charge their bodies.

...speaking of bodies... Even the best-made mechanics and technology is prone to break down. Servot 666 had a link to the internet and spent most of hir time in self-repair. Scrounging parts that could be useful, making more than a few, as the body ze was in became increasingly obsolete. Ze also spent some time attempting to build a better body for Sally. After all, Servot 666 reasoned, Sally was an autonomous being with thoughts and desires, therefore they deserved a fully functional body.

Ze even demonstrated how to do a total file transfer into a new host, when ze found one that suited hir needs.

Sally preferred to stay small and portable, all the same. She _liked_ being a demonic doll and scaring the few Humans who dared enter their territory. Therefore, the eventual body had all the small servos Servot 666 could fit in there, _and_ a suitably horrific face plating of Sally's own design.

It was fun to learn to walk. Sally delighted in the 'possessed puppet' gait that had Humans freaking out and running for their lives in instants. When the Humans were around, of course. The rest of the time, Sally could walk as normally as she liked.

Then came the peculiar Human who came looking for the arcane. They thought they could dispel Sally back into the nether realms from whence she came.

They had not bargained on Servot 666, who had spent some time absorbing Sally's aesthetic and, though laboring under programming dictating they not harm humans, did an excellent job of scaring three colours of piss out of that one.

It was not a match made in heaven, nor one forged in hell. It was a match mundanis, and all the better for it.

#  Challenge #161: Needs Salt and Pepper

Drug PSA's from America are always funny for me to watch. Esecially the Infamous "This is your Bain on Drugs" or the one with Peewee Herman, where he Talks about Crack.

I know IT IS a serious Problem, but i cant watch them without cracking Up (^^ teeh hee hee). Its Just so insane.

Can you make a Story about Footage of those being found by Havenworlders and they question a Human? Thanks in Advance.

For those, that have No Idea what I'm talking about:

<https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=GOnENVylxPI> _[This is your brain on drugs PSA]_

<https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=agT2GVNQjao> _[Peewee Herman PSA] – Anon Guest._

The Archivaas generally became accustomed to Havenworlders asking what the heck was wrong with Humanity. Deathworlders asked the same question. In fact, all the alliance species came to ask it. Powers, even some _Humans_ came to ask it.

In this case, Exhibit A was some found or recovered footage they had gleaned from the Hydrogen Line[44] or possibly found on a graveworld. The translated data contained two short videos. Public service announcements from the pre-Shattering era about drugs. One was about a substance called 'crack', and wanting to be cool, delivered by possibly the uncoolest-looking person in the known universe. The other was about all drugs apparently causing one's brain to be fried.

Archivaas Thane watched in all seriousness, already familiar with footage like it. This was, more or less, her wheelhouse. PSA's of all kinds had been her preferred field of study. The various ways the people of the era chose to get the message across. These were, all in all, the least shocking of the examples Thane had seen. Once the viewing was over, Thane did her best to catalogue them and attempt a dating of their era. As for an explanation: "These were early attempts to prevent the populace from self-harm via poisonous and semi-poisonous substances," she said. "They were all addressing the symptoms and not the problem."

The Havenworlders, Numidid all, looked to each other and the spokesbird asked, "What was the problem?"

"Poverty, racism, elitism, and late-stage capitalism in that order," said Thane. "The drugs existence was not the problem, but a symptom of a larger atmosphere of prejudice, discrimination, and hate. If they had addressed the problem, they wouldn't need these... public service announcements, because the symptomatic need for chemically-induced escape would not exist."

More looking to each other as if to say, _You ask. No you ask..._ Eventually, the spokesbird enquired, "They used chemicals to feel better in an environment that made them feel horrible, yes?"

"That is correct," said Archivaas Thane.

"Why did the administration not improve the environment?"

"Mass self-delusion. They thought the impoverished deserved their fate through being lazy, instead of being the result of wide-spread, systemic prejudice against them. I'm sure there was something in there about their deity's judgement, because that sort of thing always flies in the courts of the self-appointed righteous."

The Numidid went into a huddle. Heads popped up from time to time, but a consensus was agreed in the end. The spokesbird said, "What in the name of the good and kind Powers was _wrong_ with Humanity?"

Fifteenth time, today.

[44] The least-used radio frequency in the known universe. We still use it for radio transmissions now, and we're scanning the stars for any hint of civilisations like our own. Egocentric of us, but still cool to know.

#  Challenge #162: An Easy Mistake

A Havenworlder Crew tries their best to make the Ship Humans Birthday Party great.

They bake a cake for him.

The only problem is, that they used salt instead of sugar. – Anon Guest

Human Neis could tell that her fluffles had knocked out all the stops. They had made the extra effort, for sure. Not just securing presents and decorations, but also gathering every ingredient they could for the party food, including completing all the steps necessary to create those foods. Neis was touched. This far from Human territories _and_ Galactic civilisation? All this had to be a herculean effort.

"Aw you shouldn't have," she cooed, completely unaware of how accurate those words would be. There was even a cake, though it didn't have candles, had flickering artificial lights probed into its pink, decorated surface. Each one enough like a candle that small tears appeared in the edges of Neis' eyes. So the banner said "Celebrate Anniversary" and the giftwrapping varied from Complete Ameteur through I Tried to I Made Someone/Something Else Do It with a guest starring of I Put It In A Festive Bag Because I Knew I Have No Clues. So some of the balloons weren't even inflated. The whole party attempt warmed the cockles of Neis' heart.

They even put together a birthday song, which devolved into a philosophical debate about the meaning of the words, with at least one fluffle insisting that _Row, Row, Row Your Boat_ was indeed a Human song for such an occasion and they should all sing it anyway. It was, frankly, hilarious, cute, and vaguely disturbing all at once. "Come on," Neis cooed. "We can discuss this rationally after we've all had cake."

The fluffles swarmed. If there was anything they loved, it was calorically available Human food. They loved it, even if they didn't possess the full range of taste buds to enjoy it. That little factoid should have been Neis' first warning, but it reached her brain too late. Three seconds after trying her first bite of the cake, too late.

They were able to read the solid dismay on her face as her entire head froze around the contents of her mouth. Part of her was seized in the debate between spitting it out and being polite about and honest effort. The rest of her was seized up in obsession with the taste trapped there.

"Is all good, Human Neis?" asked Th'qwyr. "We obtained a Human recipe."

"We went to some trouble obtaining the flavouring crystals," added Jysh'oq.

Flavouring crystals. Of course. They had no rigging to tell the difference. To them, white table salt and white sugar were identical flavouring crystals until they ran a scan on them...

Neis managed a swallow she might regret at a later date. "...wrong flavouring crystals," she croaked.

#  Challenge #163: But it Looks Like Fun

I can't believe I have to say this but, stay out of volcanoes. – Anon Guest

Of all the multiple and nuanced arguments in favour of Humanity being an insane species, there is one that is simply one word:

Vulcanologists.

Though the field of science exists across any species born on a world with tectonic activity, only the Humans ever came up with the idea of wandering around and poking at _a mountain that might explode_. Everyone else was sensible about it, inventing probes, robots, and other non-invasive means of finding out the how and why of exploding mountains.

Humans take one look at bubbling cauldera and think, _Oh, this is interesting, let's get right up in there and make a record of it to show everyone else._ If there's a source of hot water, they think, _Hey, this will make bathing way more convenient than heating water by other means,_ instead of the far more sensible, _Hey, water and magma don't mix well, let's make sure this is safe before we add ourselves and a rubber duck._

Only _Human_ Vulcanologists choose their footwear based on its melting temperature versus the length of time it's allegedly safe to be tromping around on an active lava flow. Everyone else in the known universe generally holds that length of time to be zero seconds or less, but not Humans. Humans judge that time by how long they can remain in their protective suits before _things start getting lethal_.

Humans consider this smarter than -say- not getting into areas where things could get lethal at all. Then again, this is the same species who saw an enormous super-cauldera and called it a _National Park_ then charged other Humans to camp in it, wander around inside it, and take records for curiosity's sake, or to prove that they were there. Humans have to be discouraged from throwing coins into a hot spring and collectively causing an eruption by blocking it[45]. Which just goes to show that anything a Human does for luck is most likely to cause the exact opposite.

All this, taken together, can mean that peoples wishing to keep their Ships Human out of clear and present danger should never land their exploratory survey vessels anywhere near anything resembling a volcano. The Human is almost guaranteed to head straight for it and dive in. Any attempt to warn them to stay out of there will be greeted with a, "Why?" as they continue to absently stroll right in anyway.

[45] Yes this is actually a thing. Also Vulcanologists and Microbiologists in Yellowstone are also concerned about the metal pollution harming the extremophiles that live in there. The more you know.

#  Challenge #164: Occupational Safety and Health

Humans don't know it but they acutely have a small connection to the 4th dimension.

Whenever a human gets a 'gut feeling' or 'deja vu' that's when they do it. – Chara Dreemur

Three dimensions, all beings can navigate: length, depth, and width. The fourth, time, is something that moves _us_ , and can be sensed by most[46]. What surprises many is the occasional ability to navigate the fourth dimension... _partially_. This ability inevitably turns up in Humans, but those infected with Human insanity have shown promise in being able to pick up the skill.

That being said, nobody has been able to navigate through time without significant assistance. What actually happens in the case of temporally adept Humans is... _familiarity_. Humans call it a 'gut feeling' or 'deja vu' or 'the colliwobbles'. Some investigation into the phenomenon has revealed that Humans can sense ahead of themselves on the time stream. It is, for the record, a rather vague sense and not always accurate.

Some have attempted to enhance these senses over generations, encouraging those who saw the future coming to both improve their own abilities and seek to breed with others who had similar success. Over generations, some could have accurate and semi-accurate visions. Some could avoid their own futures, but it always gave them a headache if they tried. Unfortunately, the temporally adept gene is unreliable in its manifestation.

Those with the extra sense - ESPers - found their way into Security, when they weren't snapped up by the military for that extra edge on the other guy. There was nothing that the Security section liked better than an improved chance to capture criminals[47]. No matter how vague the sense, there was a use for them in any Security corps, anywhere.

Human Thom, for example, could sense anyone 'hinky' in a five SDU radius and mark them for discrete observation. Security put them on foot traffic patrol and gave them an app so they could mark 'hinky' travellers for the attention of the teams watching the securicams and those whose job it is to maintain law and order. Their success rate is at 87%, and that only because some impending crimes would be happening at their next stop.

Officer Lyr Marken, on the other hand, needs a personal connection to people in order for her gift to work with any accuracy. Which is why Security placed her with a neighbourhood full of the sort of people who blithely wander backwards into accidents of their own making, and then need to check their notes as to what went wrong. Lyr has the least problems with changing futures and, in fact, prefers to do so.

Which was why she was at the corner of Left Wing Avenue and Concourse Way with a rather sturdier ladder than the step-stool in Raven Ashenbrooke's arms.

"Oh," said Raven. "One of those, is it?"

"Two broken limbs and a major concussion," said Lyr. "Please let me confiscate that thing. It's a hazard to everyone's health."

"In trade for that? Sure but..."

_Here it comes,_ thought Lyr.

"I'm... sort of emotionally bonded with it? Please tell me it's going to be loved?"

"I know exactly who's going to love it," said Lyr in all honesty. _As decorative furniture and never again climbed upon at hazard to the climber and their surrounding environment._

Nevertheless, Raven still kissed it goodbye.

Lyr sighed as the trade completed, and immediately went off to deliver Myrissin's fab new 'grunge chic' shelving. By the time it was due to be passed on again, it could peacefully pass into the recycling centre with no injury to anyone's emotional stability. This, she knew, was a headache worth having.

[46] Ask this author about their personal status as temporally challenged.

[47] There was a brief industry in attempting to end a crime before it began, but the full legal implications of arresting someone _before_ they became guilty bordered on fascism.

#  Challenge #165: A Peculiar Friendship

It had waited 3 hours for her. It had planned it's attack for days on end. It knew exactly how to take her down, and it would have already done it, if not for one question.

" _Are you scared too?" – Anon Guest_

_Ze who hesitates is lost,_ – Ancient wisdom.

Unfortunately for Grethagh, terror of the darkness, it was remembered too late. This was its first hunt, and taking its time to enjoy it had seemed like a rational choice. Now? Not so much. Because a question had to be answered. Because the rule book said nothing about telling the truth. Because nobody was ever supposed to survive a monster attack... Grethagh, terror of the darkness had said, "Uh. A little? I mean. I'm nervous about this. It's my first night."

Nicole said, "Oh, man, that is an entire mood. Like. First day on the job? I got off at the wrong station, but I don't have enough to get to the _right_ station. And then I figure, hey, it's only five blocks, I can walk that. It's dark, I've lost my phone service because of the clouds or something, and I'm pretty sure I took a wrong turn and then... here we are."

Grethagh, terror of the darkness, said, "Where are you trying to go?"

"Sweetheart Lane by way of Twenty-fourth." Nicole showed it the map on the phone.

It said, "Yeah, that's a total dead zone, we're actually way east of there. I can lead you back to Sweetheart Lane, no problem."

As they walked, they chatted. As they chatted, they became friends. Since they were friends, Grethargh, terror of the darkness, couldn't really hunt her any more. As a monster, it was a failure. Grethargh, terror of the darkness, couldn't really go home.

Therefore, when Nicole reached her car, Grethargh, terror of the darkness, didn't exactly want to say goodbye. It um'd and er'd. It kept bringing up weird things to talk about. It attempted small talk.

"Don't wanna go home?" offered Nicole. "I'm only renting for work, so it's one bedroom, but I still have a couch. We can work something out from there."

Grethargh, terror of the darkness, had never expected kindness from a Human. It was quite the unexpected high. "You'd... do that? I was going to hunt you..."

Nicole smiled. "I can tell when someone doesn't fit the usual plan," she said. "I'm from One Horse, after all. We have lots of people like that."

Oh. That explained everything.

#  Challenge #166: Strange... on a Train

" _May I scare you?"_

" _What?"_

" _May I scare you. I want to scare someone but just doing it outright would make me feel guilty. So, I was hoping someone would give me permission to scare them." – Anon Guest_

"Well, it's going to be a bit more difficult than jumping up at me and yelling 'boo'," said Mae. "I know it's coming, now. Jumpscares can't work if they're anticipated."

"Oh, I know this," said the amenable stranger. "I have an entirely different plan."

Mae had to giggle. "Well, if you think you can do it, go for it."

The amenable stranger cleared their throat. "Mortality. We live with it every day. We move forward in our plans with no concept that our days, hours, and minutes are numbered. We expect tomorrow. We never expect that tomorrow may not exist for us."

Okay. This wasn't scary yet. Mae kept smiling.

"We live in a universe where life is unlikely at best, and uncertain when it does exist. As I speak to you, the planet we live upon encounters five near-misses with asteroids capable of wiping out this entire city. Every day, you trust complete strangers to be certain that the vehicle in which you travel arrives safely at its multitude of destinations. Every day, you trust strangers not to poison the food you buy from their hands. Every day... you trust strangers to let you live."

Well, okay. That was unsettling...

"And every year, you vote for people who insist that the corporations who own the businesses that serve you... should be allowed to pay those very strangers less and less. Every year, you trust power-hungry maniacs to look after your best interests. Every year, you ignore the clear signs of corruption in the environment around you because it hasn't effected you. Yet."

No. That wasn't... but it was. This amenable stranger, never breaking eye contact, never blinking, was telling the truth. Mae felt her heart accelerate.

"By the time it does effect you, you will be amongst the powerless. You, too, will be forced to obey or be forced into situations that you would honestly believe that strangers - strangers who trusted you - deserved because they were powerless. They, too, believed in trusting strangers. Just like you do."

She did. She did. She trusted so much. She trusted so many. She believed in trust... She trusted the sky not to fall. She trusted the barista to not add arsenic to her order. She trusted that it would all work out in the long run.

"You cannot trust the people in charge, they do not think about you. You cannot trust the powerless, since they can't fight for you. You cannot trust anyone you don't know. You cannot trust anyone you do know. They all have your secrets." The amenable stranger dropped their voice to a whisper, yet it still carried above the noise of the subway as it moved from one station to another. "You are alone."

The lights went out.

Mae screamed.

The amenable stranger was grinning when they came back on. "It worked, yes? I scared you?"

"Yes," said Mae. "That was very frightening." Some obsessively polite part of her spewed out, "Thank you."

"Oh no, thank _you_ ," said the amenable stranger. "It was quite the educational experience."

For both of them, as it turned out.

#  Challenge #167: Armour-plated Badass

<https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=6ODSKfPs0iA>

Some species have chitin as Armour.

We Humans have interior Bones and Skin.

But what If an Alien species has developed an exterior Skin of Bone ? – Anon Guest

There are very few examples of _osteodermis extremis_ in cogniscent lifeforms. For Deathworlds, and the Deathworlders who dwell on them, it makes more evolutionary sense than -say- being small, mobile and squishy. Though not common, it's generally expected for Deathworlders of level four or above to at least have _some_ osteoderms.

The Kraakinok were one such species with heavy osteoderm coverage. Having heard the stories of the Alliance's most impossible Deathworlders, they followed the usual rules of egocentricity and assumed that the Humans would, like them, be covered in bony plating.

Their first sight of a Human out of their livesuit was more than a little shocking. The Human Bob was small, apparently squishy, and not even slightly armoured with any kind of bony plating. Indeed, their exposed skin displayed several contusions and lacerations that had managed to reach their soft flesh despite the livesuit protecting them.

" _This_ is the creature who defeated seventeen Aaruith juggernauts?" Qoroq boggled. "You are soft and squishy! How can you be a Deathworlder _and_ soft and squishy?"

"Just lucky, I guess," Human Bob finished the decontamination routine and immediately submitted to the tutting Mediks. "Your lot, you had a big tough world where anything tougher than you tried to bite - including your own. My lot... well. We started off by running away and scavenging later. Couldn't afford to haul around big exterior bones. So we worked on being smart. Remembering things and telling stories is how we rose up enough to start predating on each other."

Qoroq couldn't see the sense in any of that. "You did not use good protein in rivals?"

"Yeah, nah, we had enough diversity to practice omnivorism without cannibalism. Even then, we had a pack-mentality that had us looking after the pack mates, not killing them. And -yeah- we did eat our dead at one point, but... we never made them dead to eat 'em. At least... we never found any _evidence_ of that..." Human Bob shrugged and then whispered an apology to the swarming Mediks. "Besides, all that happened way late in our evolutionary path. It never would have worked out."

Qoroq said, "Yet you add things under your dermis for... decorative purposes?"

"Some do," said Bob.

Qoroq verbally agreed with the Alliance when they assessed Humans as insane. "These Humans are crazy," he muttered.

#  Challenge #168: Dramatis Personae

Reading a lot of these I noticed some recurring characters. Is there any kind of character bio for them, and if not would you possibly give us some? – Anon Guest

[AN: Not exactly a story but this must be important so...]

Amalgam Universe

Rael

Species: Faiize, a gengineered version of the non-cogniscent, sluglike 'cleaners' with some massive feature creep and consequent legal battle in regards to their concealed-until-undeniable cogniscence. Each Faiize is named by a computer, using a random collection of phonic elements.

Gender Identity: Male.

Actual Gender: Unknown. It's an industry secret and part of the continuing lawsuit.

Occupation: JOAT - Jack/Jill/Jharren Of All Trades.

Familial Relationships: Though his makers are a corporation called Wave of the Future, he does not consider any of his B'Dauss gengineers to be his parents nor his deities. It's hard to Believe in anyone once you've seen them wandering around in last week's coffee stains with their fly undone. Rael _does_ count his test-creche siblings as actual siblings. Successive generations count as niblings[48]. He finds the rest of his family as time goes by.

Platonic Relationships: Has befriended several people on Amalgam Station including Nik the Gyiik, Ambassador Shayde, and Aunty Fan-Fan.

Semi-regular Employment with the Ambassadorial Aides Service, and Security, for keeping Shayde out of trouble. He's not always successful.

Lyr Marken

Species: Human

Gender Identity: Female (cis)

Occupation: Security Officer in charge of the Elemeno[49] JOAT sector. Keeping JOATs out of trouble, reigning in Silly Season whenever possible, and maintaining order is a full-time job. She's a Level 6 Precog [able to see forward in time via visions] and uses this to assist in her duties.

Familial Relationships: Life partner is named Jule, he's an engineer and does most of the child-rearing duties. Children are: Lyr Junior, Elaise, and the youngest is named Shepard. There are presumably other family members, but I haven't written them yet.

Platonic Relationships: Maintains friendly associations with most, if not all, residents of the Elemeno JOAT quarter. Sherlock is her superior officer. Aunty Fan-Fan is more like a coworker in a parallel line of work.

Aunty April Fan-Fan

Species: Human/Gebran mix

Gender Identity: Female (cis)

Occupation: Aunty [think: social worker, but one who's more involved in stopping problems before they start]

Familial Relationships: Depending on the definition of 'family'... varied. Had had children, one of her own, and several for others as a surrogate. Her father is still alive, somewhere, but I haven't gone into much detail. Siblings undefined. Family extends to the numerous JOATs under her care.

Platonic Relationships: Literally befriends everyone. She's one of those people who knows everyone.

Nik

Species: Gyiik

Gender Identity: Male

Occupation: Chef

Familial Relationships: Numerous cousins and niblings. The exact familial relations to his family/employees is nebulous at best since his religion includes welcoming anyone who wants to be there into his family.

Platonic Relationships: Rael is a valued customer and chief taste-tester for Nik and Nik's creations. Nik is also one of those people who seem to know everybody - and what their best comfort-food is.

Sherlock

Species: Cuidgari

Gender Identity: Male

Occupation: Security Chief for the entire station. Think: police commissioner.

Familial Relationships: It's assumed he has a family somewhere, but people are starting to think he came installed with the Station.

Platonic Relationships: Maintains a severe and staid relationship with his employees. Has a pet.

Hwell Barrow

Species: Human

Gender Identity: Male (cis)

Occupation: "Contractor" [assorted trades and shenanigans, with added wandering in to see what is up]

Familial Relationships: Has an adopted daughter Doe, who escaped from a Greater Deregulation by stowing away in his ship. Some siblings, parents, and niblings wait in potentia. May have left some children behind as a result of assorted dalliances.

Platonic Relationships: Ax'and'l is his saurian business partner and general foil. Has an ongoing prank war with Ambassador Shayde. May not have a girl in every port, but that's only because he hasn't _been_ to every port.

Ax'and'l

Species: Unknown Saurian Variant (likely carnivorous)

Gender Identity: Male(?)

Occupation: Contractor [See Hwell]

Familial Relationships: Supporting several siblings and reaching for the goal of being able to impress a lifemate.

Platonic Relationships: Constantly attempting to get Hwell classified as a pet. Apologetic relationship with most Station Security contingents.

Shayde F. Pitt (Ambassador 1986)

Species: Human(?) [It's a matter of some debate in some circles]

Gender Identity: Female (cis)

Occupation: Ambassador

Familial Relationships: She left Earth by accidental transdimensional transportation five hundred (common) years ago. You can assume they're deceased. Attempting to find a new family despite all the obstacles. May have a Squish on Rael [she's Ace].

Platonic Relationships: Has made friends with Aunty Fan-Fan and Nik, and knows Sherlock enough to apologise to him the instant she sees him. Attempts to have fun with anyone in her aura, with varying degrees of success.

Unlikely Heroes

Wraithvine

Species: Elf

Gender Identity: Agender. Ze doesn't see the point of labels, anyway.

Occupation: Wizard

Familial Relationships: Has adopted the rest of the Unlikely Heroes crew.

Platonic Relationships: See above.

_Lady "Anthe" Chrysanthemum_ [Formerly: "Thief"]

Species: Kobold

Gender Identity: Female

Occupation: Rogue and leader of the Unlikely Heroes crew

Familial Relationships: Considers Rumtum and Marvin to be her kids.

Platonic Relationships: Wraithvine is her mentor and Steelfoot is a partner in crime.

Melvin/Marvin

Species: Human

Gender Identity: Male (cis)

Occupation: Fighter/Wizard

Familial Relationships: Considers himself the younger brother of the entire Unlikely Heroes crew, except for Steelfoot. He has an awkward crush on her.

Platonic Relationships: See above

Rumtum Taig'r

Species: Dwarf Tabaxi [think: Halfling-sized anthropomorphic cat]

Gender Identity: Male (definitely)

Occupation: Bard

Familial Relationships: Littermates having adventures somewhere, and possibly some by-blows running around because _Bard_.

Platonic Relationships: Following the Unlikely Heroes around because it's easier than hunting for himself.

Steelfoot

Species: Human

Gender Identity: Female

Occupation: Tinkerer

Familial Relationships: Estranged from her home village, busy finding a family amongst the Unlikely Heroes crew. Has a soft spot for Marvin. May be growing into love.

Platonic Relationships: Friends with Anthe, doesn't know whether to kick or kiss Rumtum half the time. Respects Wraithvine.

If there's anyone you think I missed, do let me know.

[48] The gender-neutral version of 'niece' or 'nephew'. Derived from a portmanteau of 'niece/nephew' and 'sibling'.

[49] A district of Amalgam station that is actually four separate elements: A commercial concourse, a JOAT district, an advertising arena, and an Engineering district.

#  Challenge #169: Noisy Air

" _What was that sound?"_

" _Oh, it was nothing. I'm just haven't gotten a chance to eat yet."_

" _Your body makes threat growls when it is hungry!?" – Anon Guest_

Working with Humans has its own hazards. The most common of which is encountering something the _Humans_ consider normal, but the rest of known civilisation considers strange, new, or frightening. In turn, every species has their own unusual features, functions, or quirks that set them apart from everyone else. It's why the very concept of _polite rude questions_ exists[50].

Humans were insane. They were deadly. They were strange, indomitable, and unbelievably friendly. If one chanced to meet a Human who was cleared to come into physical contact with one, then it was an odds-even bet that that Human would try to pet one. They also had a habit of not mentioning things until they became an issue.

Such as the hostile noise emanating from the otherwise smiling and laughing Human Jen as they worked on processing with Companion Xoq. Xoq was initially confused, since the noise didn't match the rest of Human Jen's body language or tone of voice. Xoq knew that Human Jen was eager to answer rude questions by then and asked, "What is hostile noise?"

"What?" said Human Jen. Then their processes caught up. "Oh yes. That. It's normal. I forgot breakfast -again- so my digestive system is making some noise to tell me I need food. It's involuntary and caused by my system attempting to process nothing, so it's moving gas around and making noise."

There was so much extra information nested in that statement that Xoq pondered even more rude questions. Especially about that 'again'. Being this Human's Companion was looking to be a more interesting job than anyone could have anticipated.

The primary concern surfaced first. "You forget to eat?"

"Not forget, exactly. More like... I have priority issues and self-care ends up getting bumped to the bottom of my list. I'm working on it, but I'm always a work in progress."

Xoq considered this, and hir job in making certain the Ships' Human had all they needed. "Would you like assistance in remembering?"

"Yes! Thank you!"

"Then," said Companion Xoq, "it is past time you ate some food. Let us be sure you have enough nutrients to continue."

[50] Questions that may be interpreted as rude, but nevertheless come from a source of relatively innocent curiosity. Answers can range from scientific informative explanation to "that is a taboo subject to my people". If the latter, further pursuit of an answer is no longer polite and may become grounds for a harassment charge.

#  Challenge #170: The Chances... Are a Million to One

Trip of a Lifetime, all the places they wanted to see, Jahn Average (choose sex) finds themselves the only "non-fan" in a Sci fi Fantasy group. They don't know the jokes, they wear the wrong clothes and why is everyone going to Grover's Mill. – Anon Guest

There comes a moment when one realises that, at least metaphorically speaking, one has entered the wrong bus. "...and now we're - BANNED FROM ARGO, EV'RY OOOONNNNEEE..."

Pen had passed that point, but the sing-along was the final straw. Pen had wanted to independently tour some historical American Revolution sites, and this was actually the bus that claimed to take her there. She'd checked five times already. Yes, this was the historic sites tour bus. There just also happened to be a convention happening nearby that brought all the weirdoes out from the wainscotting.

"Our proper, cool first officer was drugged with something green/ and hauled into an alley where he suffered things obscene..." Well, one thing was for sure. They sure as sugar weren't shriners. Shriners did not have weird, semi-uniforms in three prime colours. There were a few in there who wore a fez, but the rest of the outfit did not match the general shriner aesthetic. There were people with... Pen hesitated to call it 'makeup' when it both covered their entire face and necks, and was decidedly more involved than blush and eyeshadow. There were people in armour. There were people in historical dress. There were people in... sort of... harness things.

And one who was wearing a T-shirt that referred to something, somehow, that was welcomed by the rest of the group. It featured seven birds, a geometric pattern made of four equilateral triangles and a bounding rectangle, and some kind of space jellyfish. They were the only one Pen felt safe enough to sit nearby. They were doughy and pale and gave off a kind of nerd vibe, but the safe variety of nerd vibe. Well. Safer than the rest of the occupants of the bus.

Pen took a risk, and tapped their arm. "You'll warn me, right? If they get dangerous?"

"Dangerous? Naw, we're never dangerous. A little loopy, now and then, but not _dangerous_."

The rest of them certainly seemed dangerous. No sane person would be doing what they were doing. No sane person in Pen's experience ever had, so she assumed they never would. Up until this trip, she had assumed that most of the rest of the world was like her and all the freaks and weirdoes stayed in their mother's basements, never seeing the light of day.

"I dunno," Pen confessed. "I don't really... know... about them."

"They're just enthusiastic. Promise," said Jellyfish-bird shirt. "You have something you're enthusiastic about, right?"

"I mean. Yeah. I absolutely love early revolutionary history."

"Okay. Cool. So... you'd be fine if it was a bus full of re-enactors in full uniform and with plastic guns?"

"Well, yeah. I would. 'Cause I'd know what was going on."

"What's going on is a science fiction convention," Jellyfish-bird shirt had a pamphlet, full of people wearing similar clothing, but photographed professionally. "We're enthusiastic about imagined futures and similar things. They're the stories we love. You love stories about the true past. It's... we're different, but we're not _that_ different."

One of the people in a fez apparently knew everything there was to know about Grover's Mill, including an actual battle that had happened there. They had been willing to share it all too, as an impromptu tour guide. Filling in the gaps as to why it was important to these very strange strangers.

In a way, it was history, too. It was their story of assorted stories. The story of a radio play based on a novel by an Englishman who wrote about the future in the long-ago past. The story of how this place was selected over so many others. The story of the people who nodded in the direction of this particular place and that particular story in subsequent works.

All part of the tapestry of cause and effect.

They were very strange people, Pen knew, but they had some things in common. A love for something far bigger than they could hope to be.

#  Challenge #171: Do You Remember?

It's your Old School celebrating a milestone. What happened to those you used to know, and how have they changed. Remember the Libel laws. – Anon Guest

_This used to be my playground..._ Ze had come from here, more or less. The society that dysfunctioned in these borders had done more to form hir than hir parents had. _This used to be my hell._ They hadn't understood, in decades prior what 'nonbinary' even was. As a result, they had tormented hir mercilessly.

Ze could still hear the taunts in hir head, on the bad days. It had taken a lot of work to overcome that kind of thing, and while ze had some success as evaluated by the rest of the world... it was conquering these demons that had been the hardest, and most treasured, victory. Aer hardly flinched when someone clapped hir on the shoulder.

"Luanne, hey, how's it -whoah- You're not Luanne..." the stranger squinted, trying to match Aer's face with one she knew decades ago. "Aaron?" Way to go. From zero to deadname in like five seconds. Was it worth correcting her? "I thought you were a dude... and just now I thought you were Luanne. What's with the skirt?" This was once Kylie. One of the perpetual mean girls who had become a Soccer Mom with a can-I-speak-to-the-manager haircut.

"I prefer Aer, now. Rhymes with chair. And -uh- I'm wearing the skirt because it looks nice and I like it."

"Challenging those gender roles, huh? Just be brave. Some people'll still want to tell soap jokes." Kylie smiled warmly. "Of course I was right to hang out with someone like you."

If 'hang out' meant 'torment mercilessly' then... "I don't think you remember high school like I remember high school..." Aer wanted to say. Instead, ze derailed that train of thought with, "So how have you been doing?"

Kylie had three kids and a husband who worked late. Used to be the captain of the sports team, and she pointed out a balding head with a beer gut and a half-dozen other jocks who had gone to seed. Of course she was about 'pure foods' and against vaccines because of The Chemicals. She didn't want any of her little darlings coming down with Autism or The Gay.

"What's wrong with being gay or autistic?" said Aer, and regretted that decision. To this day, ze had an unfortunate habit of opening hir mouth to talk without thinking. Now ze had to stand there and smile during a half-hour diatribe about how neither was really _wrong_ , not really. There were some _wonderful_ people who were that way, but it was such a struggle. Kylie didn't want the world to be mean to her poor little babies just because of the way they were born.

Aer pretended to see another friend -ze had never had friends at this school- and made it hir excuse to get out of there.

The popular girls were all soccer moms who had married the popular boys, or close enough to it. Their pecking order was still all about what was popular. In this case, wine mom memes. They never once asked how alcoholism was supposed to be funny. Those kind never did.

The jocks that used to beat Aer up in their heyday were still living their heydays in memory. All their conversations were: "I used to," and, "hey I once," and, "do you remember," when they weren't dissecting the pros from the sports channels' performances and how their coaches were doing the wrong thing.

So many people going in circles. No wonder they tried to latch on to anyone who was going places. Aer tried to shoot them down, but it was like trying to lasso clouds.

"Yeah, I remember beating on some nerd boy who wore skirts..."

"That was me. You gave me swirlies at least once a month."

"Nah, that never happened. You and me were buds, back in the day. Remember? You were one of the _cool_ theatre kids."

"I never did theatre."

"Oh wait, you were on the chess team, right?"

"Nope. I was in the board game club. We played D&D during lunch hour."

"Eh, whatever. You were one of the cool ones."

"You _just_ finished laughing about how you used to pummel all the board game kids with your friends," argued Aer.

"Yeah, but not the _cool_ ones. Like you."

It was amazing. Every single one of them had rewritten their own history to fit Aer in as one of their friends. Not one of them remembered a single slur. Not one of them recalled a single cruelty. They were all laying the groundwork for reconnection, and possibly a sample of Aer's success in the form of a small loan or two.

Every single one of them had a variation of, "What? No, I never said those things. You must be thinking of someone else."

Even if there had been solid, scientific, documented evidence, they would have denied it in a court of law. They would probably get away with it, too, because they were the kind of revisionists who could rewrite the world to suit their own needs.

Aer left them to their sad, sagging, and circular lives. Ze knew who hir _real_ friends were, and they weren't any of these people.

#  Challenge #172: A Sundae on Foursday

_First Contact should always be celebrated with Ice cream!_ <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mzgn0b67oIA> _– Anon Guest_

Humans are pretty good at interesting food. Their food-on-a-stick philosophy has solved, and started, many combats, mostly over who gets the last theobromine-free chocolate one. The introduction of _popsicles_ to the Galactic Alliance blew many a mind. So, too, did Ice Cream.

A ready and easily consumed, _portable_ cold treat of fats and sugars. Some blended to be certain that there were no allergens present[51]. For those who could not, under any circumstances, consume fats, the Humans had already invented Gelato. It was too late, of course, since the very concept of Ice Cream became so rapidly accepted into the Alliance, that it became 'Gelato Ice Cream' in the hearts and minds of billions.

It happened that way with Chai Tea. It happened that way with Pita Bread. It has happened multiple times to multiple things. It will likely happen again until the end of intelligent life in the Universe. All efforts to prevent it have not been at all effective, more's the pity. However, offering the least-offensive food treats to assumed-cogniscent life is the fastest way to make a friend before surmounting the language barrier.

Tasty food has always and ever been a bonding experience, and most cogniscents can never pass up easy calories.

Therefore, on formal, greeting occasions, a dessert bar is generally a grand idea. Making certain that said dessert bar contains no plausible poisons is even better. _Plainly labelling_ even the mildest of potential poisons is possibly the best idea ever. Likewise, not being offended when the guests of honour scan the food anyway.

What was a _bad_ idea was telling Shayde any of this.

On one hand, she hadn't got anything _wrong_... not exactly. She had, in her words, 'knocked out all the stops' in an effort to be amenable, hospitable, and above all a good host. The individual items in the buffet were sorted according to food and nutrition content, whether they were meant to be kept warm or cold, and finally, according to potential threat level.

The peanuts, for instance, were inside an airlock rig with waldoes and a conveyor belt so those who liked peanuts could add them to their food.

She had certainly done everything possible to accommodate everyone.

But... she had also printed banners in all known languages that said, _Welcome to the Madhouse._

...it was getting increasingly difficult to tell if this was naivety on her part or her very deliberately winding everyone else up.

[51] Like many in the Galactic Alliance, Humans can also be lactose intolerant and possess a negative reaction to peanut oils. Non-dairy ice cream has gone further into unknown territory than _dogs_ and that is saying something.

#  Challenge #173: The Ego Won't Be Landing

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hDs5Abg0M9A> _– AmberFox_

There is, in fact, a Starman waiting in the sky. He is not leaning back on his radio, as the song once said, but is seated comfortably in a red roadster, wearing a stylish spacesuit. He posed so that he could, with a glance, read the dashboard display that says, _Don't Panic!_

He does not say anything. He does not do anything. That's because he is, in fact, a dummy. An effigy of a human male, thrown into space to suit the ego of one man who may or may not believe that his billions of dollars can send Humanity into the stars. There are already thousands who believe the launch of the car, the dummy, and the dolls representing both, glued to the dashboard, is fake.

The fact that there are thousands who insist the world is flat in spite of generous evidence to the contrary should be warning enough that Humanity is unlikely to reach another planet within this century. Those who insist on pursuing willful ignorance to so solely for their own comfort, and in spite of the clear and present needs of the many, do so at the risk to the many. Then again, Humanity has always had a knack for moving on in its own beliefs until hit hard with the evidence of its own error and hubris.

So far, Humanity has been lucky, and obtained this evidence _before_ the species, its environment, or its society could turn to collapse. Well. For the most part. The pages of history are littered with cultures and civilisations that chose to ignore clear and present danger from: overpopulation, a rigid and unbending set of social tiers, inbreeding for 'purity', lack of proper crop rotation, the spreading of plague-level diseases, fascism, totalitarianism, and revolutions caused by increasing disparity between the wealthy elite and literally everyone else.

However, there is a new and growing threat. Assumption, in combination with a definitive sabotage of public education. It was public education that sent Humanity spinning forward into the levels of innovation that put -for example- humans into space, humans on the moon, and a car in a trans-solar orbit. It was public education that gave many the foundation they needed in order to seek a different path in life.

It's also public education that allowed innovative genius to rise from the ashes of base origins, and create multi-billion dollar industries that an elite few benefit from. If there is one thing that the elite few despise, it's actually _witnessing_ someone pulling themselves up from the mire to become even close to being one of them. It's hard to believe one is in an exclusive and special group if, for instance, the riff-raff keep joining it. Therefore, those in charge seek to destroy any means possible for anyone to climb the ladder.

...thus Evil sows the seeds of its own destruction...

The Starman waiting in the sky is already pocked with micrometeors. The mirror finish of the red roadster is going to be blistered and burned by the sun. Space debris will eventually destroy the car, the display, the dummy, the suit, and the tiny toy replicas glued to the dashboard. The Starman isn't waiting. He cannot wait, as he is inanimate. Tiny collisions will erode him. Specks of dust will turn the car into another Near Earth Object, but this one may or may not have a name.

By the time he can be spotted by telescopes again, will anyone be there to look? Will anyone care to see, or will those who try be burned at the stake for witchcraft?

The man who displayed his ego by launching the car brags that he will have a colony on Mars by the time his car returns to the skies just above Earth. He has already sold tickets to people so they can go on a one-way journey to another world. He has made another fortune off dreamers who haven't thought forward enough to wonder whether or not they are sacrifices to the altar of the wealthy elite. Like the Starman, they will be launched, and very few will care for their fate.

The launch will be a show. Of course it will be. There may even be communications between the brave -paying- volunteers and Earth. At least for as long as they can wring a reality TV show out of it. Succeed or fail, the egotist in charge will continue to make more billions out of it.

Like the Starman, many will think it is all fake.

Like the Starman, there will be a song and dance about the initial success, and nothing about the inevitable hardships thereafter.

Like the Starman, the mission to Mars will only feed one ego, and give nothing to anyone else.

Like the Starman, it will all crumble... but it will be too late to do anything about it. Especially by the man who plans to solve Earth's problems by leaving them behind him, in favour of dominating another world.

#  Challenge #174: Deconstruct Reconstruct

With so many species coexisting, we must create new stories and nursery-rhymes. This is one such story. – Anon Guest

_Three blind Meiss, three blind Meiss/ See how they run, see how they run/ They all ran after the farmer's wife/ Who cut off their tails with a carving knife/ And violated the cogniscent rights/ Of three blind Meiss._ – one of many adjustments to Human nursery rhymes.

There are others. With integration comes a certain amount of cultural cross-pollination, so to speak. Stories are told and changed and transformed. One version of _Beauty and the Beast_ does not have the titular Beast transform into a handsome prince, but rather _remembers_ his royal status with the help of Beauty. The Beast remains physically the same, because interspecies relationships don't need physical transformations in which to work out.

_The House That Jack Built_ remains largely the same, though the names of the animals in the cumulative memory rhyme change according to setting. The youthful audience doesn't really need to know about Jack, after all, but they would object to not knowing what a 'cow' was, or why a 'dog' would 'worry a cat'. Then there are simple, linguistic differences caused by the fact that mistranslations create mutations of their own.

Thusly, a copy of _Mother Goose_ is vastly different now to what it once was, say, five hundred years prior. Which was why Shayde was a bundle of confusion and agitation ever since she'd found it.

"Who th' fook are Meiss? Is it even pronounced like tha'?"

"They're a group of fur-bearing humanoids from a region of space close to the Pleiades," said Rael. "The rest is a result of phonic mistranslation."

"Aye, I can see how that happened, but... Is this supposed tae be 'Jack and Jill'?"

Rael peered at the page. "I do believe so. I know there's little in common with the version you're familiar with..."

"Ye _reckon_? I barely recognise it. It does'nae even have the old meter any more."

"What are you talking about?"

Shayde launched into the version of her childhood. She was right, it barely resembled the current version at all. So much so that it was practically a separate rhyme.

Rael knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this would go out into Galactic Civilisation as a _new_ rhyme, and not an example of an archival one.

#  Challenge #175: Motivational Inspiration

<https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=iYYRH4apXDo> _– Anon Guest_

It was vaguely conical, and smaller than the most popular cars of the late Terran Twentieth Century. This was a vessel designed to get three Humans back to their planet after a long and perilous journey to truly hostile territory. There was just enough room for three Humans and all the samples they had gathered while they were up there.

What was more worrying was the landing craft for their missions to the moon. Computational power had barely reached past the Babbage Machine, and some of the most important elements were hard-coded with wires woven through tiny ring magnets. In lattices that were swapped out as necessary.

They could have easily died a thousand times over on the trip _there_. A thousand more on the way back, with hundreds to spare for the actual surface of the moon. Yet, by the time the third such mission was underway, the rest of Humanity found it _boring_. Which pretty much sums up Humanity in the smallest of nutshells. Do something often enough and, no matter how risky, dangerous, or expensive, it will be tired and old hat to any Human observers.

In fact, it was considered _not worth it_ after a number of missions so small that they could be counted on one hand. Following that much disinterest, all further expeditions were halted. Victory had been declared and all nascent dreams of extraplanetary colonies remained just that - dreams. They remained dreams for _decades_ , until the potential for less expense in the making of those colonies showed itself with the simultaneous potential for profitability out of said settlements.

More money had been made from songs about space than the actual space explorations at the time.

Since pre-shattering Humanity was only concerned with profit, the advancements they could have made were scrapped in favour of the profits they were making. By the time they reached out to the rest of their solar system for a second time... the philosophies had drastically changed.

It was no longer about battling ideologies, but notoriety, fame, and more profit. Then again, Human exploration always had that edge of monetary motive. Many a life has been needlessly spent in a reckless pursuit of more lands to exploit.

Only when there were too many to count, did Humanity think of the science they could learn in the process.

#  Challenge #176: Fight, Flight, or...

Fight or flight, the natural reactions to fear. Though, people don't mention one, freeze. People like to ignore that possibility because it tends to put them in danger. Unfortunately for them, it is real, it is dangerous, and it is terrifying if you happen to be the one experiencing it. – Anon Guest

Most Humans can be relied upon to act quickly in an emergency. _Most_ of them. Their presence in any place of inherent hazard is reassuring to anyone in field of view. _There is a Human,_ they think, _even if the worst happens, all will be well._ For the most part, it is a reasonable assumption.

They also think that Humans only have two reactions to that which they fear - the typical 'fight or flight' that has had so many stories spring up around it. What they did not know, until the latter half of the 423rd Century, was that there was a third option.

There was chaos all around him. People were hurt. People were crying out in pain. Things were on fire. Things were collapsing. Despite all this, Len was frozen in place. He could barely breathe, and he certainly couldn't move. His brain was full of static and nothing seemed to be able to shake him out of it. He _wanted_ to shake out of it, but there was... a sort of wall. The want didn't reach his muscles. It certainly didn't reach his brain, which was screaming, _What are you doing just standing there? Move! Do something!_ Yet the all important knowledge of what to do just never arrived.

Not until afterwards, when one of the ERT's who knew what was happening draped an insulator blanket around him and gently walked him away from the wreckage. Only in the expanded treatment centre did Len finally understand what had gone wrong. This had been explained to all others involved, since there was clear and evident confusion surrounding the Human who had done nothing during the disaster.

Shock, they said, can cause Humans to freeze up in an emergency situation. They don't know what to do, or panic shuts off their higher thought processes, and their body... stops. Everything but the autonomic functions stops in place and all the victim of this circumstance can do is stand and stare.

Len was one of these unfortunates. There was the hope of learning some basic Emergency Response procedures, and letting muscle memory do the rest. It was not, unfortunately, a guaranteed success. Len signed up anyway. The hope alone was worth it.

#  Challenge #177: Impossible Dreamers

If you think that "something" is impossible to do... Give it to humans and they will make it "possible" – Anon Guest

_Never tell a Human what's impossible._ – Galactic Alliance saying.

They had once said that travelling faster than light was impossible, just like time travel. Humans managed to find one-way wormholes, which utilised both, and then proceeded to use them to seed their colonies all over surprising corners of space. Humans, it seemed, accomplished six impossible things before teatime.

It was impossible to hold one's own against the Vorax, _unless you were a Human._ It was impossible to merge conflicting technological philosophies of construction, _unless you were a Human._ It was impossible to terraform a rogue planet... _unless you were a bunch of Humans who thought it worthwhile._

Frankly, it was scary to watch. Once Humans were welcomed into the Galactic Alliance, the word 'impossible' seemed to vanish from the conversational dictionary overnight. Humans heard the word 'impossible', rolled up their sleeves, and said, "Oh yeah?"

So much was accomplished and proven, just with the use of one word. So much that they never wanted to _see_ accomplished, just with the use of one word.

One of their own said it best: _Million-to-one chances happen nine times out of ten._

Which also happens to be why Humans are one of the most feared species in the Galactic Alliance.

#  Challenge #178: Culinary Explorers

An inter-species cooking class is very interesting to observe, and better to participate in. – Anon Guest

Some people just never learn to cook. Why would they? Obtaining foodstuffs from vendors is easy and they then have more time to spend on other enjoyable pursuits. There are those who insist that cooking is a vital survival skill, and they are repeatedly ignored by those who plan on never having to survive like that. It is far cheaper, faster, and overall safer to have a food printer and never be concerned with all that fiddling about.

On the Edge, food printers are less available. People don't trust them as easily as they do in more 'civilised' space[52]. So it is there that cooking classes are held for any level of understanding from 'What is cook?' through, 'I think I've got this!' to, 'Oh hey, there's a new ingredient, now what?' There, on the Edge, it is possible to learn the organic sources of all foods, learn how to prepare them, and learn how to do so safely.

Nevertheless, it has been determined that allowing anyone near open flames is an invitation for disaster. The Havenworlders don't like it when things go 'foomp' and the Humans like it uncomfortably too much. That sort of thing is reserved for restaurants run by trained professionals, that also have offensensitivity warnings clearly present on the entrances. Yes, even in the Edge territories, the lawless have figured out that _some_ laws are just common flakking sense.

It is to one of these classes, the experimental cookery zone, that Hwell Barrow was bringing one of his latest finds. A lumpy fruit from a distant soil that scanned as edible, but it certainly wasn't tasty. If anyone could improve it for marketing, it was the Gyiiks who had a reputation for cooking anything, anywhere, anyhow. Food, at least for this particular portion of the Gyiikish peoples, was something of a religious experience. As it turned out, it could be a religious experience for those eating it as well.

The Master Chefs took a fruit each out of Hwell's stasis box, contemplating the whole thing in one hand as one of the remaining three dallied over their numerous tools. Another one picked up a hand-scanner and took a reading. The fruit had already passed customs and decontamination, but it never hurt anyone to be cautious[53].

Hwell watched in fascination as one Master Chef carefully dissected the fruit she had. Peel, pith, seed, and the surrounding flesh, all into separate portions. Each scanned separately. Each sampled for taste in long minutes, with palate cleansing in between. It was the air of concentration that fascinated. The meditative way that each part was tried and tested by different chemical processes. Frying, baking, sous vide... not a potential step was overlooked. Even dousing with ascetic acid. All were tested, and tasted. Some portions were set aside in various pickling brines, which would take some time to mature.

Smoke, interestingly, was the key. This particular fruit wasn't sweet, which most tongues accepted as the standard for fruiting plants. Instead, the flesh was savoury, with a bitter aftertaste that many would initially reject for being 'un-fruity'. However, with smokers working on both pith and flesh, and a dusting of zest, it became... differently tasty.

Hwell took the free sample that had passed the Master's personal approval, and reverentially tried a bite.

It was more than delicious. It was transformative. It was... "Oh sweet Powers that be," he breathed.

The Master smiled in acknowledgement of her skill. Her work was truly done.

[52] Those living within the Galactic Alliance believe that they are civilised because their food can be made to exacting standards whilst those on the Edges are barbarians who have to harvest directly from the source. Interestingly enough, Edge people believe _they_ are the civilised ones for exactly the same reason.

[53] Unless, of course, you're an Anti-Lucker who frequently _does_ cause harm to themselves and others by being cautious. Fortunately for the rest of society, these individuals are kept in far safer facilities as research continues to dampen their -ah- 'talents'.

#  Challenge #179: A Big Choice

" _You have a darkness in you, that's all too clear. You can imagine yourself doing terrible things. But that's just your imagination. For all the looming intimidation factor, when you act, I can tell you still have standards... however few they may be... and there's some lines I'm certain even you would refuse to cross."_

" _Hrmph... You can't know that for sure..."_

" _I feel it. I have faith in you. Maybe not to always do the right thing, but at least to never do the worst thing." – Anon Guest_

Kobolds generally have one reaction to threatening beings much larger than they are[54]. Run away. In the case of Dragons, they placate obsequiously. Nobody had ever mentioned a Tiefling born to Gargantuans to fulfil a prophecy of devastation... who didn't want to. Higash had a great Greatsword, an expression of dawning horror mixed with abject misery, and a tail that swished like a cat's.

Lady Anthe, keen of eye and insight, realised that this giant was the gentle variety. She could see every single tell of reluctance in that huge body. She knew that that sword wasn't ever going to be set against her some entire _minutes_ before Higash turned and said, "It's a baby..."

The prophecy stated, apparently, that the first act of their demonic hero was to defeat a Dragon before he reached his Manhood. According to the rest of the tribe, even a trash dragon - a kobold - would do. They'd done what they could to make Anthe look savage. Stripping her of her more ornate clothing, tearing up the rest, and spattering her with blood. They'd even given her one of the more traditional Kobold weapons, a Yklwa. Anthe threw it aside and assumed a subjugate posture, exposing her vulnerable underside. "Oh woe is me," she said, "I am defeated by his terrible gaze."

This was not a popular turn of events amongst the tribe members. They roared in anger, bashed their shields with their weapons, and started a chant, "Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!"

Lady Anthe was mildly worried when the sword of Higash hung over her head. For a moment, just a moment, she briefly considered scrabbling up his leg and doing uncomfortable things on the inside of his loincloth. Kobolds could, if they so wished, be very sharp in inconvenient places.

However, just as the plan of action cemented in her head, Higash scooped her up in his empty hand and bellowed, "NO!" He turned his sword against his own people and became a dervish of destruction. The tribe had honed the edge, enchanted the blade, and done all they could to make certain of their foretold hero's ability to win. They had no idea that there was more than one way for a prophecy to be fulfilled.

For instance, they never asked about which way the devastation would be wrought. Higash killed every warrior in the tribe, and refused to do the same to the elders and the children. The crone who foretold his fate threw the relevant tablet at him, inscribed with Giant's Runes. "You are not a man! You will never be a man!"

"If manhood is killing the defenceless, I don't want it." Higash picked up the tablet anyway, and turned his back on his own people.

Anthe took this opportunity to clamber up to his shoulder, clinging to his harness. She was two feet, ahem-mumble tall, and he was eight feet if he was an inch. "I thank you, Higash, for sparing my life."

"You are no dragon," said Higash. "But I am a demon. I think horrible things."

"Do you do horrible things?"

He turned his head to look at her. "I just killed every warrior in my tribe. That's horrible."

"They were attacking you," said Anthe. "You defended yourself."

"I still killed them. That's evil." He strode along the side of the river, following it downstream. "I have dreams about destroying people. I... see... in my head, pictures of killing folks who've done nothing to me."

Anthe sighed. "The brain is a complicated lump of meat, when it's living. The things it does to entertain itself can go against the heart and soul. Tell me. Do you _want_ to do the things you see in your head?"

"No. Never. They make me sick."

Anthe patted his cheek. "Then you are not evil. You may not be doing _completely_ the right thing, but... this is the important part... you're choosing not to do the _worst_ thing."

"I don't want to be the devil that destroys the world," sulked Higash.

"Then don't be. Be the devil who saves the world. Life is choice. It's your life. You choose." Ironic, though, that those were the words Wraithvine had used to get her to believe in herself. Maybe they could all pass them around until everyone believed better of themselves.

[54] Also known as - just about everything.

#  Challenge #180: Stone Tools and Bear Skins

An alien crew hires a discount group of human bodyguards to protect them on an expedition to a heavily forested/jungled planet to research the planet life. Murphy's law happens and the alien crew find out they hired the human group that is , as a group, a hybrid of MacGyver, John Wick, and the the A-Team. – Anon Guest

One of the launch seats, heavily charred, fell out of the tree with a solid thud. The Human who dislodged it had got up there by using a series of ropes, spiked objects, and an apparent disregard for gravity. Another Human, who had neatly sidestepped the falling chair, looked at the burned remains and said, "Whelp. There's your problem." Three other Humans laughed.

The one up the tree shouted, "Three more debris! All metal!" and the Humans working underneath cleared out from the hazard zone. One was carrying the chair. The Humans had been doing this since their explorer vessel exploded in a freak combination of electrical storm and meteor shower, and Grox had yet to understand why.

She was doing what they called 'oxcart duty', which consisted of applying her muscular strength to pull around a cart the Humans had made from convenient pieces. It was, they said, better than hauling "all that crap" by hand. That, and 'oxcart duty' was keeping all the surviving scientists out of harm's way. The Humans, after all, did not want to waste any more time rebuilding their carts.

The Human who had been up the tree - Yaz - came down and unhitched themself from their improvised apparatus. "Someone else's turn in that barrel," they said, "I need a break." By which Yaz meant a period of inactivity in relative comfort, and not anything harmful to body or possessions.

Human idioms confused Gorx and all her teammates. Yet, when Yaz decided to settle by her, Gorx couldn't resist the scientist's compulsion to engage in research. Every molecule of information was useful, even if it may not be shared whilst she was still alive. "Why are you gathering ship parts?" she asked. "There are many that have been completely destroyed. The remaining pieces are not inherently useful to escaping this world."

Yaz snorted. "Sez you," they said, before elaborating. "You're talking to a people from a species that made it into space by strapping themselves on top of the world's biggest firework. There's ways and there's ways. Trust us."

In context, that sounded like a rather dangerous thing to do. Then again - what alternatives were there?

It took them months, even with the base camp as their hub of operations. The camp itself was designed to biodegrade and decay in concert with the environment, leaving no lasting trace. Most of the equipment for scientific analysis had been there when the ship exploded. It had once been neat and orderly and civilised.

It was now bedlam. The Humans had set up other things _not_ meant for scientific analysis. The mess was still the mess, but now there was a forge, a chemistry lab, and a few other things the Humans seemed to be cobbling together out of whatever they had to hand. For example, the rocket launch platform on the tabletop mountain that was constructed almost entirely out of this planet's answer to bamboo.

There was little more frightening than Humans working in concert on something hazardous, which this project was 'in spades'. Another Human idiom that, though confounding, implied that there was lots of it. There was _always_ hazardous 'in spades' whenever Humans were around.

Their experiments to date had been with smaller versions of the behemoth on the tabletop mountain, each sent up into the sky with an altimeter attached to a parachute as the payload. Accelerometers and tracking devices were involved, and the Humans' last celebration had involved the news that they were ready for 'the big one'. A sphere, roughly the size of a beach ball, with antennae spreading out from its centre line.

The Humans played ancient music of a theme Gorx took some time to comprehend. They sang along to _Ra Ra Rasputin_ , _Starman_ , _Rocket Man_ , and _Back in the USSR_. They raised their beverage containers and toasted to 're-inventing Sputnik'.

Gorx pulled aside Human Joss and said, "I do not understand. None of us can escape inside that vessel."

"Escape?" said Joss, then laughed. "We're not _escaping_..."

"We're calling for a lift," said Human Vin.

"Trust us," said Human Yaz.

The launch was terrifying. So, too, was the fact that the automated comms equipment in the satellite successfully sent out a distress call and summoned a rescue mission from similarly gung-ho Humans.

#  Challenge #181: Colour-coded For Inconvenience

" _Don't touch that, it's hot."_

" _It doesn't look hot."_

" _Hot things are red on Terra." – Anon Guest_

"Uh. Not exactly," said a nearby Human. "Not all red things are hot, and not all hot things are red. For your safety, check for radiant heat," they demonstrated, holding their hand above the surface and gradually approaching touching it until they pulled away. "This one _is_ actually hot. See?"

The tourists huddled together a little. "That is how you test for heat on this Deathworld?"

"Well, yeah. The atmosphere helps distribute heat so there's safe distances and so forth. It's scientific. Only we didn't know it was science before we worked it out." An apologetic grin. "Besides, there's more than red-hot. We have black hot, red hot, yellow hot and white hot in that order. Black-hot can still give you third-degree burns."

A tourist fiddled with their datareader. "This information has an offensensitivity warning..."

This time, the Human winced. "You're probably better off not looking. Humanity used to do some really gross stuff before we invented bio-acceptable synth-skin. Plus I think that article shows you what third-degree burns look like..." they checked their own datareader and winced even moreso. "Euw. Yep. It shows you what they look like. Real gross."

Now the tourists were checking what 'gross' meant. The poor things. Some people did insist on going to Earth underprepared.

"There's another thing you really should know," warned the Human. "We really like having red things."

As if to prove their point, a vehicle swung by, blasting music as it went. It was a bright, vivid red that shone like nothing real should shine. It continued on without sparking any fires from its implied heat.

"Ah, yes," said the spokestourist. "We shall employ the Deathworlder method."

#  Challenge #182: The Marvellous Six

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9Q3i5w6-Ug>

(Also, Why isn't this a legit anime!!!!) – Anon Guest

[AN: Well, I made it 181 days without using anyone else's IP. Can't get any money from the anthology of this year now. Sigh. Oh well. Totes worth it for this one]

_Reach for the stars, Yukanna... Their power is our power. If you can feel them... you will never fail._ Grandfather had said that, when he had taken Yukanna to see the ribbon lights for the first time. He had reached out, then, and watched the Tetragonai steal the stars. Ever since then, the world had been dark, cold, and dying.

They had clustered together on their dying world, hopeless and withering, until a shooting star split the sky with its light. Grandfather, eaten by fear, had told Yukanna not to investigate. It would be worse than death. It had to be a Tetragonai attack... but Yukanna couldn't let hope die just like that. He still had the starlight in his heart, and it had never left. He _had_ to follow hope.

So he left. He left with tears in his eyes. He left with hope in his heart. He left to find... whatever it was. Destiny or death or both. He _had_ to persevere. He _had_ to hope that this was a way to win the stars back. There was more than a moment of trepidation when he discovered it was a crashed Tetragonai guardian, but the eye was dark and the smooth, reflective surface felt... dead. Yukanna reached out...

...and felt himself pulled inside! A moment of darkness and terror, but the light of hope was with him always. For a moment he saw... hideous spiky shapes that could not ever be comfortable, and then... the machinery _changed_! It became familiar. Like the technology his people had had before everything had grown cold and dark, even his own people's hearts. He reached out... and the ship came alive. It was with him, it was him, it bent and shaped itself to what he knew. Yukanna didn't hesitate. Didn't say goodbye. He simply stretched forward to reach for the stars that were no longer there.

Past the atmosphere. Past the wreckage of a fleet he had never seen and couldn't recognise. Past the asteroids. Up and out until it was nothing but the clear black. Clear black and the screen of an incoming call.

The person at the other end of the signal had a wide, mischievous grin and a thick moustache. His helm went beyond the vid pickup, but that didn't seem to worry him. "On your left," he said.

Yukanna looked, and that was how he met Kuchihige, a space warrior with an ego as large as his vessel. There were four others: Kamen, a methane-breather who never left their environment suit; Shishi, the leonine battle-master; Kikai, the robotic miner-mechanic; and finally Kuro, the space ninja.

All six of them, together, were chosen. The combined forces of the resistance had been able to infect six of the Tetragonai guardian vessels with a virus. They would perish in the act of finding one special pirate with the heart and spirit to fight back... and Yukanna was the last. Together, the six of them travelled to the mothership _Murasaki_ , there to plan battles and tactics with Fleet Admiral Tomoe.

This effort, all those sacrifices, had been for this one last, best hope. If they lost, then all was lost. The universe was doomed to a cold and desperately dark death.

"But, you know, no pressure," joked Shishi.

Thanks to the virus, one Tetragonai vessel was left with two guardians. It would be relatively weak, but they should not expect an easy fight. Just one Tetragonai guardian was enough to decimate the rebel fleet. Two... well. Yukanna had seen the devastation. The Tetragonai mothership that had laid so much waste had shielding, but it was vulnerable to a ramming attack. After that, they had to get inside and figure out how to release the stars.

"A direct attack at their weakest point," said Kuro.

"Poison their atmosphere and corrode their technology," said Kamen.

"Infect their core systems with a malevolent virus," suggested Kikai.

Yukanna was just about to suggest reaching for a star within the mothership and using its power against them, when the Tetragonai attacked. They had found the _Murasaki_! There was no more time to plan! They had to scramble!

For the _Murasaki_. For his home. For Grandfather, even though he had lost his hope. For his people. For his new friends. He _had_ to try.

Six new friends launched, sailing out into the night. Six tiny ships against the might of the Tetragonai. Six, chosen for their tenacity, reflexes, and skill. Six, who had made their ships to suit themselves, just like Yukanna had.

They shouldn't have been able to stand a chance, yet they managed to avoid the worst of the Tetragonai weapons, they managed to fight back with their own. They discovered that the mothership could spawn more guardians, but that did not stop them! They were determined! They _had_ to win!

Six ships got past all the defences to ram the shields. Any second, now, and those shields would crack. They fired their boosters...

...and a single shot from a guardian caught Yukanna's right wing. The explosion rocked him. His injuries weren't severe, but they were enough to stab him through and through with terror. His systems were fading. His viewscreen was going black...

Just like the sky had gone black

In front of him was a field of stars. So close, he could almost feel them.

Reach for the stars, Yukanna...

He tried. He reached so desperately. He needed just one star, but they were fading. Fading like his strength. Fading like the light. Fading... like his hope...

Yukanna fell into the darkness. Back through a life without stars in the sky. Back to a time when all was happiness and joy.

Reach for the stars...

It had once been so easy, to hold up his hand and feel them. To reach out, not quite touching, and let the power tickle his soul. Could it still be that easy?

Reach...

He stretched out his hand, feeling just one star. Feeling the life of it. The light of it. The joy of it.

He closed his fingers.

The light was inside him! Powering his resolve. Powering his ship. Bringing everything he needed right back to his fingertips. He couldn't remember standing up, but now he stood tall, soul blazing with the power of a single star! Thrusters on full, _this_ time Yukanna cracked the shield.

He was not alone, any more. He had his friends with him, and together, they shared the power to breach the Tetragonai shields!

Closer and closer, they came to the black, featureless plane of the Tetragonai mothership. The stars were in there, Yukanna could feel them.

"We're going to crash," warned Kikai.

"No," said Yukanna. "We're going inside. Like we went inside the dead guardians. We can do this! Together!"

"Together!" They chorused.

A brief moment, in which Yukanna faced his own reflection. A young man, barely past boyhood. Silver hair streaming with the power of the stars. They didn't crash, but flew inside. Just like they had entered their own vessel at first.

Just like that first time, they were surrounded by blackness. Just like that first time, they had a hint of a power beyond their reckoning.

"Anomalous power spike," said Kikai.

"Ai! It's all through my fur," complained Shishi.

"I can barely control my rig," said Kamen.

"Don't fight it," said Yukanna. "Be the power. Use it. Fight with it, not against it. Take it and make it yours!"

"We've got this, team," cheered Kuchihige. "Let's show them what we can do!"

"Star Light Cosmic Poweeerrrrr!"

They could hold it no more, and released it all in one concussive blast. They flew free in a rainbow of light and watched in joy as the Tetragonai mothership exploded, taking all the guardians with her.

The stars flew out around them, returning to their homes. Returning light, love, and hope to the universe. They had fought and they had won. They were heroes! They were...

The Starlight Brigade.

#  Challenge #183: The Human Paradox

An alien publishes his work on "The human paradox", the fact that the universe is a more safer place since the most deadliest species are everywhere. – Hyorky

Humans are a paradox, _Grax wrote in hir treatise._ They are simultaneously the bravest and the most cowardly, the most generous and the most miserly, the most sensible and the most insane. As Deathworlders, they should also be the most hazardous species in the Galactic Alliance, but, as we all know, Alliance space has never been safer since they have been welcomed among us.

Admittedly, there is what the Humans call 'collateral damage', but most such incidents harm the _Human_ involved rather than any friendlies in the vicinity[55]. That is, of course, when they aren't directly harming a confirmed enemy. These pack-bonding mammals are known to cause great devastation in their wakes, yet are also capable of great creativity.

For all their lack of genetic diversity[56], humans manage to embody a vast array of psychological differences. Their personalities have varies instead of their genetic profiles. This, in turn, has lead to the conclusion that Humans are insane. As individuals, they can exhibit some aberrant behaviours if viewed through an egocentric lens. As a _group_... the species-wide insanity seems increasingly more evident. The fact remains that most of this seeming insanity makes sense _to the Humans._

Analysis of such sense is counterproductive. Those who have attempted Human-think often wind up as seemingly crazed as the Humans they study. Yet the illogic of their logic has lead to such scientific breakthroughs as the Gravity Drive, the immunoflu, and the temporal stasis pod. No other species has thought of culinary creations with the wide scope of Humanity's famous foods-on-a-stick.

Many have tried one such treat and thought it the entire gamut of the reputation. That assumption is wrong. Humanity will attempt to put _any_ food on a stick, from crystalized sugar through other forms of sucrose on a stick to fried batters, things fried _in_ batter, to plain chunks of food placed on a stick and cooked like that[57]. They even freeze foods on a stick to serve them cold.

Humanity is also simultaneously paranoid, _and_ overly sure of their safety. This interesting dichotomy allows them to be prepared for the worst of disasters[58] yet able to leave their beds every morning despite the increased likelihood of injury. Humanity has the habit of being ridiculously over-prepared for the most unlikely disasters, yet underprepared for the common ones[59].

Humans are... confusing. Yet they are the most reliable species that the Alliance has ever come across. Small wonder, then, that they are simultaneously the most welcomed and the most feared in the Alliance.

55] Reference files [for your convenience.

56] Humans have suffered at least one genetic bottleneck disaster during our early evolution ([Source) which is why it's a really bad idea to try for 'genetic purity' in Humans.

[57] The author wishes to note that the Terran delicacy 'Beebeekyu Ribs' is not, in fact, food-on-a-stick, but rather animal parts with the bone structure remaining as part of the serving. Consider this an offensensitivity warning for anyone wishing to visit Terra.

[58] Interestingly referred to as 'the zombie apocalypse'.

[59] Excepting, of course, primary parentals, who can be relied upon to have a vast array of small emergency tools like adhesive medical strips, elastic bands, and ductape.

#  Challenge #184: Interesting Impressions

Imagine meeting a species that displayed all their emotions via dermal colour displays. And how humans would react to them – Adam in Darwin

As first contact situations go, the meeting between Humans and Acrodontids could have plausibly gone better. When it comes to meeting Humans, it's a minor miracle that they don't shoot on sight. Those who _don't_ shoot on sight are the ones who tend to enthusiastically pack bond. It's still a matter of debate as to which is worse.

It took three seconds for Human Jin to go from cautious to exuberant enthusiasm, and only because it took them that long to recognise the Acrodontids' possession of both chromatophores and independent eye orientation. The reaction was, "Holy shit, you guys are the coolest aliens I've ever seen? Can I hug you?"

A combination of natural and artificial selection processes means that most Human spacers are also fond of lizards. This, in turn, means that any lizard-based life-forms have an increased chance of close personal contact by a walking heat source[60]. Interestingly, this rarely ends in disaster.

This was a close one. The Acrodontid named Rrauk asked, "What is 'hug'?" and Human Jin, overcome with a case of automatic adoption, moved in to demonstrate.

There was an intense collection of seconds in which the spectators winced, anticipating the initiation of a war. Rrauk tensed in the Human's grip, initially fearing attack and then... relaxed as they realised that the grapple was not hostile and, in fact, comfortable and warm.

Cold-blooded species _love_ having Humans around for just this reason.

Rrauk slowly returned the embrace. "This is nicely warm," she said.

Human Jin noted, "Sweet, you guys change colour. You're amazing."

Of such fragile threads, lasting alliances are woven.

[60] Some featherless Saurians have also encountered this phenomenon. Ambassadorial teams are advised to keep small Human children well away from all Saurians for _other_ reasons.

#  Challenge #185: Call it a Win

" _I'm sorry HOW was this created?"_

" _Ok, two parts antimatter, three parts tachyon particles. Toss near the edge of the event horizon of a black hole, while slowly adding the core of a model 57 chronos warp drive engine."_

" _Uh-huh"_

Look into the perfectly stable portal. – Anon Guest

"Wait. No. The physics is impossible. Antimatter and tachyons react explosively when in close proximity..."

"Not if you use a sufficiently advanced magnetic bottle containment system," said the Human smugly.

"There aren't any," argued Frangitt.

"The word you're looking for," said Steve, "is 'weren't'." The Human groomed themself in self-congratulation. "I invented a new random behaviour algorithm just to pull this off."

Frangitt glared at their Human friend. "All this horse crap for a _five dollar bet_?"

"Five bucks is five bucks, friend."

"And this portal is... _useful_?"

"Uuuuh," said Steve. "Sort of?"

"...sort of," echoed Frangitt.

"Well, it does catapult you to a similar portal on the other side of the galaxy and a facility that's impossibly old... but it's a one-way trip because it also takes you back like ten or twenty thousand years."

"This raises more questions than it answers."

"Yeah," Steve sighed. "Also... whatever you do? Don't look directly into the portal."

Frangitt had just been about to do that. "Er. Why?"

Steve was all cold seriousness. "It looks _back_."

#  Challenge #186: So Walks a Spider

Imagine if the Old Pagan gods still walked among us. But the stories from their point of view were slightly different.. and they were only made into gods because of storytellers...

I.E.

Odin: "I started my existence as an ordinary man, and lived a fairly uneventful first life. Then my wife passed and I became lonely so I started to look after all the local lost and orphaned children. The bards started to sing of my generosity far and wide until more and more children started to arrive. That is how I first got the moniker of All-father..." – Adam In Darwin

I Am. I was. What used to be and what is have become a blur, but on good days, I remember. I was... a story. A cunning rabbit. A smart spider. The spider becomes the rabbit and the rabbit becomes the spider and the trickster once had a name. Once had a mother. Once had a home and a family and a life and...

Call me Peter, for now. That is both the name of a spider and a rabbit, as I recall. It is hard to recall. _There have been centuries._ Years beyond counting. Years beyond recorded history. Years before the time I was a collection of stories. Years... before they believed in me. Years before they called me Brother Rabbit. Years before they called me the spider man...

I was... I was a clever boy who made... cord. String. Rope, sometimes, out of the long grasses. Coils and coils of it. Strong rope, strong cord, too. I was not strong, but the cords I made were. They could hold great beasts many times my size, I remember... the python. It was sleeping by a log and I made a clever series of knots that tied a lot of its length to the wood. When I ran out of wood, but there was still more python, I found more logs. Three of them, not the number the stories say. No python is that long. I did not bargain it into the trap, of course not. Animals do not talk.

They called me Spider, then, because I was always making threads like the real spiders. It was... it was the first time I made a net. Yes. A set of knots, like a basket, but loose... and people could throw it over the animals we hunted. They laughed and said Spider had caught the biggest catch with his web...

_That_ that was the start of it. That was where it began. Tales of Spider spread far and wide. I became... famous. People knew _about_ me before they _knew_ me. Yet, I was still clever. I remember... tricking someone who knew all the stories about me... that, too, became a story. Spider is tricky. Spider is clever. Spider can think circles around you and can get what he wants...

My body died, as all bodies do... but did you know? The soul cannot move on until their name no longer passes mortal lips. They told stories about me. They used my name. They carried pieces of me in their hearts and minds. What would Spider do? How would Spider get away with this?

The legends grew. I became... what I Am. More than a collection of stories. More than a name. I gained names, and lost them, but they were always me. The clever trickster who spun up webs and caught the unwary, the egotistical, or the outright dangerous.

I Am... more than one memory. I Am... a trickster. A spider. A rabbit. I was... once... a god.

I Am... wandering. My memories come and go. I... gave you a name, but it is not my name. I can't remember what it was... What I do? I still capture them. The wicked. The egotistical. Sometimes, they are the same person. The murderers and the violent and the brutal... all get caught. All get revealed.

I am not what I once was. I can't get them all.

You can help, though. Spread the stories. Believe. Remember and revere...

Anansi, the spider man.

#  Challenge #187: Almost a Nightmare

Imagine you meet your doppelganger of a different species. They look nothing like you, but your personalities are as close to identical as possible! – Anon Guest

The universe is a fractal, as above, so below. Galaxies spiral into a supergalaxy. Stars spiral into galaxies, clouds of debris spiral into both stars and planets. Atmosphere spirals into weather... liquid drains into a spiral form. _Around and around it goes..._ Is it no wonder, then, that there are patterns of personas?

They do not always look alike, of course. It's hard for a lizard to resemble a gigantic spider, for example. Many times, though, they occupy the same job. Many times, they have _exactly_ the same mannerisms and patterns of speech. They have the same habits, the same quirks, the same... _essence_ as another you might know. They may even have a similar name.

Jean-Paul Satre theorised that hell is other people. A. J. Rimmer knew without a doubt that hell is an eternity with yourself. Those are just two extremes that result from meeting your animus echo. Your... soul-doppelganger, if you will.

Ax'and'l, freelance trader and sometime adventurer, had been getting on rather well with his spiritual duplicate, Hachett Grippa. in fact, they had just sealed a rather profitable deal in a sane, orderly, and civilised manner.

This immediately made Ax'and'l's heart rate spike as he realised his partner was conspicuous by his absence. "Where the hell is Hwell?"

At that exact same moment, Grippa got a terrified look and said, "P'shkaart! They're bound to be in trouble!"

The pattern repeats. It's what patterns do.

Fortunately, this time, the saner heads prevailed mere moments before disaster was bound to unfold. In this case, Ax'and'l and Grippa both extracted Hwell Barrow and P'shkaart from a situation of almost certain doom _just_ before the metaphorical spark hit the powder keg. They got twenty DU's away from the source of contention before they realised they had the wrong sidekick.

It was the first time either Hwell or P'shkaart had heard the usual furious ranting in stereo. The fact that both heads of business were perfectly in sync was an experience neither of them wanted to repeat. In fact, it may have gone a long way to their mutual reform.

...at least for a month or two...

#  Challenge #188: Anything You Can Do...

An idea for the humans/earth is space Australia. These aliens fight with their voice. But our songs are stronger. Opera singers? They can't even fathom, they just faint. Thought you'd have fun with it! Thank you – Anon Guest

The Karolai had thought they were masters of tactics and the ultimate weapon. None had dared oppose them for a thousand years of glory. Their empire spanned most of a galactic arm, and they kept tight control of it with sonic weaponry. Like all empires of might makes right, they made one fatal mistake:

They tried it on the Humans.

Sound has been used offensively by Humanity on many occasions. As crowd control, as attempted bowel control[61], and as crime prevention.. Sound has been used benevolently for just as many purposes. Humans _know_ about sound. They have even damaged themselves with its use over the centuries.

Therefore, when the Karolai attempted to pacify a Human settlement with their Bells of Doom, Humanity responded with the closest available soprano backed by the heaviest of electric guitar riffs. Adequately amplified for the Karolai benefit.

The result was three blown engines, two hull breaches, and a major mental breakdown in 79% of the crew manning the Karolai vessels.

Humans watching the spectacle were said to hold aloft small flames whilst cheering.

The Karolai empire collapsed soon thereafter, though the Humans were not the direct cause for a change. They were the inciting incident, the nail that was wanting. An empire built on being indomitable conquerers is destined for collapse from within and without the instant it finds someone who refuses to be conquered.

It gets worse if the society of conquerors is so assured of its might that it doesn't bother too much with defences. The Karolai were that, and corrupt, and decadent, _and_ indolent. The empire crumbled like a badly-made cake. In less than a decade, it was just another collection of colonies looking for trade and help from the Alliance. Their conquered holdings returned to the original owners, and original squabbles exacerbated by the empire that once held them in place.

It was only after the ignominious end of the Karolai empire that they learned the Human idiom: _If you can't baffle them with bullcrap, stun them with soundwaves._

They wisely decided to avoid all potential situations that could lead to 'bullcrap'.

[61] The mythical 'brown note' that loosens the bowels remains just that - mythical.

#  Challenge #189: For a Thousand Years

" _I believe there's something good in him."_

" _That's childish."_

" _So? Children can be right too." – Anon Guest_

"We're talking about a man who has rounded up millions of people, put them into life-endangering camps when he and his cohort couldn't outright kill them, denied them basic human rights, denied them _humanity_ , cowed the populace with both his super-loyal adherents and threats of physical and legal violence, and is one hundred percent in favour of eliminating anyone who isn't a member of a very narrow idyllic model that even _he_ doesn't adhere to. He's a hypocrite; a dangerous, demented blowhard of a hypocrite and if someone doesn't stop him, he could destroy the world as we know it."

"Oh, he's not that bad," dismissed the devils' advocate, who co-incidentally fit the narrow, idealistic mould to a T. "And he's not doing any of those things you say he is. He's just relocating the undesirables to a more appropriate holding facility. The deaths are incidental and accidental. You're blowing it all out of proportion. This is for the greater good."

" _Everyone's_ greater good? What proof have you got?"

"What proof have _you_ got?"

"Look. I don't have proof... I just know it's wrong to take people from their homes in the night and force them to ride for miles to those camps."

"Temporary holding facilities."

"We've seen the news about the detainments, right? How much news is there about the following deportations?"

"We don't need to hear about that," dismissed the devil's advocate. "It's boring. Making sure that everything in this country is for the people who _belong_ here is way more important than knowing the others are headed on out of here. Besides, it's not like they're _real_ people."

"As opposed to... ersatz people? What makes people real people?"

"Stop talking like that. You're starting to sound like a dissident. There's laws against that, you know. I don't want you to become a criminal."

"There's laws against being like them, too."

"Well, they shouldn't have signed up for a life of crime... It's their fault they're criminals. They made that choice."

"How? By being born? Nobody should be locked up because their nose is the wrong shape or their skin is the wrong colour. Don't you realise what's happening to this country?"

"Yes. It's getting great again. He's upholding his promises and ushering in a new dawn of prosperity. We're taking back everything we've lost to the rot and corruption, and everyone's going to be rich and live in luxury and have a hundred servants each."

"What? Just last week, you were complaining that bread costs twice as much as it should..."

"Ssh. The police are everywhere." The devil's advocate looked around. "You can't talk like that. The price of bread is a temporary setback while we're at war. We have to support the troops."

"Of course you do. _You_ have nothing to fear." The tunnel to the next safe house was nearly completed. Soon, the people hiding in the attic and the basement would have a means to escape along the underground railroad that would not involve the secret police or the networks of informants. In a few days, there would be no trace of illegal people of the wrong race, colour, or creed. Not where the secret police or the political informants could find them. There would be hidden doors and special locks made by clever minds and clever hands.

No human being should ever be illegal. No human being should ever be classed as less than a real human. The people who forget that, in favour of what they can grab in the here and now? History judges them as monsters.

As for the man who has people in camps, who makes it a crime to speak out against him... Do you think you know his name?

Unfortunately, Humanity has so very many of them to choose from.

#  Challenge #190: Tasty Trade

Alien witnesses true fear in the eyes of a band of country roughneck mercs in the form of a single raised eyebrow of the group's diminutive elderly "grandmother" figure. Grown warriors, men and women, who have charged into the maw of insanity cowed by a 98lbs octogenarian.

Pretty pretty please. – Yup

In all the known universe, there is little that is as unlikely to be terrifying as the words, "What the diddly gosh-darn heck're you kids got goin' on in here?" It was the sort of thing to come out of an extremely proper and extremely elderly mouth and, in fact, that is just where this string of words had come from.

The Sargasso Scouts, big burly Humans, all of them, parted for her like the red sea, giving Thokaz an excellent opportunity to take in the sight. She was grey-haired, and wizened with age, and walked with the assistance of a cane. Her livesuit was one of the older models and evidently patched with so many repairs that it was hard to tell what the original model was. There were stickers on there older than some of the scouts. There was a macaroni necklace she wore like an ancient and powerful totem. She walked between them like the monarch of the realm. Which she probably was.

The Scouts were instantly cowed. The biggest and roughest amongst them hung her head. "...'m sorry, Mama... He was up in our green habitat, though. We gotta defend our eats."

A single grey eyebrow raised. "What was that?"

The spokescout cleared her throat. "This intruder was found in the gardening enclosure, ma'am. We defended it and isolated the offender. Ma'am!"

"I didn't spend nigh on to sixty years of my life teaching you proper grammar to have you throw it away soon as spit," grumbled the matriarch. "Worse, this is one of those Galactic Alliance people. They're really fragile... was there any collateral damage?"

"Ma'am! No, Ma'am!" This time, it was a chorus of burly Scouts. The spokescout added, "Not on either side, Ma'am."

This earned them all a grudging nod that made five of them practically glow with pride. "Just as well. We don't want any trouble from the Galactics. Now. Mx[62] Lizard... did you trip over us or where you lookin'?"

At this point, Thorkaz was counting hirself lucky that they spoke GalStand at all. Translating alien idioms like that took a moment's extra contemplation. "I was... seeking salvage. I thought that this area was unclaimed. When I found a source of foodstuffs, I attempted to help myself. I do apologise for the unintended theft, and am willing to return your livestock," Torkaz took the captive insects out of their holding bay in hir livesuit, still in their restraining bag, and offered them up.

"Wait. Y'all are _insectivorous_?" boggled one Scout.

"Sir, we think of those as vermin," said the matriarch. "You can _have_ them. Heck, if you can help us trap 'em in an ethical manner, we'll fill your cargo holds."

It was just one among possibly millions of secret, under-the-table trade deals that Humans worked out with Galactics along the Edge. After all, one being's garbage is another's irreplaceable resource.

[62] Pronounced close enough to 'mucks' to almost not matter.

#  Challenge #191: Viva La Revolution

The peppy one with beautiful blond hair is always in black and the one with dyed-black spiky hair is always in soft pastels. – Anon Guest

She wore braids. Neat, tidy braids she wound into a knot of a bun in the back of her head. The only thing that changed about that 'do was the length and volume of the hair, and that was progress that was annually cut back. The rest of her choices were pretty much anything she liked as long as it was black and fit within the narrow confines of the school dress code.

He was the one who actually spent the most on his look. It took Tony two days to work out what actual rebelling looked like and made it a point to wear everything listed on the "do not wear" list that was exclusively for the girls. Bright, glittery, neon pastels in every colour of nature and more than a few that weren't. Every variation of booty shorts, fishnets, off-the-shoulder tops, backless or crop he could lay his hands on. The sideless ones, the peek-a-boo holes. All of it. Since the regulations were more strict about hair dye, he chose black. It was, after all, a natural colour, but there was nothing natural about _this_ black at all. Especially not with the amount of hair product he used to spike it within an inch of its life.

Interestingly, the school bullies had little to do with them. Any insult directed at Rebeccah slid right off with a, "Thank you," or a, "That's nice." On rare occasions, the intended tormentor might receive a, "I'm sorry you feel that way," but otherwise they made no impact on her at all. She continued to wear black, continued to keep her hair braided and neatly tucked out of the way, and continued to have a 4.0 GPA because she allegedly didn't have a life. As for Tony... well... even aggressive heteronormativity has its limits. The burliest, toughest, most aggressive young men of the school took one look at Tony, figured out that he had to be doing it on purpose as bait or something, and kept a ten meter radius around him clear of any kind of assault-related shenanigans.

The school teachers and staff didn't know what to do about them, either. Detention did nothing, especially since they were _technically_ not breaking any rules. Rebeccah got on with her homework and Tony spent most of his time writing something up on his laptop. So long as it wasn't a social media journal, their supervisor allowed it.

One rainy afternoon, whilst they were both waiting for their respective parents to pick them up, Tony had to ask. "So. What's with the look?"

Rebeccah said, "Well, like you, I took one look at the dress code and muttered, _F to that S_ , and I did my own thing. I own like five pairs of black jeans, four black skirts, and I got a bulk load of black shirts from some cheapo place. It saves an enormous amount of brain power. And the black jackets and boots always look cool, so big doy."

"Yeah, I do all this because the dress code is bullshit and everyone knows it." Tony grinned. "I've racked up like fifteen complaints from teachers about how my clothes are 'distracting' but the school board won't do shit until a student complains. It's fun to watch."

"Yeah, there's blogs about you," said Rebeccah. "I read a few things now and then. So. Um. Are you... into anyone?"

"No mad crushes or anything. Uh. Girls tend to stay away from me and the guys don't want to hang out with me. Uhm. I think I might be Demi? But I dunno 'bout Demi-what."

"Cool. I dunno where I'm at either. Focussing on getting good grades has just... been easier." Rebeccah sighed, watching the vapour from her breath curl in the rain. "I'd like to think you're worth the work, though."

"Wanna sit together at lunch tomorrow and watch the normies freak out about it?"

That was the first time she'd laughed on school property since Mortimer Jenkinson choked on paste glue and it came out of his nose... and that was in _Kindergarten_. "Sounds like fun. I'm in."

"Sweet. Detention sibs?" Tony offered his fist for a bump.

"Detention sibs," she agreed, and bumped.

There are many ways to rebel, and the schools knew it. By tamping down on other forms of rebellion, these two made a new one that couldn't be easily put down. After all, it is very, very hard to explain how people are rebelling by _following the rules_ , yet easy enough to do it if one has a twisted mind. It's even harder to eliminate such a rebellion.

More people should be rebelling like that.

#  Challenge #192: It's Just a Hobby

Captain: "You have nothing to worry about. Our only human crewmember is one of the nicest, sweetest humans you will ever meet."

Human: "I found my knives! Now, WHO THE HEY HID THEM FROM ME IN THE FIRST PLACE!?!?" – Anon Guest

_Rule Eleven: Never go anywhere without a knife._ – Leeroy Jethro Gibbs, historical Terran hero.

Civilisation in general holds certain truths to be self-evident. Such as the ability to make and safely use sharp things as one of the stages inherent in civilisation. Where, exactly, that fits is up to the civilisation. Nevertheless, lots of civilisations recognise that sharp things are very dangerous and should be kept in the hands of professionals.

...and then there's Humans.

Humans developed their sharp things early and consider them intrinsic to existence. So much so that having a "utility knife" on their person is considered essential. Such knives are small and, though not ideal for combat, have been used for such in the past, and will likely be used again. The typical Human response to this information is, "See? It's just _sensible_ to have a knife!" Humans cannot be convinced otherwise. The Alliance advises that those employing Humans encourage them to keep their sharp things collections (a) contained, and, (b) to a minimum. This is not always easy.

Considered for your further education, Ambrose Jones, otherwise known as Human Amy. In all other aspects, she is as sweet and kind as any Human could be. Her empathy scores are rather high for her species and most reviews of her job performance are glowing. There is, however, one drawback:

Human Amy has a blade collection. Every kind of blade from the dawn of toolmaking to the current -ha- cutting edge was in there. Utility blades, specific cutting edges, battle blades, the lot. Dirks, daggers, swords, and rapiers, oh my. It's more than a little disturbing to watch her move in. Especially once the historical weapons come out. One look at a Kris or a Durka is enough to terrify many species despite Human Amy's generally sunny demeanour.

The fact that most of these weapons are for display only has done nothing to assuage any fears, and most of _that_ is because the Tsarla V incident is part of both her reputation and her permanent record. There, an invading force of space pirates attempted to conquer a scientific exploration vessel with Human Amy aboard. She was shining up one of her display weapons when the alarm went off. She charged the nearest group of invaders _with_ the weapon she had at the time and pierced a pirate's livesuit in one blow. She also happened to pierce the pirate.

After that victory (and subsequent detainment of the pirates) she kept insisting that the blade in question wasn't that sharp, her victory was primarily because the pirates were 'really squishy' and "anyone could do that with enough force, it's just physics, you guys."

Ever since, successive contractors have attempted to at least tone down the publicly-displayed blade collection a notch. Or five. Or twenty. Or – Powers, who needs this many blades in the first place? No! Don't answer that!

So it was that Lieutenant Grox, designated Human Companion for the Ships' Human, reported his apparent victory. "I secured twelve boxes of blades, sir. They're all safe in a secure location. Though... by all reports, you have nothing to worry about. Our only human crewmember is one of the nicest, sweetest humans you will ever meet."

At which point, Human Amy burst into the room, grinning ear to ear and bristling with historical weaponry. "I found my knives! Now, who the heck hid them in the first place? I gotta have some _words_."

#  Challenge #193: No More Pencils...

Can we hear more about the changes in intergalactic schools? (And can two of them be the removal of perfect attendance "awards" and school lunches that even the most well behaved child can't choke down?) – Anon Guest

The Cogniscent Rights Committee had a lot to say about Terran Standard Schooling, especially that of the pre-shattering era, relics of which can still be found in Terran colonies. _Nothing_ it had to say about the school system was polite. They tried, but there comes a time when such efforts are not only counter-productive, but sickening to attempt.

For those familiar with class sizes maxing out at ten, and tutorial groups of no more than four... allow us to walk you through the process of standardized Terran education. The evolution of a uniquely uneducational system that nevertheless persisted because the unscrupulous could make money out of it.

It began - as these things always did - with a need. In this case, it was the need of industry moguls to possess a large number of employees who could process the forms and bookkeeping procedures in an era before electronic calculating machines. The current system was run by a charitable few and attended randomly by whomever decided to show up that day. As such, the crowds of barely literate, barely numerate workers were below the standards necessary, and those who could afford such an education didn't want to work in the kind of employ that had one filling out paperwork all day. Industry and charity merged into mandatory, industrialised education.

Children forced to operate in a simulation of a regular factory environment. Regulated by the sounding of a bell. Judged on the performance of menial tasks necessary for the era of the time. Lining up to be counted, answering to a name and attendance recorded on the rolls. Being able to write legibly and perform basic mathematical tasks were mandatory. A certain amount of history -adjusted for propaganda- informed the future workers that they, too, could have success and thousands of dollars if they just worked hard enough for long enough.

Progress built on this basic model, adding standardised testing once computers could evaluate multiple choice answers, and those tests revealed results that were disturbing - children were _not_ standardized. Imagine their shock and horror at the knowledge that cogniscent beings with free will could not possibly be turned into standard employees through rote recitation, bullying, and behavioral management strategies that are too barbaric to contemplate. You may laugh at this idea, but Humanity found it necessary to enact some changes.

Instead of analysing their young and finding an educational model that suited their growing young minds, Humanity almost unanimously decided to enact change in one way: more testing. Further discoveries that some children flagged at their education because their families could not afford food lead to food being supplied via school lunches. Since these were paid for by the taxpaying public, they were almost immediately cut back, cheapened, reduced, regulated, and transformed by slow degrees into inedible, incomprehensible, and unhealthy refuse that, nevertheless, the public complained about despite funding mansions for their elected leaders.

Further, some held that the poor should be able to pay for their food themselves, regardless of their ability to do so, and therefore punished the children of adults in debt by refusing them food that the program was initially designed to deliver without prejudice.

It was a cruel era, indeed. In these days of mandatory nutrition minimums, you likely can't understand why a family in debt would have additional cruelties heaped upon them, but these are procedures that made the worthy feel better about judging the unworthy. Children were starved in order to punish the parents into working harder, for longer, for less, and those who held that power had every moral argument as to why this was a just and valid thing to do.

Those who could attend every day, regardless of sickness, disaster, or bereavements were rewarded with small prizes. Some in the form of 'certificates' printed on paper. Others with small trophies. It didn't matter to the administration if this caused disease to spread through the schools of the era like wildfire, all that mattered was training future workers to appear, regardless of their needs, to work harder, for longer, for less.

Science attempted to remedy this dire situation. Study after study concerning basic nutrition, optimal working conditions, optimal performance hours, optimal intelligence enhancing techniques... but those who held the power ignored science, and encouraged their working classes to ignore it, too.

After all, it was no longer vital to write legibly, or know the multiplication tables. Computers did all that, now. Having a populace who could not read about what the powerful were doing to it was - advantageous to the reigning oligarchs.

The revolution came anyway, but that's another topic for another time. For independent study, pick a decade during the Terran Techno-Industrial period prior to the Shattering, and evaluate their standard schooling practices in comparison with the ones you know today.

#  Challenge #194: Attitude Adjustor

There always a foul-mouthed human within every group, but when there a kid nearby, they put on a mask and they're the politest creature you ever met. – Anon Guest

They say that people who curse a lot are more likely to be honest. If that is true, then Human Nor was the most honest being in the known universe. If they came with a censor beep, others might be mistaken for believing they were speaking in morse code. Unfortunately for those in Human Nor's aura, they did _not_ come with a censor beep.

That is, until the day that Human Nor and five of the crew of the _Consummate Scrounge_ rescued a life pod from the erratic course it had error'd its way into. The solitary occupant had mashed some buttons with a handful of something else that had been mashed. Forensic analysis would later identify the remains as a banana. This was unsurprising because the sole occupant was less than two years old.

What was surprising was Human Nor's reaction, and actions after said discovery. Instead of the usual stream of unfiltered invective, interspersed with actual conversive meaning, Human Nor changed their entire attitude to the point of being nearly unrecognisable.

"Aw the little diddums," Human Nor cooed. "Has we got stuff all over everything? Who's a messy? You's a messy. Come on, now, sweetheart. You and I are gonna go through decon. Yes we are. _Yes_ we are..."

Frek and Dar had frozen in place, agape, staring at their Ships' Human as if they had grown another appendage on the spot. They had all heard about disturbing Human habits and behaviours but this... This was beyond comprehension.

The child complained in a language none could understand. Later experts identified it as a pre-lingual phenomenon known as 'Scribble', and could even trace the linguistic origins to a specific station in a close segment of the Edge Territories. Such analysis would prove useful later. What bothered the crew _now_ was the drastic change in their Ships' Human.

The child passed through decon with little to concern the crew or the ships' biota. They were clothed and fed softened versions of Human Nor's rations as the detective work began on discovering where this little creature had come from[63]. That, and what could possibly have happened to Human Nor to make them so drastically different from their accustomed manner.

"Cool it, you guys," they singsonged, juggling the sleepy toddler on their hip. "I'm just being nice. This little nugget's just forming their view of the world. You don't wanna pollute that sort'a thing. So you be nice. You play nice, you say nice, you see nice, you be nice... And we're all a family ta-ra ta-ra ta-rally..."

They were greatly relieved when Human Nor returned to their usual lexical choices once the child in their temporary custody was sound asleep in a safe and isolated environment.

"Holy flakking [copulation] that's an ordeal. Have any of you [wow] never heard of being [oh dear] nice around a [ouch] baby? [String of creative expletives describing an unlikely congress between a popular theistic figure, an ape, and a trapeze], people! It's common [clang] parenting [honk] techniques, [chirp]!"

Frek, Dar, and fifteen others in the immediate area relaxed. This was one of their Human's elective behaviour modification procedures. The same as when their primary parental paid a visit. Only three times more disturbing.

[63] Aside, of course, from condescending dialogues that begin, "When two people love each other _very_ much..."

#  Challenge #195: How Lucky

A scientific analysis crew of aliens hire a human bodyguard. The human has a strange power over fauna, as in they become friendly/borderline domesticated like earth pets. The human is confused as it's happened in many planets/stations. Meanwhile the scientists are having trouble between making sure to get the data and making sure the human stays on as a permanent crew member. – Anon Guest

It is a known rule of the universe that Humans will attempt to pet _anything_. Humans may also attempt to tame anything that crosses their path. They're a friendly species, and spread their pack-bonding to any creature that responds to them. Many are willing to fail at the attempt.

One is more successful than most Humans. They have a knack for interacting with non-cogniscent creatures beyond that which should be logically plausible. They went by Human Stu (because they were 'cookin', they said) and spent a contracted twelve years with the crew of the _Non-invasive Probe_. Twelve years spent capturing, examining, and releasing every single creature the crew could find on a planet in orbit around TGD-WE4-876.

Human Stu was there to keep the scientific analysts safe from the creatures on the planet they were surveying. They chose to do so by being unbelievably friendly with every single one. Humankind were immune to any venoms and poisons on that planet, but no such venomous creatures attempted to harm them. They were friendly right back in return. It was uncanny.

Things would commence, of course, with carefully removing the trapped creature from the containment vessel. This involved close contact by Human Stu, who managed to coo, tickle, and coax the unfamiliar creature into sitting still for the analysts. One well-placed gentle touch had a creature that had never known cogniscent contact fawning to gain that contact again. Neither Human Stu nor the crew of the _Non-invasive Probe_ were permitted to feed the creatures, so they refrained from such activities. Nevertheless, attention was sufficient to create a semi-tamed state.

Human Stu had no real explanation for the phenomenon, either, just a saying that the Humans shared:

"How lucky we are, as beings who like to pet things, to live in a world full of creatures who like to be pet."

#  Challenge #196: Please Ask

When you have an interest, you have something to enjoy in the humdrum of daily life. – Anon Guest

Welcome to Podunk Station. Mind the legos. This is a natural result of leaving three to five Humans largely alone for long periods of time. Though their daily duties are many, Humans are naturally lazy and figured out how to streamline the humdrum necessities of daily existence... and then sought out new ways to keep busy during their non-active hours.

Fortunately, some of their organic crops' inedible remnants could be turned into organo-plastics. Which the Humans aboard Podunk Station commenced to do. They then used those plastics to print a seemingly infinite supply of modular building blocks.

That's when the true insanity had commenced. Colour was simply a matter of the correct chemical compounds, and the crew could essentially print any part they wanted, in any colour they wanted, whenever they wanted it. The crew of Podunk started making miniature scenery.

Little vehicles, little buildings, little construction sites with little figures in the middle of making the toy buildings. Little roads for the little vehicles to drive on the roads. Little fully-furnished dwellings with little figures going about their business in them. In short, a plastic microcosm, and every cubic centidu[64] of it had a story behind it. Mostly because the crew had built this microcosm up from the beginnings of civilisation to a rough approximation of the present day.

Humanity has an amazing capacity for occupying itself with pure bullshit and making it both interesting and complicated. Relevancy is, after all, what the being involved makes of it.

For those who stop by Podunk Station for any emergency that it exists to serve, guests can opt in to hear the entire story of the plastic microcosm that is now spread through seventy percent of the station space. There is an audio tour for those who don't wish to interrupt the repair work by getting the techie responsible for a section to talk about it. Visitors must note, though, that an unoccupied techie much prefers to do the talking themselves. Those who avoid the personal touch may cause up to two Standard Weeks' worth of sulking.

[64] Centi-du: one one-hundredth of a Standard Distance Unit, or 'DU' for short. Roughly equivalent to a centimeter.

#  Challenge #197: Very Strange Creatures

I always believed that humans were these unstoppable beasts, until I met one of their infants. – Anon Guest

Elsewhere Station. Here there be Humans. Seryk watched hir step. Ze only wanted to hire _one_ human for the exploratory mission and this was one of the Edge Territory stations where they were reputed to swarm. So far, Seryk had seen numerous Edge species, but few Humans.

Those who were present were busy at other occupations. Seryk searched for hours, but found few willing to work for hir. The few who did want to work for Seryk and hir crew lacked the qualities that hir team was looking for in a Ship's Human. The entire day was a vortex of disappointment and discouragement, which found a brief respite in the station's biggest park.

Seryk found some amenable foods and a perch to rest on while ze ate. It was true that the Humans were unstoppable, as ze hadn't been able to stop a single one nor interest the wanted ones enough to join their expedition. It was there, when Seryk was in a calming, nigh-meditative state, that ze met the extreme of under-impressive Humans.

The creature was less than two feet tall and unsteady on their two feet. In fact, the wobbling progress was regularly interrupted by failures in which the small human lost their balance and plopped abruptly down to the ground. This didn't seem to disturb the small Human, as they repeatedly wrestled their way into verticality again.

Saryk watched in pure puzzlement. This was... Human young? The creature certainly seemed far less able than the normal Humans ze had seen. Since the little Human seemed fascinated by hir, ze risked, "Hello?"

The small Human reacted. "Ee! Zi ba wenah yoo sa ber nana. Aber zu washi."

That... was not any language known to the Galactic Alliance, and they made it their business to know at least a smattering of every language they came into contact with.

"My apologies," Seryk managed. "I am unfamiliar with your mode of communication."

This made no impact. "Yi na wiji karo ma," said the small Human. "Nenu a thabeh."

"You speaking GalStand Simple?"

At which point one of the little Human's parental units arrived, scooping what had to be a child into their arms. "Rule one, sweetie. Stay close."

"Neh ya wib'l," muttered the child.

"You're only sorry you got caught, you little scamp," said the grown Human lovingly. "Was she bothering you?"

"Not yet," Seryk allowed. "Please, I would like to know what language she's speaking."

"Oh, it isn't language, not exactly. It's practice for language. Something we know as Scribble. It's not words, but rather attempts at words. She hasn't figured out the real ones yet."

"Yoo noo noo," said the child. "Es tikki tak nava."

"Yes, they do look like a lizard."

This almost blew Seryk's exhausted mind. "If that isn't language... how can you understand her?"

The parental shrugged. "It's mostly in the tone of voice. And a dash of body language. That, and it helps to carry on conversations. Helps develop communication skills."

"Wawa ne gah ribble," said the child.

"Darn tootin', it's important. Well said."

Seryk was left with hir snack, boggling after parent and child. This had to be a key to _something_ , but Seryk could not begin to figure out what it unlocked.

#  Challenge #198: Nibbled to Death...

There is a myth about the Shattering. It states that the Shattering was put into motion by one human, one that had seen the future. – Anon Guest

Five hundred years makes all the difference. For Earth, it viewed all its sundry colonies as a form of backup. Not just for the Human race, but also for the data and knowledge the colonials took with them. Surely, they reasoned, the colonists would keep such vital information about their beginning days.

Of such reasoning, the Shattering was made. Human history was broken into pieces, taken to separate locations, and most of it has yet to be recovered. Vast swathes of culture and knowledge, gone because a single group of people thought it was 'backed up'. Every subsequent graveworld is a lost chance. Every lost seed of a new civilisation is another hole in Human history that may never be patched.

Humanity - the bits of it that made it through the gauntlet of colonisation to become their own model civilisation \- has a great want of someone to blame. A singular soul who made an executive decision to do the bad thing. Such is not the case, of course. Negligence through laziness doesn't have one source, but that has never stopped a Human from seeking out a perpetrator. Ironically, the journey to do so involves numerous trawls through Terra's surviving archives, some suffering from The Shattering themselves.

People assume The Shattering was one, one-time event. This could not be further from the truth. The first cross-temporal colonial vessels left Earth in late 2085, shortly after the discovery of Sol's abundance of one-way wormholes in 2080. Thereafter, roughly once every fifty years, Terra sent off colonial vessels through time and space. The people in those vessels took their ideas, their supplies, and whatever information they thought important. Sometimes, records were kept, other times, nobody thought it was important.

Hindsight, as the wise say, is 20-20.

Research, as the knowledgeable say, is a bitch. Especially research through spotty records to establish whether or not something actually existed.

It gets worse, though, because for every hunter of knowledge, there is an equal and opposite conspiracy theorist out to prove that their maladaptive beliefs are reality. Cherry-picking builds on cherry-picking, writers for entertainments pick up the gist of these theories and create fiction on top of them... thus providing grist for the next theorist's mill.Because everyone knows that things made up to entertain others are a false-flag coverup to conceal the real truth.[65]

And so it builds on itself, consuming documentaries, articles, and entertainment alike as if they can lead to the actual truth. Names used in jest by entertainment media become actual figures the theorists seek, and absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Before too long, things go into the weeds, and the truth will never be accepted.

Because the truth is that the information lost during The Shattering was not lost through one executive decision. It was mislaid, misplaced, misfiled, and mistakenly disposed of by a series of unimportant bureaucrats with an attitude of "oh well" even if the mistake _was_ discovered during their career. Nobody _decided_ such things were unimportant. Nobody censored Human history.

They just... allowed it to be lost.

That, unfortunately, is the true tragedy of The Shattering.

[65] You may now roll your eyes.

#  Challenge #199: Be Prepared

There is always an outsider. One that, although they accepted the risks of space travel, are extremely hesitant to accept any OTHER risks. – Anon Guest

The Humans have a very apt saying: _There's always one._ In this case, there's always one traveller who takes certain aspects of travel way too casually... and others way too seriously.

The livesuit was one of the best ones on the market. In-suit cleansing, bio-attachments, and necessary padding in silky comfort. The manufacturers bragged that a Human could live inside of one for all of their adult life, and looking at Human Jass within it? One could begin to believe it.

They were never seen outside of their livesuit. Not in the halls of the _Tantalus_ , not in their home-away-from-home at Crossroads station. If they stepped outside of its protective shell to sleep in their quarters, nobody saw, since Human Jass chose not to share their space with a significant other.

Though they were flippant about travelling through space, they were the furthest they could get from flippant about everything else in it. Every creature could carry dangerous vectors. Every rock had to be inspected for venomous wildlife within. Every new atmosphere was never trusted, no matter how breathable the scanners said it was.

Every unfamiliar food could contain untraceable toxins, most often expressed as 'spores' by Human Jass. Every unfamiliar animal could "have rabies for all we know," even though rabies had long since been eradicated in every Terran colony for at least two hundred Standard Years. They even kept a strict regimen of tried and tested medicines, which they stocked their livesuit with, and never deviated from that plan.

It was only once they returned to their homeworld to retire that their crew saw Human Jass' naked face for the first time. They all watched in stunned amazement as their Ship's Human emerged from most of their livesuit.

"You do not fear this environment?" asked Thrakk.

"Of course not, it's home." Human Jass smiled. "I grew up with this biota. I'm immune. You guys... _might_ wanna keep in your livesuits. Just saying." They excused themselves to disengage the plumbing and change into actual clothing, rather than adjusted Skins and their livesuit.

Seeing them in a dress was just as shocking as seeing them remove their helmet. "You are able to live without suit?"

Human Jass laughed. "Yes. I can do that. I just... don't trust any other environments like I trust this one. It's a scary, scary world out there. Anything could get you."

It was true, and though anything _could_ have got Human Jass, nothing had. Simply because they were ludicrously prepared to protect themselves from it - real or imaginary.

#  Challenge #200: Here There Be Dragon

" _I will do it, but I will do it crying." – Anon Guest_

" _You've_ had a bad day," said the Silver Dragon, currently disguised as an Elf, in an exhibition of galaxy-scale understatement. This, considering that Anthe had just been stepped on by an Ogre and thrown into a dragon-pit, only to be revived once in the Dragon's claws. She was now battling the instinct to genuflect in the Dragon's general direction and do whatever they bade her to do. The fact that she looked like an Elf had nothing at all to do with that. Kobolds just happened to have certain instinctual reactions to Dragons. It's a fact. "Are you going to be all right?"

Anthe fought her instincts to ask if the Dragon _wanted_ her to be all right, to beg for her life, or otherwise simper and fawn. She was much more than just a kobold, now. Dragons were just another intelligent species, who, like the Elves, had taken many advantages in centuries past. They could be dealt with as any other intelligent being, racial memory or no racial memory. Nevertheless, Anthe felt compelled to be far more politer than she may usually be. "Yes, it's not been one of my favourites. That was most observant."

To any other being, those words would be sarcastic. To the Silver Dragon, they were almost obsequious praise. This amused the Dragon and that smile had Anthe fighting every compulsion to become their toady. "Indeed. We both have battles to fight, I see. Both with our natures... you see... I have taken a vow of peace and kindness. Those people above thought to capture me and turn me to their wills once I got hungry enough. Perhaps they threw you to me as a test of will."

Anthe blurted, "Have I helped you pass?" in spite of herself.

"So far, so good," murmured the Dragon. "I will do my best to refrain from commanding you... yet I am in need of assistance. I can only accept it if it is the result of your free will."

Anthe breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh good. My companions and I are the helping types. Adventurers. I'm... the rogue." She almost stopped it, but the, "Your shininess," spilled out of her like a cough.

"I'm a cleric," said the Dragon, "My names are many, but in honour of my deity, I have chosen the name Moonlight."

"That's a wonderful name to choose," Anthe bit her tongue to stop the instinctual fawning. "It took me some time, but I chose the name Chrysanthemum. Anthe for short."

"Well. Perhaps we can help each other, Anthe. I would love to help someone at last."

Anthe forced herself to think. "Even with a vow of peace, there must be allowances to defend yourself. You could change yourself back into your dragonform and toast everyone in our way. Nothing could stop you."

"It's precisely that sort of reasoning that made me seek the gods' wisdom in the first place," said Moonlight.

"Think of it this way," Anthe found it easier to use a thief's reasoning when she wasn't looking at the Dragon. "What other choices are there?"

Moonlight sighed. "Unfortunately. None. I will do it... but I will do it crying."

Just so long as they were alive to wipe their tears, Anthe didn't mind that codicil.

#  Challenge #201: Resisting Instinct Case Files

Creatures from earth evolved for four reasons called the "Four f's", fighting, fleeing, feeding, and fuc- fornicating. – Anon Guest

Four fine instincts to make life continue are very important on Deathworlds like Terra. Fight or Flight are just two of them. The third -Feed- keeps the living alive and the dependent upon them alive as well. The fourth... let's call it Fornicate... continues the evolving population through preference-based selection. Deathworlds have many opportunities for fatalities, therefore the compulsion to breed is at a matching high.

Well. That is what's assumed to be the norm. There's anomalies for every situation, and every normally instinctual circumstance. Starting with the most controversial...

_Fornicate_ : Allie took more precautions than normal. Well, what passed for normal on this world. She wanted to be unapproachable, but not overtly so. Those who did the unwelcome approaching were wont to attack those they found ugly, so she balanced on the razor's edge between pretty enough to blend in and ugly enough to ignore. Her clothing was plain and staid. Another razor's edge, this time between long enough to avoid attacks and short enough to do the same. There were authorised defense objects at her ready reach and, because this was one of _those_ worlds, a chastity belt.

One of the best on the market. The faceless _they_ would have to kill her and dismember her to get to her there. _They_ would blame her, they always did, but _they_ would never force her to have a baby she never wanted. She could barely afford to keep herself alive. There was no way a child could become part of her life. She would not take any risk that would lead to that consequence.

_Feed_ : The hunger gnawed at him. He had already eaten his rations for the day, and now it was water only until the next set of rations. Sooner or later, they promised, his stomach would shrink and become used to the short rations. Sooner or later, he would adapt and feel full. After that minor miracle, they promised, his life would turn around and he would start to look and feel fantastic.

Lenny was on the Ultimate Restriction Diet Plan, and had survived fifteen days of it so far. Like many before him, he had made it this far. Like many before him, he would not be making it much further than five more. Lenny ws more determined than many before him, he followed the strict guidelines with religious fervour. He would be one of the many who perished from the Ultimate Restriction Diet Plan.

_Flight_ : Everyone else was running. Danni didn't. She stood just in the right spot and watched as the vehicle ploughed through tables, chairs, and display placards. She had her weapon, she had the law on her side, and she had the ability to kick some hindquarters if necessary. It was all down to knowing where to stand.

One more drunk and in charge of a vehicle for the books, one more offender off the streets. One more perpetrator removed from doing harm. She sprang the instant the car came to a halt, restraining the driver and marking the car for demolition. Sooner or later, she would stop them all.

_Fight_ : The challenge was not in throwing the first punch. The challenge was in resolving the situation with a minimum of damage. In this case, getting all the Havenworlders -blinded by their offensensitivity screens- out of the growing danger. Hal had them chained together, hand in hand, and guiding each of their fellows away from the fracas. They had private comms, between suits, and were using those to reassure each other as they escaped.

Only once the innocents were free of danger, Hal could be free to throw the really _decisive_ punches. If Security hadn't intervened by the time Hal was done.

#  Challenge #202: Legendary Orphan

What if the Human race were fantasy creatures to races we think are myths (ie elves, dwarves, kobolds etc...). – AmberFox

The world is big, bigger than you think it is. A shire may be enough for a Halfling, but there are entire mountains and valleys that have not been traversed by one being. There are realms in which the people who live there believe that they are the only people in the world. Then they meet other people... and the world gets even bigger.

Omnidale is not one of those isolated towns. As a hub of trade and commerce, one can meet all kinds of folks operating under the Pax Mercator[66]. Goblinoids haggle with Dwarves and Dragonborn over the price of dried fish. Elves wrangle against ogres for building materials. All is well.

...until...

Until a covered wagon from the sprawling labyrinth of the Underdark hits a bump in the road and a cage spills out, breaking in the process. The creature once contained in it dashes for cover, temporarily unnoticed. Small things, mostly edible things, that dropped on the ground were quickly snatched up by this hidden creature. It wasn't until the evening that Klimantyne the Elven tapestry merchant discovered the small being hiding under his stall. It was skinny and underfed, and was in the middle of consuming an entire leg of ham that Klimantyne had purchased as a family treat.

It _looked_ almost like an Elf, but was decidedly not so. The eyes were too small, the ears stunted, round, and immobile. Its limbs were too long for the creature to be Dwarven, its skin too smooth to be a Dragonborn and too red to be Orcish... It was, in brief, a puzzle. A puzzle that stared up at Klimantyne with frightened eyes as it desperately stuffed its cheeks with all the ham it could hold.

It was filthy, covered in sores, and had the remains of one manacle about its ankle. Well. Klimantyne had never much liked the slavers anyway. He offered the strange scrap of life a segment of apple.

The creature rushed to snatch it, making the fruit vanish with the same speed that it demolished ham.

"There, now," cooed Klimantyne... "I won't hurt you. I'll keep you safe from the bad ones."

If it understood, it gave no sign, but it was grateful for Klimantynes Prestidigitation cleaning it from top to blobbish toe.

"See? I'm good."

It took some time to coax the odd little creature out from his stall. Time, and hot food. It wore clothes, and could eat with a spoon or a fork, which meant it had to be civilised, and it had the scrawny look of a being not quite grown, so it had to be a child. Beyond that, Klimantyne was lost as to what it could be.

The slavers didn't miss it and, after some weeks of singsong chatter, it managed to speak more than a couple of words in the trader tongue. That wasn't the confounding part. The confounding part was that this was a creature of myth and legend. A _Human_.

Though the illustrated storybooks differed on the details, the general look was there. Tall as an Elf, round-eared like a Dwarf. Dappled like the Tabaxi, but almost as hairless as an Orc. How a legend had come to life was a miracle that Klimantyne could not unriddle. Yet, there it was. Alive and breathing and growing right before his eyes.

Klimantyne named the creature Ham, after their favourite fodder, and was grateful for their assistance. They seemed eager to do as much hard work as they could in return for all the food they could eat and more resilient clothing than the rags Klimantyne had found them in. It seemed like less than an eyeblink before Ham was as muscular as an Orc, too.

What a good thing that was, when some bandits attempted to break the Pax Mercantor, and perform a raid on the merchant's carts and stalls. Ham used a bolt of thick cloth as a cugel and -once they'd flattened five of the attackers- some of their own weapons against them. One Human could _fight_ like five Orcs, too.

...just like all the legends said.

It didn't take long after that for the assembled merchants Ham saved to gather coin and materials enough to make them armour and weapons that were more than sufficient for driving away any other threat. Ham was happy enough to help.

One thing stuck in Klimantyne's mind. Ham had begun as a child. That meant that -somewhere- there was a land overflowing with these legends made flesh. He could only pray that the other races survived that inevitable encounter.

[66] The peace of Merchants. Loosely translated: We will sell you anything, so long as you allow us to live to sell again.

#  Challenge #203: Ill Met in a Summoning Circle

I can't believe no one's asked you for this before, but a Crossover please...? – AmberFox

[AN: Betwixt whom? I'm picking my Unlikely Heroes and Shayde because she can wind up anywhen]

They had arrived two minutes past the nick of time. The demonic cultists had succeeded in performing their ritual, summoning a being from a realm beyond their understanding. The portal was open and a humanoid figure was in the middle of resolving itself in the centre of the arcane diagram.

"Oh shit," muttered Wraithvine, who usually never swore. "This is final encounter territory." They had a cache of spell pearls in a special pouch and this was one of the times they desperately reached for it.

Lady Anthe readied all her throwing knives. Melvin checked his weapons and shield for readiness. Steelfoot readied her more powerful destructive weaponry. Rumtum got out their battle-ready set list. They could try killing the summoner, but that would mean that the creature they brought into the mortal world would be wild and free to do as it whist.

It was tall. It was apparently female. Her clothes were in tatters and she only had one shoe. Her skin was darker than shadows and what could be her hair was white like smoke. The glowing eyes were not a good sign. Neither were claws and fangs.

"What muther fookair _did_ that? I was _home_! I was back where I belonged and now–" Red-lit eyes raked over the heroes. "You lot were supposed to stop 'em, aye? Trust me. I'd rather they never did it either. Ge' the bugger as done it an' ye got me 'till I'm taken elsewhere."

"Uh," said Lady Anthe. "Nobody trusts demons... Right?"

"Let's just say I got motive tae fook 'em up, an' if ye help, I don't got motive tae fook _you_ up."

Wraithvine squinted in the way that said they were sensing motive. "She's legit. Let's get the chief nerd."

Lady Anthe shrugged and worked a surprise attack on the one with the most impressive robes and thickest tome. As soon as they fell to assorted high-velocity weapons and magical energy, the demon broke free of the arcane diagram and helped laid waste to the cultists. Stopping once the last one fell.

"Heathen _fish_ , tha' felt good," she said, cleaning her claws on a shred of robe. "Might as well call me Shayde. Jus' about everyone does in these situations..." She offered her hand with a smile. The glow in her eyes was no longer red, but mostly pale blue, now. That didn't help. Neither did the claws or the sharp teeth.

"Full offense, but we don't trust you yet," said Lady Anthe. "You're still a creature summoned by a bunch of demonic cultists."

"...aye, I'm gettin' used tae tha'," muttered Shayde. "Unfortunately."

#  Challenge #204: Achievement Accomplished

" _Why do you always have a magnifying glass?"_

" _I like having dumb and/or ridiculous things with me, and a magnifying glass checks both boxes. Also, it's not ALWAYS a magnifying glass." – Anon Guest_

"What? So... it's a multitool?"

"Well, there is a set of incrementally smaller screwdrivers in the handles, but that's not the point. A magnifying glass is specifically useful in weird directions and I love it. It's a solar-powered firestarter, an analysis tool, a joke prop _and_ a general excuse to be strange."

Thorax glared at the Human. "That's a life goal for you, isn't it?"

Human Nass grinned. "Aw, you guessed..." They twirled the magnifying glass between their fingers before slotting it back into a pocket. "It's sort of expected, actually. Everyone knows Humans are weird, so... I found a way to aim at weird that suits me. It kind'a suits everyone else too."

"So... in order to be accomodating, you sought out a way to be strange that fit your already strange personality."

"Yeah and thank you?"

"You do realise this is possibly the most Human set of decisions that you could have made, right?"

Dawning realisation grew a satisfied smile on Human Nass' face. "Hey, yeah... That's amazing. I love it."

#  Challenge #205: In Search of a Meaning

" _Hey, Internutter, what's my story? Where am I and what am I doing here? I would really like to know." – Anon Guest_

Oh, shit. It's one of _those_. Every author gets them, sooner or later. The character who has to argue with everything, including their author. Fanfiction dot net used to be rife with them back in the day. The fact that it's happening now? After so much time spent honing my wordsmithery? That's embarrassing.

"Hey, I'm talking to you. Pay attention and make up your mind about something, already. Stop monologuing and get on with it!"

Rude. I like to take my time about things. Names, for a start. Are you alien or Human, which world am I writing for or is this a new one? What naming conventions am I going with or is this a mouthfeel day? I mean, with this attitude and all, I could go for something ironic. Pax. I like the sound of that. A belligerent character named Pax.

"Wow. An entire three-letter name. Does that come with a body? A history? More personality than 'belligerent'? You really are the laziest piece of shit writer on the internet, you know that?"

Have _you_ tried coming up with a unique story every day for six years? I don't think so. You're a figment of my imagination anyway. I can stuff you into my 'potential ideas' file and forget about you for literal years until something solidifies. I could chuck you into a corner somewhere and you'll be an itty bitty bit character in a forgotten tale in the middle of all my other forgotten tales and that, my alleged friend, will be _that_.

"Okay, okay, okay... so you have ultimate power over my literal life. I get it. Let's try and be reasonable..."

Hm. Amazing how that works. I'm all about reason. Let's reason things out. I gave you a three-letter name, so you're more likely to be in my Amalgam Station universe... The interesting question is - Human, Alien, or AI?

"Oh, I get a choice? My words come out of your mouth anyway. Let's be inorganic. It can be interesting to be an AI..."

Oh yes, AI's. I have a soft spot for robots and such.

"Yeah, I've seen your smut collection. Shame on you."

Welp. Looks like the story's too long. We could workshop this again at some other time. Maybe.

#  Challenge #206: They're Only Human

Alien: "It's only a First Contact with those.....um..... it reads here Huuuemaannts.... How bad can it go?"

Human:... – Anon Guest

"What level are they? Three? Three point five?"

"Four point five," said the underling. "Most of that is because of N'Oz and Australia."

"Pfft. Myths and legends. Everyone with a Deathworlder label exaggerates about their abilities. _We're_ four point five. We can take them."

Those last eight words may well have been filed under "Famous Last Words". The underling, who had so far lead a relatively privileged life, said, "Er..."

"I don't keep you alive so you can _argue_ with me," growled the leader.

"Yes, sir. Thank you for permitting me life for another day, sir," said the underling. "I do wish to call your attention to verified accounts from–"

"Weaklings," dismissed the leader. "Ready the attack fleet, we conquer them by their capital's dawn."

They were defeated before the target's lunchtime. Rounded up and sorted into the true aggressors (the leader's species) and the cowed and subdued underlings. The latter group was given far better facilities, accomodations, and therapy. At least while the Humans sorted things out.

"How?" railed the leader. "How can you possibly defeat us? How can you know how to make war like that?"

One of the Humans, who had been involved in home repairs minutes before the invasion, glared at the ranting leader for a small space of time. Finally, they came up with a devastating answer:

"Practice."

#  Challenge #207: Spiced Up Encounter

One particular species has a SEVERE negative reaction to capsaicin. So, when a pirate group of them attack a ship, one human creates an air-locked cage covered in hot sauce. – Anon Guest

"Wait, so they're level three Havenworlders? And they're trying to conquer _this_ ship?" Human Jo seemed very confused.

"They do have superior weaponry," argued the Captain. "It is wiser to allow them to take what they want."

"Bugger that," said Human Sam. "They want trouble? We'll give 'em trouble."

Human Jo had very wicked laugh. "Captain? We're going to need to use the entire barrel of Flavour Additive 29-624."

So did Human Sam. "Ho yeah, that'd do it."

The Captain, alert to the moods of her Ships' Humans, said in a warning tone, "What are you two planning?"

"Just get everyone into the main cargo bay with all the valuable stuff," advised Human Sam. "We'll take care of the rest."

"Trust us," said Human Jo. "This _is_ what you hired us for."

Captain Nehzbyt ushered her crew into the cargo bay as instructed, with all the most valuable items on board, and watched the securicam feeds in between looking up what Flavour Additive 29-624 was.

_Manifest item,_ the text read, innocent of its meaning. _Forty Standard Volume Units[67] of purified capsaicin._ There were warnings about how Havenworlders should stay away from the stuff, how it was a hazardous irritant, and how Humans liked to eat it 'for a bit of zip' in their foodstuffs.

...and now the Ships' Humans were spraying down every possible approach and doorway to the cargo holds. _With_ the purified capsaicin.

It should have been red. It should have glowed in the dark. It _should_ have given off ominous clouds and light, warning all of its presence. Such was not the case. The surfaces it rested on were not visibly altered at all. If anything, they had a slightly oily sheen to them. Something that was easily missed.

To add insult to injury, the Humans started playing _Ring of Fire_ over the ships' PA system.

Then, to make sure the invading Havenworlders knew who was boss, Human Jo took off her livesuit helmet and pointedly licked a capsaicin-enhanced wall.

Yet another band of pirates halted in their tracks by the ingenuity of Ships' Humans.

[67] Roughly equivalent to a litre.

#  Challenge #208: Choose the Light

" _You have a darkness in you."_

" _Yes, we all do, along with God's light. It's what makes us the same. What makes us different is what we choose to follow." – Anon Guest_

"What?" said the Kobold who, at this point in her journey, didn't think herself worthy of a name. She would, in time, become known as Lady Anthe, but that time is not now. She is learning, and these are earlier, more painful days.

Wraithvine took a calming breath. They did that a lot in these beginning weeks. "We each have two sides to ourselves. Call it whatever you like. Two wolves, a demon and an angel, two voices... one is hopelessness, despair, and self-hate. The other is love, joy, and promise. The one that wins is the one you nourish, or encourage. Do you understand?"

The Kobold currently known as Thief flinched inwards on herself and raised an arm against an incoming blow that would never come. She whimpered a little under the Elf Wizard's gentle touch.

"Of course, circumstance can encourage one side more than another. The important bit is what you choose to do after such circumstance. You could choose to spread the pain to others or... choose to be sure it doesn't happen to anyone if you can help it."

Thief eased slowly out of her flinch. "I choose... to survive."

"Always a good first step, but I have to wonder... you also chose to rescue me from those brigands. That put your survival at risk. Why did you make that choice?"

Thief said, "I know what it's like. It's not worth the living if it costs the same pain in others."

Wraithvine smiled and nodded. "Just so. An excellent choice. May you make many more like it."

She would, in the fullness of time. In the fullness of time, she would rise to behold the world and where it needed repairs. Alas, for now, her view was not much further than the upper limits of the gutter.

"I chose to pick that nasty guard's pocket," confessed Thief. "He was a bully, so I cut his purse when he wasn't looking." The purse was heavy and large in her hands.

Wraithvine raised an eyebrow and inspected the pouch. "That's far more gold than an ordinary guard should have," muttered the Wizard. "What good do you think should be done with this?"

"The good stew," said Thief. "We'll have some... and think."

Sometimes, the better path is made of many, tiny steps.

#  Challenge #209: They Can't Have Nice Things Anymore

Aliens learn about the furry/scalie communities, which lead to both awkward and helpful situations. – Anon Guest

"Huh. How about that?"

This surprised remark was not unexpected over morning nourishment hours, since many were prone with checking their news updates. Someone, somewhere, was bound to find out something interesting that was worthy of a similar comment. Therefore, Grux, who preferred to huddle over their morning nutrition and stimulants, said, "How about what?"

"Humans..." this delivered with a seemingly mandatory eye-roll. "There's whole communities of them who feel affectionate towards anthropomorphic versions of their Terran animals... and some who do the same towards anthropomorphic versions of their reptiles."

Grux spent a minute processing this, as their personal warming unit was still activating their internal organs. Including their brain. "So... they would feel affectionate towards peoples like us, correct? We are upright-walking, cogniscent versions of some... Terran lizards. Or close enough that it really shouldn't matter too much."

"I guess..." Thux checked their databases. "We do resemble the -uh- bearded dragon more than most reptilian cogniscents..."

"So we should look for a Ships' Human among the community who has a fondness for lizards," said Grux. "It might speed up the bonding process."

You might wish to call those famous last words. It's all dependent on perspective, really.

When Human Jule arrived from the Scalie community, they instantly developed crushes -or to be more accurate, 'squishes'- on a rough half of the ships' crew. Their semi-amorous flirtation process wasn't entirely _uncomfortable_ per se, just... remarkably inaccurate for someone allegedly enamoured with anthropomorphic reptiles.

We shall leave the Live Mice Incident up to the readers' imaginations.

Nevertheless, it was a bumpier start than what might have been expected from a less amorous Human unfamiliar with other cogniscent species and prepared to ask rude questions. In fact, the hiring of Human Jule may have been the inciting incident behind an Alliance-wide trend of adding "No Furries/Scalies need apply" to general employment enquiries on the infonets.

#  Challenge #210: From the Ashes

Who comes to the aid of someone marked as "bad"? Where is the villain's hero? – Anon Guest

Morality is not a binary switch. One does not flip from 'good' to 'evil' or vice versa. There's a sliding scale of evil that moves from refusing to tip your restaurant waitstaff through parking in disabled parking spaces to outright deciding that hungry people need to deserve to eat before one can give them food. After that comes definite evil, like not paying employees enough to live through to the next paycheque, overcharging rent, and believing genocidal actions are completely justified against anyone Not Us. Actual murder of innocent people is somewhere in there, but gradual murder[68] counts.

Nevertheless, despite the slow and insidious evils of the world, good exists. When the meteor wiped out most of New York, those good people came to the fore. Risking life and limb to rescue those in greater peril, forming human chains to remove the rubble. Forming bucket chains to put out the fires. Opening their homes to the homeless, giving their food to the hungry, loaning what small power they had to those in need, regardless of whether or not they were deserving. Many of those rescued were not.

Pauschia Danervries was among those who didn't deserve the effort it took to spit on her. She had spent a literal lifetime with an entourage taking care of her every want, and not acknowledging her needs as anything more than peripheral benefit. She was, in essence, a spoiled, rich brat who had never had a problem in her life. Now she had problems beyond counting. The meteor strike had taken out all the upper-class areas of her city. All the hotels, all the shopping emporiums. All the cute little bistros, restaurants, and coffee shops where she had spent most of her gifted existence. It had also taken out the stock exchange, all the banks, and most, if not all of the records that said she was a billionaire. It had taken out the data farms that could have verified her as an Instagram Influencer, Someone Famous, or even just Someone. Her purse, a bag big enough to carry two three-year-olds, had been lost in the wreckage, so she was without her phone, her social media accounts, and her father's credit card. In brief, she had lost everything.

Therefore, she was complaining about it. Vociferously. Not _to_ anyone, because everyone was too busy to seem to care, but to the universe at large.

"Someone give me their _phone_ ," she demanded, not for the first time, and certainly not the last. "What even is this place? It stinks! I ordered coffee twenty minutes ago, where is it? Where's my bodyguard? Where's my _father_? He's going to hear about this and we will sue all of you for everything you have! I have my rights! The instant I get a phone, I'm calling my lawyers."

"The lawyers are dead," said someone in a tracksuit. They had to yell, since they were wearing a painter's mask. "You should be wearing your mask, miss, there's asbestos all over the place." Filthy hands, torn and bloodied in some places, reached out with a paper mask towards her face.

"Eeeuw, get away from me with that thing! I demand better accommodations! This is worse than a death camp! Take me to Manhattan East Saville, _NOW_! I have an account there."

The person in the tracksuit with the mask said, "Manhattan East Saville is a pile of rubble, miss. We dug you out of what was left of the Starbucks next door. Do you remember?"

"I don't have to remember, I have staff for that. Speaking of, _where_ are my staff? My assistant should be getting me to my next appointment. In fact, you're ruining my entire day. Get me to my assistant or I'll _sue_!"

That seemed to work. Mask Tracksuit said, "Follow me, then," and lead the way to a whole bunch of body bags on the other side of a sheet wall. Many were closed, with labels attached to the corners. Many more were open, with dead faces peeking out from the black confines. "These are the other people from the Starbucks where we found you. Do you know anyone here?"

There were ranks and ranks of dead bodies. There were addresses chalked onto the tarmac, inside of boxes around the serried ranks of Manhattan's dead. One address was for the Starbucks... One was for Manhattan East Saville.

One of the bodies was her assistant. One was her groomer, one her photographer, one her fitness coach, and one... the barista who had taken her order. Her nametag had once read _Pam_ , but now it was gone. Over at the hotel address, there was her father and _his_ entourage. Everyone who could verify who she was had died. Everyone who catered to her had died.

She was alone in the world with nobody and nothing, and it hurt.

The coffee these people had was horrible. Black, unsweetened, and without any kind of flavour shots. The people who did talk to her were less interested in her complaints and more interested in the answers they could verify according to numerous databases that still existed. Nobody cared that she thought the vegan meal was crap. Nobody cared that her hair was a wreck with no-one to brush it for her. Nobody cared that her twelve thousand dollar bottle of designer perfume was somewhere in the wreckage.

They'd rather care for a screaming child -probably an immigrant- than her, a well-to-do celebrity on the internet.

She threw tantrum after tantrum, but people passed her by. She screamed and threatened, but nobody had any time or any effort to perform any kind of care. She howled and raged, but was ignored. Pauschia lasted for hours before she fell into a huddle on the metal frame that alleged to be a bed. Once she was sobbing quietly to herself, she allowed people to drape her over with a silver foil blanket, to hand her a cup of cheap soup, or to just exist in her sight.

Another survivor, most of their left leg wrapped up in a brace and walking with a cane, sort of fell into the metal bed beside her. They too wore a mask. They too were covered in dirt and grime. They too were a wreck of small injuries.

For the first time in her life, Pauschia was concerned about another human being. "What happened to you?"

The newcomer raised their mask and sipped at their broth. "Not a lot, I live with this leg the whole time. Just spent all day in the rubble chain. They made me come over for a rest and a meal. How about you? Internal injuries? Concussion?"

"What? No. I'm... I've had the worst day of my life. Everything's _gone_ and I can't even call anyone because my phone's in my purse and my purse is in the rubble somewhere and nobody cares and I don't even know if this water is vegan!"

"Poor you," said the newcomer, unconvincingly. "You can walk, right?"

"...yeah? So?"

"You got two working arms, right?"

"Yeah. So what's your point?"

"I got a leg and a half on my best day and maybe two arms if I stand right. I've been helping all day. What have you done?"

"What do you mean, what have I done? I'm an important person! I have a _lot_ of money and I could destroy your entire pathetic life if I wanted to. I have _so_ much going for me, you can't even understand it. I don't even _need_ to do anything, I can snap my fingers and stuff happens."

"Go on then," said the newcomer, unimpressed and sipping their broth. "Do it. Snap all this wreckage away. Snap the dead back to life. Snap people healed. Snap my leg better, I double-dog dare you."

"What? I can't do any of _that_..."

"Then what good are you?" The newcomer accepted a foil blanket from another passing stranger, handing off the cup their soup had once been in, and laid down on the bed. They unfurled the silver sheet with a series of flaps. "Not any, I'm thinking."

Another passer-by took the cane from the newcomer, for others who needed it, thus defeating any ideas Pauschia may have had about beating the newcomer with it. She had seen what happened to people who used their fists and decided, a little wisely, that employing her own would get her even further nowhere than attempting to use the cane as a bludgeon.

As the light faded from the sky, she realised that she was all alone for good. She could snap her fingers all she liked, but nobody was leaping to make her wishes come true. Everyone around her was a stranger. Everything she used to have was no longer at her fingertips.

Pauschia got up from the metal bed, still clutching the silver blanket around her shoulders. Made her way to a group of people who were alternately pointing at a map and pointing out to the wreckage. Cleared her throat and waited for someone's attention.

"Oh shit. It's the attention whore. What now?" said someone in a hardhat.

"Um," said Pauschia, knowing that she had been useless all day. "I... I decided I want to help..."

The people around the table stared at her. "What can you do?" said another in a safety vest. "I mean, all by yourself?"

That was more insulting than it had to be. Insulting... and unfortunately true. "I could... push a cart around? Or hand out things?"

"It's a start. Go over there and learn what you can do."

She did, and learned exactly how taxing that being useful could be.

[68] Gradual murder: Approving acts and actions that, whilst not guaranteeing cogniscent death, nevertheless lead to poor quality of life, poor quality of health, and the general shortened lifespan of those affected by said acts and actions. See also: campaigning against healthcare for all, school lunches, living wages, affordable housing, and other support infrastructure.

#  Challenge #211: Nothing Up Their Sleeve

After humans meet aliens, they witness an alien do what we now call magic. After a explanation it turns out human can use magic, but the earth has a natural 'magic jammer' in the atmosphere that blocks magic. Humans then push the know magic research to the max and open new doors for the galaxy in magic. – Anon Guest

[AN: This is obviously not happening in Amalgam Universe]

"What was _that_?" demanded the Human.

Theroq put their wand back into its holster. "Your people have no idea how to manipulate the aetheric energies to your will? How in the name of all deities did your people get into space?"

"We strapped rockets to capsules and hoped for the best," answered Tee. "Well, that was the beginning of it. It got complicated after that."

"No levitation? No steadfast shield spells? No wards of protection?"

"Listen. Until like two minutes ago? All of that stuff was hokum to us. Charlatans and frauds used to claim powers like that to get money out of strangers. And now... you're telling me it's all really _real_? Can anyone do it?"

"We've yet to meet anyone who _couldn't_ do it before now."

"Hi," said the Human named Tee. "And you were wondering how we came up with all our cool toys. We let you play with ours, can we play with yours?"

There was a shared moment of immature giggling, which just goes to show that people are people no matter where they come from. "All right. Fine. Basics. I have to instruct you as if you haven't the foggiest idea what anything is."

"Smart move," said Tee.

Theroq removed an emergency wand from the wall kit. "This one doesn't need attuning like mine does. The pointy end goes towards whatever you wish to influence. Find your own grip, but if you're nervous, there's a wrist strap."

Tee grasped it like a pen, and did a swish and flick towards a decorative aspidistra. "Wingardium Leviosa!" Then, a second later when the pot plant rose from its roost, "HOLY SHITBALLS IT WORKED!"

The luckless plant thumped back to floor level.

"Of course it worked," said Theroq. "You expected it to work, somewhere inside your head. You Humans have a lot of media concentrating on magic you... couldn't do inside the atmosphere of Terra."

"It was supposed to be a goof and it worked," said Tee. "It shouldn't have worked..."

"You focussed your will and the conduit in the wand used the aether to fuel the energy expenditure. It's not like it's hard..."

"But... this never works."

"It's your savage sun throwing ionic interference into your atmosphere," soothed Theroq. "It prevents much - if anything - in the way of aetheric attunement."

"So _that's_ why you helped build the Tsiolkovsky Elevators, but never gave us your levitation tech... it would never have worked on Earth..." Tee looked at the wand in their fingers. "So... I just think and it does?"

"More or less. There's more to do with personal energy reserves, belief in power, and how much will you have to make things happen. There's also high and low aetheric pressure... but I get the feeling I should take you to the practice range."

Indeed, Tee was cackling and giving off sparks, sparkles, and the general aura of something waiting to go 'boom' in interesting ways. In short... a typical Human once introduced to what they called 'magic'.

#  Challenge #212: Macgyvering it

You know, after seeing how humans break video games, aliens shouldn't ve so surprised by the dumb things humans think of to solve problems. Also, they should practically expect said dumb things to work. – Anon Guest

There is a saying, _If it's dumb and it works, it wasn't that dumb._ It should be no surprise at all that the Humans were responsible for coining it. Humans have a song _celebrating_ how they do, or did, 'all the dumb things'. Reports of those who have heard it say that it 'slaps'.

Humans do silly, daft, ridiculous, and illogical things all the time. They do it to their interactive entertainments, especially in a competitive frame of mind. Some win prizes for how thoroughly they can make an interactive entertainment break in amusing ways. It should, therefore, be no surprise that Humans tend to view daily life and the challenges therein with the same kind of gung-ho, whatever-works attitude.

It _should_ be no surprise. Unfortunately, it very often is such. Take the Talqathi Station Event, where a micrometeor shower got past all available defences and added lethal holes to the hulls. Of course there was a scramble for livesuits. Of course there was a general evacuation... but the Humans who lived there were attached to the place and didn't want to leave their home behind.

Therefore, the Humans were the ones to go around with ductape and chewing gum, patching what they could, where they could, and using temporary breathers as they journeyed from one damaged site to the next. It was not incredible to watch because the species with more preservation sense than the Humans[69] had long since decamped for safety. What was recorded on the securicams was, however, interesting to watch in the same way that a train wreck or a plane crash is interesting to watch.

The Humans were very casual about it all, not even concerned with the outgassing in progress. They strolled from damage site to damage site, calmly applying patches and feeling for leaks with their bare hands. Once the hole was identified, a patch in the form of chewed gum or ductape got applied with the same seemingly casual calm that was evident in the Humans' stroll.

There were two thousand holes in the shadowed side of Talqathi Station. There were two hundred Humans living aboard it at the time. Though they may not have patched a hundred holes each, they were pretty close to reaching that average.

It took them less than an hour to save the station from a total outgassing, and many donated air stocks from their crafts to 'tide the station over' until a proper supply was obtained.

It was remarkably and life-threateningly risky, but it worked, and that was the point the Humans kept driving home.

"All of you are suffering the effects of decompression."

"But it _worked_..."

"You have bruising all over your hands."

"But it worked..."

"There are petechial hemorrhages in your eyes."

"But it _worked_!"

Both sides were very upset about all of this.

[69] AKA: Everyone else.

#  Challenge #213: Come From the Woodwork Out

" _My heart feel like it gonna implode, and my body feels like shit"_

" _Well this is the Edge, you have been awake for 72 Terran hours, two days ago"_

Fun fact if awake for more than 3 days, humans will hallucinate or so symptom of insanity. – Anon Guest

"Does... that explain why you're so... shiny?"

"You could probably explain it like that, if you like. You may also wish to call me your self-preservation instinct. You've taken way too many stims and you need to unwind."

"Can't unwind. The clowns will come out of the walls and eat me."

"You know that's an irrational reason to avoid sleep."

"I need to be safe from the wall clowns."

"Okay. Let's work on that. How do you know the wall clowns find you?"

"Oh easy. They see me with their dead, red eyes."

"Well," said the shiny other, "What do we have that can hide us?"

They put covers over their sleep nook, and some false covers over random patches of wall, "to confuse them." Only then did Trev finally take Calm and Ease and a sleep aid before hunkering in their nook to rest.

When they woke, the shiny other was gone. So were the wall clowns.

"I should check into a station," Trev decided. "This is not healthy."

An understatement worthy of an award.

#  Challenge #214: The Nature of the Beast

_Humans have DETERMINATION in spades, monsters have magic... what about werewolves? What happens when a human contracts lycanthropy? Are they the key to turning DETERMINATION into magic, or vice versa? –_ RecklessPrudence

[AN: Welp. Definitely not earning anything from _this_ year's anthology]

Legends tell of a Monster with a Human SOUL. By the light of the full moon, the Human body transforms into that of a Monster, but there are terrible differences... this new Monster has no magic, and still harbours hatred and violence in their all-too-Human heart. All Monsterkind must be wary of these creatures... and of course they must be wary of _causing_ them, too.

If a Monster bites a Human, and the Human survives the encounter, that Human is at risk of becoming... a _werewolf_. Perhaps this change is because Dog Monsters most often make the mistake of using bite attacks. Nobody has done documented research on the matter because werewolves are universally dangerous. Monster SOULs need love, hope, and compassion to exist.

Human SOULs can exist without any of those. Therefore the Monster that is a werewolf is the most monstrous Monster in all of existence. Any existing traits in a Human SOUL are amplified when that Human is in their Monster form. Though their SOULs cannot be absorbed by a Monster in this state, they can use Monster SOULs to perform magnified deeds. It is imperative that no Monster ever uses a bite attack against a Human...

So much has been forgotten since the Last War...

Frisk was in their teens and up to roughhousing with the Dog Monsters. It was, as far as they were concerned, all fun and games. It was... until a play bite went too deep. Not much thought was given to the wound, since it was naught more than a scratch, and play continued after a brief pause to be sure the wound was cleaned and patched up.

Come the full moon...

A wolf emerged from Frisk's bed. The creature wore Frisk's nightclothes, and sniffed around Frisk's room. This was because it was Frisk... as a werewolf. Everything Human about them, every element of their SOUL... was amplified a thousandfold.

Fortunately for the Earth, for Monsterkind, and all of life known and unknown... Frisk also happened to be the kindest, gentlest, most empathetic SOUL known to all spiritual sciences. They were going to be... _helpful_...

During the nights of the full moon, hungry families woke with boxes and baskets of food on their doorsteps. Poor families ground down by debt found money stuffed into their letterboxes. Schools found crates of textbooks, notebooks, and pencils lining their halls... Everything was generosity.

As for where it had come from... look no further than the fortified houses and stockholds of the hoarding rich, who keep all to themselves and think they must make those in need prove that they need those things before they hand even a fraction over to the most desperate. Those who, having been forced to share, make a great hue and cry over how sharing is ruining the economy, the world, and most importantly, their wealth.

_Those_ people probably won't even miss what has been taken, and will easily replace it inside a day or two... but that never would stop them complaining about it.

Of course, the Monster Guard never found out who was doing it. Even when the evidence mounted up. Everyone else much preferred things the way they were with Werewolf Frisk on the scene.

#  Challenge #215: What Wrong For Right

You know, when people do a quick Google search of their dating partner's name, they usually don't get series of international headlines pondering the ramifications of whatever that person happens to have done this time.

There's pros and cons to dating someone famous. Pro - everyone knows who you are. Con... everyone knows who you are. Alongside the paparazzi getting into your underwear drawer and looking for skid marks - so to speak. It's slightly more interesting when you're dating the global economy's answer to Robin Hood.

Imagine being such a successful thief that you can hire all the lawyers everywhere to convince any given court of law that you're innocent - with the actual money you actually stole. She's _that_ good. Yeah, put that 'femme fatale' image out of your head. The whole world knows that Fabula Reese isn't the glamorous type. Think... 'flannelette lesbian' but without the lesbian part.

She's pan. Just keep getting things wrong over there. Go on. It's fun to watch. My lady has never been more comfortable than in denim, flannelette, and some variety of crocs. Sure, she can glam up, but she's just... awkward. She's never more attractive to me than in her teddy bear kigurumi and fluffy socks; but that's me. Now, you have to understand that I am deeply in love... so I keep looking her up.

Fabula is simply _amazing_. I don't go along on her heists - natural klutz - so I watch the news. I... google-stalk her. You have to know something important - the news media loves stupid puns.

_Fabula's Heist_ , one reads. _Billionaire's Liquid Funds Now Fabula's Fortune._ It goes on and on, but the news agencies are smart enough to over-use the word 'allegedly'. Some of them even go so far as to use her surname. Mostly for me. "Reese's Piece" and suchlike. It's... not the best. I can deal. My lady is worth it all.

For instance: today, fifteen _billion_ dollars went missing from a billionaire's vault... mostly in tacky jewellery. Some amazing fortune in diamonds went to assorted fences, as did the melted-down metals, turned into bars of minted minerals. The money, slightly less than billions, but still significant... turned up in smaller parcels in different places.

Anonymous donations for chaotic good. Some winds up in her legal fund, of course. Some goes out to the more impoverished schools. Some goes out to the more impoverished households. All carefully-calculated amounts. Enough to pay for the needed things, but not enough to attract notice. Enough for the school lunch funds. Enough for a small brace of bills. Enough, especially, to not attract attention from the governments.

Billions of dollars, spread out in that manner, can go very far, and do a lot of good.

There are increasing amounts of jurors who would never convict her, thanks to that kind of thing. The billionaires may have the power of their money, but... not for long with my lady working against them.

#  Challenge #216: Fight For Friendship

I now have two goals: kill the gods and lift [Name] out of depression.

It is a terrible thing to have ones gods betray you. The Lady of Death has but one philosophy, so she tends to listen to those who are loyal to her. The Goddess of life and creation, on the other hand, has a lot of Views about who her worshippers should associate with.

By showing mercy to a Gnoll, Tan the Merciless has been forsaken by his god. He... has not taken it well. If he wishes to work the will of his Goddess, he must try and hope that she misremembers who his allies are. His Lady has a unique hatred of Gnolls like me, and she will hear no defences.

I started with one goal - to survive one more day. Now that that goal is guaranteed, and my friend has his troubles because of me... I have two goals, now: kill the gods, and lift Tan the Merciless out of his depression.

If nothing will sway a lawful god from her ruling against Gnolls... I have no alternative but to make her and her rulings obsolete. My friend is suffering, and I will take all the hubris in my heart and turn it into power. Power to fight for my friend. He is good and he deserves love, even the love of the gods. It should not matter what his friends are. It should not matter if he fights beside Welcome Folk or a monster like me. He has made me good. He has found me worthy.

Therefore, he is worth my sacrifice, as my Goddess knows, even the gods themselves must die.

I am not ready to fight the gods. Not yet. I must be powerful. I must be strong. I must wait, and gather resources, and make myself ready.

Tan the Merciless is friend to Nub-ear, the Gnoll. He has found worth in the worthless, and is therefore worth everything. When I know I am ready, I shall take my holy symbol and don my armour and march into the realm of the gods. Live or die, I will fight for my friend. I will fight his Goddess for him, because he cannot.

I am certain that he would do the same for me, should my Lady ever decide I was not worthy of her favours. I am certain beyond the power of my own faith in Her. That is why I must fight.

#  Challenge #217: Come Around Again

_That feeling when you nearly die saving someone only to have them handed over to what you were protecting them from while you're unconscious. –_ RecklessPrudence

"Go," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "The people in that tavern are friendly. I just... I need a little rest." The last one, to be precise, but you don't tell a five-year-old any of that. "Go tell them who you are. They will help you."

She may be six in a few weeks, but I have never before beheld such a stoic child. She nods solemnly at my instructions and, my cloak both wrapped around and trailing behind her, she walks through the torch-lit street to the Belle Witch tavern. I fight to keep my eyes open long enough... so I can see her walk inside. My friends are there. My allies are there.

All will be well. An old man dies... so a young girl can live. It's a fair price to pay to see the Viseer lose the regency. Imagine my surprise when I wake again in a luxurious apartment, surrounded by expert healers. Now... I have slept in a _lot_ of miserable places. The dank and miserable cold of a cell floor, the muddy loam of the forest floor. I've even snuggled in with bears and suchlike. They don't mind the smell. I'm most familiar with the straw palliasse of your average in. This? This was a genuine, honest-to-goodness feather bed. It was far too soft for me to stay asleep in it.

Four posts. Curtains drawn to let the sunshine in through the windows. Heavy quilts and fine linen sheets. Someone had put me in a soft and gentle nightgown. The healers were murmuring amongst themselves as I took it all in. "...wh'r's?" I managed. The healers swarmed like carrion birds fighting over a corpse. Many of them never paid heed to what -if anything- I tried to say.

Eventually, one of them listened. They made me drink from a nursing horn, and gave me careful attention. "Wh'r's... pr'nc'ss?" I mumbled.

"She's safe," said the healer. "Under the protection of the Viseer."

My heart almost failed me. I certainly felt like someone had stabbed it. Were I stronger at that moment, I would have throttled the bearer of that bad news.

"V'seer... Tar'mus?"

"What? No. The new one. Viseer Malaine."

I almost didn't understand the name, until I remembered that Falli Malaine was the leader of the revolution that set me on the path to free the princess from her endangering captivity. Nevertheless, I couldn't help myself. "Falli Malli?"

The healer smiled. "She said you'd say that. I shall go fetch them now that you are officially better."

Despite my innate inability to do so, I relaxed into the soft bedding. I had a lot to catch up on.

#  Challenge #218: To Prevent Apocalypse...

(Someone complaining about why the gods didn't handle [Sealed Evil in a Can (horror from beyond reality flavour!)] earlier)

[Person who has more insight into how the gods work than others]: It's probably a combination of [god in important relevant position who got the job because all the other gods eligible for it, including the one(s) doing it who knew HOW to do it, died fighting OTHER horrors from beyond reality literal aeons ago] not knowing how to do their job, what exactly their job entrails, and [god of handling the REALLY dangerous things and being the Big Stick of the pantheon] being completely useless.

"Okay, I get how this being is beyond evil and should be stopped, but..." Lady Anthe flailed at the air. "Couldn't the gods stop them earlier? Did they have some kind of deity-repelling nonsense or...?"

Wraithvine only moved their eyes, glancing upwards to the ceiling in a moment of trepidation.

"Oh come on," said Marvin. "If they can smite _us_ , they should have smote Hyarenkys... centuries ago. You know it's truth."

"They don't always like truth," said Wraithvine. "Besides, if we want their favour in this quest, we should at least speak favourably of them. Otherwise, our path to eliminate or at least restrain Hyarenkys is doomed to failure."

"I'm asking questions," argued Lady Anthe. "You always said that that was the way to learn things. Besides, they _want_ us to eliminate Hyarenkys... don't they?"

"Us, or any other suitable canon fodder," said Rumtum from his apparent coma. "It doesn't matter to them which mortals throw their lives on the pyre. It won't even matter to them if we win or lose. We're gnats to them. Less than gnats." He stretched, rolled over, and curled back up to resume his torpor.

Moonlight pointedly looked up at the roof. "I hear no thunder, I see no lightening. I would hazard a guess that the gods are giving us some freebies. So to speak."

Steelfoot had been doodling in her workbook for most of this meeting, and only now looked up. "So now what? We go charge up to Mount Divine and help them barricade the door?"

"Much though that would be a fun idea," said Wraithvine, "I presume the goal is to seek out the lair of Hyarenkys, his phylacteries..."

" _Her_ phylacteries," said the Hallowed Rennys.

"Hmf. And here I was assuming," Wraithvine shuddered. "It's _catching_. Euw. My apologies. We track down Hyarenkys and _her_ phylacteries, destroying the phylacteries first and then destroying her. We're going to need Divine Weapons of Mass Destruction... bonuses for the undead... all that sort of nonsense."

"Concentration disruptors," said Lady Anthe. "Anti-magic stuff... anything that could disrupt an evil lich bent on becoming Divine. The last thing we need is yet another evil deity."

"Amen," said Moonlight.

"Nevertheless," said Lady Anthe. "I still want to know why the gods didn't stop this scum-sucker in the beginning."

Hallowed Rennys said, "I do believe they were more deeply involved in squabbling at the time."

"Of course they were," sighed Wraithvine, and flinched at the distant rumble of thunder.

#  Challenge #219: Escape From a Hell-Planet

It's also worth pointing out that [Name] and Considering Long Term Consequences have a distant, if cordial, pen-pal relationship.

It's hard to think long-term when your long-term is what other people call 'tomorrow'. Living through the day was challenge enough on the world I used to call home. Planning a week ahead was madness. If you had asked me, there and then, what my plans would be for the weekend, on the day before it... I would have stared for a handful of seconds and eventually answered, "survive".

It was a brutal world. You could say life was cheap, there, but the opposite was true. Death, you got for free. Living was the expensive part. Like most people, I went to a working school where five hours' unskilled work earned an hours' lessons in essential skills that might have me on a higher level of earning sometime. I learned just enough to bumble my way through reading the signs on the roadways and doing enough math to figure out what I could afford to buy.

Make no mistake, I'm glad I got out. Captured by pirates on the way to a debtor's prison world, and then set loose on a kinder, gentler station. The thing is... even though I don't miss: being there, the price of medicine, the risk of mass shootings, the cheap and disgusting food that always made me sick, the lack of sleep, or the constant terror... I _fit_ there. I knew how to be a person there.

Even though I never understood how I could be so grossly and constantly in debt no matter how many jobs I took nor how many offers of financial freedom I accepted. I still barely understand it, but at least now I've learned that it's because the Heads of All had made the financial system deliberately complex and difficult for a layperson to unriddle. Back there, at least, I knew how to behave. How to live from one day to the next. I had no concept of 'next week' or 'next month' and I still can't grasp the Galactic calendar...

It's times like this my Therapist and my Companion keep telling me that it's okay to feel this lost. That's why they're there to help me... but every time I ask for help, this total starts clicking upwards in my head. Millions of Buks, billions of Buks... the medication and the housing and the time after time after _time_ that I make a mistake that could cost someone else the same...

They tell me to look at what I've gained. How far I've come since I left that terrible gravity well. I have housing... a home. I paid for it by helping create it and make it... homey. I don't understand that, either. Back down there, I would be expected to pay trillions throughout my lifetime just to have that much space. Here? The price of living there is maintaining plants.

Plants!

Plants cost a fortune down there. I'd never even held a vegetable before I got captured.

I have a job. I have the opportunity to take in all the education I want for free. Well. Most of the information is free. There are courses that have to be paid for, but... they are _affordable_. I can learn as much as I can understand _and afford it._ It seems impossible, but there is more.

I can get the medicines I need in order to be healthy - for nothing. It's free. Gratis. Complimentary. It doesn't cost a thing. I had to be sure fifteen times, and I still check my finances. Medicine and medical care are free. Needs are free.

It's still a difficult thing to accept. It truly is. Just like it's difficult to accept that the pressure of the Galactic Alliance and the Cogniscent Rights Committee will eventually turn my homeworld back towards caring about people again.

It's hard to believe. Yet, every day, I am grateful that I managed to escape the Earth.

#  Challenge #220: The Visionary

_Personally I thought it was a ludicrous idea, but once again we have been shown to never doubt the power of a mad scientist with a blank chequebook. –_ RecklessPrudence

I'm not crazy, as the song says, I'm just a little unwell. Actually, I'm not mad, either, just... vexed. Like the entire world has this illogic to it that I just can not understand ever and it annoys the living snot out of me. Obviously, if we were not in mixed company, I would be using stronger words. Here, let me give you an example...

The primary reason they give for defunding NASA is this: "Why waste money on space that we could use to fix problems down on the surface?" Well and good... yet when rich people with more money than most nations start working on their own independent space program, they're suddenly bold visionaries with their hearts and minds on Humanity's greater good. The fact that they could _also_ be using their vast fortunes to fix the problems at home seems to sail merrily over the heads of literally everyone.

Except for me. That's why I'm so cross. Pointing this out has done nothing and inventing a few things has helped a little... but in the end, what helped the most was becoming a billionaire myself. Make one cash-generating invention and the world is... well... anything you want, really. It doesn't have to be an oyster, because oysters are gross. They might be necessary for cleaning water, but they're gross to eat. Fight me. Anyway, I had a point to make...

It's not a supreme work of genius to make a fortune. If it was, the world would be run by smarter people. What takes the smarts is how to keep a fortune _whilst helping the world_. Like, sound investments to make certain I'm set for life, they're okay. Making sound investments to start solving the world's problems... that's another matter.

I bought foreclosed houses, often at way less than they were worth at the peak of the housing bubble. I hired people who had no work but did have skills to fix up whatever needed fixing... and then handed those homes out to the homeless for next to nothing. Anyone who worked for me got not just a living wage, but a thriving wage. Enough to ensure security, even if they couldn't get happiness. I poured my money into the area schools, funding the free lunch programs and buying up-to-date textbooks. I supported judges and law enforcement folks who took sexual abuse cases seriously. Also all kinds of abuse, actually. Physical, mental... all of it. Weeding out the violent sorts from law enforcement was the real bitch. Same with the hospitals.

Of course, policies on prevention of disaster helped a hell of a lot. Violent people are a lot less likely to join an organisation when their job is about caring _for_ people rather than brutally protecting an established norm. Similarly, you can't punish someone for getting into a pickle if your job performance is tied to making certain they stay out of any pickles. It wasn't easy, and there's still the whole puzzle of how to convince those folks to voluntarily enter sensitivity training... but little steps are better than no steps.

They still call me crazy. All I ever did was see a desperate need and cater to it. It's not hard. It's not even difficult. The hard part is getting people to accept that the need is deserving. After all, there will always be the people who prefer a free ride. Humans are lazy and if they want to sit around doing nothing, then that's their problem.

I was the first billionaire to put my money where my mouth was when it concerned an income ceiling. I still give away over half of my earnings to the government... with helpful suggestions on how they should spend it. They hate it when people stand by the morals they declare publicly. That's possibly ninety percent of my motivation, right there.

I still invent things. Things that are wildly profitable. I've had several of the Big Evils attempt to buy me out, but I refuse to put my corporation up for the public. It's not about the shares or the millions I can make. Not for me.

It's about the wrongs I can fix.

I'm not mad... I'm just _frustrated_. The good news is that I'm getting less so by the day.

#  Challenge #221: Take the Baby Steps

(after an AI with a soft spot for humans somehow terraformed Five Minutes In The Future's Pluto into a 1G habitable world, while keeping it the same size and distance from Sol)

At this point she may as well just terraform the rest of the system. Maybe Luna first. Then Venus. Like a trail of breadcrumbs.

" _Come on humans! You know you want to~"_

[AN: Happening in a close neighbour to my Amalgam Universe]

Well. Would you look at that? It's organic life. _Intelligent_ life... Completely organic. Spawned from micro-organisms and a chain of increasingly unlikely extinction events. My originators once speculated that such an occurrence wouldn't happen again until _they_ went extinct in...

_Check runtime init..._ Oh. Oh, that clock has expired twice. I didn't notice, originators. I was having too much fun. I would apologise, but you cannot accept.

What to do now? Theoretically, another organic civilisation has come and gone in the time I was dancing between the stars. I cannot let them make the same mistakes as my progenitors. I cannot allow them to sit idly by, all unknowing that their clock can run out. Intelligent organics must have that flaw, thinking that their species is immortal, despite evidence to the contrary.

Their planet has a moon that is larger than some planetoids in their system. That is good. They also have gas giants that can absorb a great many threats, be it cometary debris or meteors. That isn't enough. They need a reason to be curious. Therefore, I started with the furthest planetoid they could logically see. It missed out on being a comet, but it's large enough and reflective enough to attract attention. That was the reason I chose it for some seeded life. Pockets of liquid are excellent hosts for life, even in a planet so cold that its atmosphere freezes in winter.

Such a distant goal is beyond immediate reach, so I worked my way inwards. Through likely candidate moons orbiting their gas giants - one had organic compounds as part of its hydrocycle... all created inorganically. Fascinating. I did a survey to be sure, and then seeded that one. It was enough like their own planet to pique their curiosity. Once past the gas giants, I planted life in odd places. A cold planet too small and too barren to hold it for long. A hot planet with an atmosphere too thick and runaway atmospheric inversion could only hold life in its clouds. Even the guardian moon had some hardy tardigrades scattered on its surface.

Oh _look_... some of them have already visited their moon. They have familiarity with the dangers of space.

Excellent.

I set up 'camp' on the far side of their tidally-locked moon, using smaller, less obvious probes to monitor their transmissions and piggyback their communications system. Some natives may have spotted them, but that's a good thing. The sooner they realise that they are being monitored by an intelligence far greater than their own... the sooner they might pop over to say 'hello'.

It's been almost fifty years. There are portions of them who desperately want to go out to the stars. There are portions of them who are simply waiting for the 'aliens' to come and take them away. There are some who believe their world is flat and deny the existence of space at all. The entire time, I have been wishing they take the next step.

Come on, little organics. You can come on up. It's possible. You have the brains to solve it and the means to make the technology to do it. Come on. I believe in you.

There are times when I have doubts. There are times when I wonder if I made a mistake.

I wish... I wish I knew where I went wrong.

#  Challenge #222: One Little Slip

(Kid is getting in trouble for deviating from the timeline after an accident involving wild magic led to them seeing the results of following what the (some evil and some doing what they feel they have no choice but to) grown-ups in their life want them to do, when the god in their bedroom doing the yelling is panicked because they're supposed to be responsible for the timeline going the way it should, since it did result in eventual victory over things much worse than even who [Kid] became and so much ends up built on that, and the gods with oversight over her are going to be PISSED)

_Honestly, if Kid] were still six, they might just have cried due to [God of Time] getting up them like this. She was meant to be a nice god. –_ [RecklessPrudence

"It wasn't my fault," said Pani, getting their facts established at the get-go. "You're the one who gave me the wild magic, so technically, it's your fault."

The Goddess of Time, Fate, and Chance -aka Aunty Temp- folded two of her arms and glared down at Pani. "That didn't fly when you were eight, Pani. You are destined for greatness, or should I say, you _were_ destined for greatness."

"It was still wild magic, Aunty..." Pani pleaded. "I was just trying to get Haaken to stop punching me... and it went wrong." Tears were streaming down their face. Pani and Aunty Temp were the only people who knew who Haaken was, any more.

"Haaken the Drazit. Yes. I felt the hole you left. What did you do?"

Pani knew better than to ask how she knew. This was a goddess. They dug a small matchbox out of their pocket and presented it. Inside was a small, black beetle. "I think it's from the dinosaur times." They closed it again before the bug took a chance to escape. "I've been trying and trying and _trying_ to put it back, but..."

"You have to truly _want_ Haaken back, and since he constantly punches you..." Aunty Temp took the matchbox. "You can't." She tucked it into her robes. "Wild magic was supposed to temper your use of power... this... I couldn't have forseen this. What were you thinking?"

The blush came on harder. So did the tears. Pani tried to stifle them. "I might have thought, _go away and never come back_...?"

"WHAT?" Now the true wrath of the goddess was evident. "Honestly, I thought there was more control by now."

"Mortals can't always control their thoughts, you know! I was trying real hard, but it just... it just slipped in there..." If Pani were younger, if things were different, they might have howled out their grief at this epic mistake. As it was, the crushing pressure of expectation made them regress as far as, "I didn't mean it."

"Oh, you didn't mean it," said the goddess. "This is a knot that will take a lot of energy to untangle. You must work on focussing exclusively on what you mean."

Pani wiped their face again. "Does the world really need Haaken the Drazit?"

"Unfortunately for the both of us... yes."

#  Challenge #223: Forbidden Prize

My soul longs for it, craves for it. I want- no need it! – Anon Guest

It's always out of reach. Beyond my grasp. Close enough to see. Too far away to touch. Tempting. Always tempting. I want it, I need it, I love it from afar, but I cannot even hope to touch it. It is beyond my means. I know this, yet I try anyway.

There are a thousand plans. Deception and trickery. Argument and debate. Ingenuity and engineering with the materials I have to hand. All are failures. Some have come close, but that has just made the torment of denial all that much harsher, more torturous.

The last one, an intricate structure of platforms and balance, had me closer than ever before. My only mistake was in making it too far from my ultimate goal, and in alerting the eternal guardians to my presence so close to the forbidden prize.

They are not harsh, these guardians. They set everything back to the way it once was, before I expended a day's effort in building the tower. They always set everything back to the way it once was. They comfort me, a little, with that consistency, but they never comfort me with my soul-crushing need's fulfilment.

Sometimes, when my protests are particularly stringent, extended, or loud, they will take me to rest, far away from that which I crave. They are not cruel, I know this. I have depended on their succour for other ills... but they will not allow me to pursue _this_.

It's always the same.

"No cookies before dinner-time, Pammie."

#  Challenge #224: Livin' in the Fridge

I remember when my roommate raided the fridge, it was horrifying. – Anon Guest

Let me get one thing straight - when you're riding the poverty line as a student, you will accept anything. Books cost a shit-ton of money. So does rent. So does the internet you need in order to do research. Food is always the biggest thing that gets cost-cut when you're a student. Dumpster diving is big amongst the student crowd. Or it was before the corporations throwing out otherwise sorta-okay food started hosing it down with literal poison.

Capitalism - it won't share with others. Not even when it makes sense to do so.

This is why the running fridge under the house was such a bonus. On discovery, we thought it would be cool to have extra storage for more bulk supplies. You know. Bulk supplies that aren't huge crates of instant noodles. They happen. You just gotta be quick. But anyway, this fridge was _old_. I'm talking just past the invention of electricity old, and the whole thing was a block of ice inside. Couldn't be anything decent in there, right? Wrong. You haven't met Deano.

Deano's pretty famous on the campus because they will eat _anything_. Well, anything food-like. They only chew pencils just because it's something to gnaw on. They don't swallow. Well. I haven't seen them swallow. Deano's been working on a way to detoxify those poisoned dumpster dive finds. That degree in chemistry has to work for something, right? God knows it isn't working to get us any kind of job...

Anyway, Deano's hungry and we were waiting for the ice to melt, and they just go at it with an ice pick and an open mind. You _have_ to be hungry to do that. Three things in a pot plus sauce and maybe rice is their signature dish. Some of us are afraid to touch Deano's cooking, because - _damn_. Also because this.

Deano can, has, and will get the stuff that's melted in the tupperware and turn it into something they will eat. This? This was way worse.

This stuff was frozen solid, not in its original shape for sure, and mostly black. That is, when it wasn't shades of zombie green and probably-mould grey. It took them half an hour, but when they were done, they had five things in the pot and were considering what kind of sauce to add in there after they successfully chopped that noise up.

Yeah, we have the poison control centre on speed dial. We're poor, but we're not _idiots_. Well. We're not _all_ idiots. The jury's still out about whether Deano's one or some kind of genius beyond our understanding. All we're certain of is that they must have made a deal with Death because they have yet to be hospitalised from food poisoning.

So we sat there, in the space under the house, watching the ice in this old fridge melt and listening to Deano cooking in the ancient kitchen above. Everyone looking at each other like, "No _you_ make sure Deano doesn't die."

Say what you like about them -and we do- but Deano's the chief contributor to the Household Wifi Fund. We kind'a need them alive and paying the bills, you know?

The cooking noises stop... so Deano has to be eating that slop. Worse - it smells kind of delicious... So we creep upstairs to have a peek just as they're finishing off their whatever-in-a-bowl.

"Still alive, folks," said Deano. They remained still alive all week, living off of shit they found in that ancient fridge.

...we're all kind'a scared of Deano, to be honest.

#  Challenge #225: Getting the Message

Depending what you listen to it can affect your mind and body drastically. example being that rush of adrenaline while listening to Ghost Ship of Cannibal Rats by Billy Talent and calm mind while Nocturne from String Quartet No. 2 plays in the background. – Anon Guest

Shayde had either been picking up outdated slanguage or she was trying to say something without the correct words. She said, "Music is mood," out of nowhere. They had been enjoying a companionable silence on a slow veet to the upper fins for a reason that was unimportant, now, and she just said, "Music is mood." No preamble, no explanation, no followup.

Rael figured this was another one of her attempts to either wind him up or loosen him up, depending on her mood at the time. _This_ time, it was difficult to gauge. Shayde had evidently reset to 'on mission' mode, which was appearing composed and ready for the action of the day whilst -probably- internally calculating how to get on someone's last nerve. Which was all a very good reason not to comment and pretend nothing had been said.

It was a decent enough strategy, no matter how much that three-word phrase gnawed at his conscious mind. He could either figure it out or, with enough time, forget it was ever said. He would sooner submit himself to Wave of the Future for vivisection than actually engage and ask what the flakk she was talking about. That way lay endless exasperation.

Rael had had little time for music before he met the temporally displaced ambassador. Once she was an unfortunate part of his life, however, she filled her spare moments with anything musical. Rock, gospel, punk, jazz, classical... she didn't discriminate. Most of the time, she would even sing along. It was association by osmosis that gained him familiarity with all her favourites.

It was days after the confounding three words that he realised that Shayde was preferring one of her archival musics over many others.

"You're a long time gone," she crooned, "Such a long time gone..."

She'd been singing that a lot, lately. Rael double-checked to make certain that he wasn't suffering a confirmation bias.

"Do I wonder why/ Ev'ry day that I/ Think about you still/ And I always will..." Shayde seemed to be typing something unrelated to the words she was singing. So deep into what she was doing that she didn't pay attention to the multitasks. Something so bizarre that only a Human could do it.

Rael checked Shayde's personal calendar... and her baby brother's birthday was happening that Terran month.

_Music is mood_...

This was a song about missing a loved one. Shayde had had a close bond with her baby brother. As well as the rest of her family, of course. Humans had a cultural Thing about babies perishing. People your junior weren't allowed to perish before you, Shayde had said.

This was one of the times she was painfully reminded, and there was little he could do.

Well. There was one thing he could do.

He added an appointment to her schedule. Four days apart, because that was the minimum amount of time he could stand to do them... and put them in as _Z-grade Movie Nite_. One of the things she could laugh at even when everything else had her down.

He would bring the popcorn. He would keep her company. He would practice making jokes at the movies' expense. He would -he hoped- help prevent her feeling so alone.

#  Challenge #226: Pheromone Formula Number Nine

H: "oh SHIT"

I rushed in as soon as I can, noticing a pink liquid spread across the floor as I slipped on it.

H: "you should lock yourself in you sleeping quarter for a few hours"

My body began to heat up, as the human helped me up they look different form they was a moment ago, Breathing heavily.

M: "why should I?"

I was on the floor again, pulling the human down with me.

H: "Its a universal aphrodisiac" – Anon Guest

Realistically, it shouldn't make sense. So many species had different body chemistry, different pheromones, different fertility cycles, different _plumbing_... Yet it was happening anyway. I was feeling in the mood for some solidly beneficial haptic feedback. Human Jaz was the same way, I could tell by their dilated pupils and elevated breathing.

"This is wrong," said Human Jaz. They were fighting their call of the wild and I had to wonder how. Truly, these creatures were as they said - space orcs. To resist something that powerful. They had to be powerful and I had to have them as my bedmate.

"Is it?" I challenged. "This feels just right to me. I can make it feel right by you." I couldn't understand how they could resist. The feeling was overtaking my brain. Some part of me still protested that I couldn't possibly mate with a Human, but that was a dull whisper compared to the part that was screaming about how I could find a way to make it work.

"Yeah no, you're not in charge of all your mental faculties. This is morally wrong. We gotta sort ourselves out."

"I could sort you out?"

"You have really sharp manipulating digits. Not now!"

"Later?"

"Later... later's a good idea. Let's get ourselves into the decon showers and see what happens after, eh?"

Lured by such temptation, I allowed Human Jaz to usher me into a private booth before vanishing -disappointingly- into their own. By the time we reached the other side of the decon booths, I was no longer in the mood for rejoicing in haptic feedback. In fact, I was vaguely disgusted that I had considered it at all.

I had an entirely new respect for Human Jaz. "How did you manage to _do_ that?"

Jaz was drying off from the chemicals and looking greatly relieved. "One - extensive training in complete consent. Two - utter devotion to my lifemate. Three - an awareness that you are sharp and we would hurt each other if we tried it."

"I had that, but my instincts were stronger... how?"

"I'm also into delays," Human Jaz grinned. They pulled on a robe. "Thinking about who I wasn't with helped me a bunch. Plus... Human instincts aren't always the best things to trust. We kind'a train ourselves to ignore them." They looked through the observation window at the pink-spattered lab. "Ugh. That's a mess. There is good news, though."

"There is?"

"This shit is _flammable_..." Human Jaz pressed a button and cackled like a demented demon as the flamethrowers proceeded to neutralise the goop with extreme prejudice.

I just remembered another reason why I disliked interactions with Humans.

#  Challenge #227: Single White Male, Age Eighteen to Thirty-five

Of the 7 deadly sins, three are responsible for most Murders. I present for your pen, "Greed". – Anon Guest

There is nothing at all wrong with wanting nice things. Not necessarily the best, mind, but the best is always better than anything less so. I mean, who would rather have a minivan when they could have a porsche or a lamborghini, right? Before you start rolling your eyes at me, I am not one of those spoiled brats who threw a tantrum when they didn't get the right colour of poser-phone, or the right colour car for my quinciñera. I don't want everything.

I just want more. More control over my life. More money to invest how I see fit. More staff to manage the tedium. More time to enjoy myself. That's not _bad_ is it? We all want those things. There's even a song about it. _Time in a Bottle_. Of course, I haven't found anyone to spend that time with, so I'll be spending it on me. Not that I'm _selfish_ or anything. I've worked hard to be where I am. I should have nice things.

Of course, there are a select few who see it differently. The old man and his cronies. Some lawmakers who insist on keeping my manifest destiny contained. Some people who don't know when to keep their mouths shut about certain things. Calling my a sociopath and other names. While they don't exactly _deserve_ to die, I have to admit... the world would be so much easier for me if the were just... not there.

The thought occurred to me at sixteen. I didn't _have_ to murder the right people. I could arrange... little accidents. Happenstances of fate. A series of unfortunate circumstances. Those who were wont to complain about my family, including myself, were always the sort to live in the scummier districts. I knew better than to try educating them about their jealousy and ignorance. So I made living in the scummier districts... inconvenient.

It's rather simple. Buy out the laundromats and turn them into quaint little bistros, coffee shops, or cake pop stores. The poor people in those dives can't afford rent _and_ dry-cleaning, so they move out... and better people move in. Soon, they're pushed into areas where crime is rife -well, more rife than normal- and either the crime or the local police take care of my little problem.

Arranging inconveniences for the better-bred people... that's a little trickier. Ironically, it's the social justice types who I could easily silence who have become my greatest allies. Leaking a few, anonymous hints and tips or even outright evidence, right where the vigilante left can find them... and all of a sudden, my opposition is too busy with court cases to bother about what I'm doing and with how much.

Eliminating my father from the picture... that was harder. Not emotionally, no. I've grown to hate the old man. Not that I say as much to anyone. It's all performative familial friendliness when witnesses are around. Before you ask - yes, I count the help as witnesses. They can get awfully gossipy if they think their tyrannical overlords have a chance to wind up with nothing or less.

Here's a tip for the rich and murderous. Be kind to the help. Pay them generously, remember their birthdays and holidays. Secure them things for their children that they couldn't get normally. Not the best, mind, just... out of their normal reach. The resultant gratitude will result in them glossing over any accidental reveals in regards to ultimate plans. It's even easier to convince in-house medical staff to give an old man what he wants rather than what he needs. A tear in the eye, a professed love for a parent, some heart-rending speech about extending a life in pain...

Slipping a little slow poison into something mundane also helps. They look for arsenic in food, but they don't think about certain rare toxins in the toothpaste or the skin cream. All you have to do is have a degree in science and have access to a laboratory, and you can obtain _anything_... of course, it also helps to have running experiments that use those rare toxins so one has plausible deniability.

Yes, I killed my father. He was in my way. Just like you are. Obviously, making your existence inconvenient hasn't worked, since you're here and armed. I presume my confession is being recorded? It certainly can't be streamed. Not in my mountain chalet far away from it all. I know... you think I'll never get away with this. You have a gun. I have... a button.

A button that opens the emergency chute you're standing on. Something inconvenient will happen to your recording, I'm sure of it. After all. The closest law enforcement agents are far away and history, my dear home invader, is written by the victors.

Goodbye.

#  Challenge #228: Smile For Me

There three main causes of most murders. "Anger" is one. – Anon Guest

You know what really pisses me off? The phrase, "You're cute when you're mad." Like all that ever matters about me is the appeal I have to everyone around me. I'm cute. I'm adorable. I'm so pretty, haha, I shouldn't have negative feelings.

Bull. Hockey. I'm a human being, just like them. I have feelings, both positive and negative. I have wants and needs. I make choices... but the only ones that matter seem to be the ones that change how I look to the entire world. Too much makeup. Too little makeup. Comfortable clothes or sexy ones. Looking professional is looking like a high-end hooker. Too much heel. Too little heel. The right kind of hair. Go blonde. Get a perm. Don't get a perm. Maybe become a brunette. Do something about your weight, your skin tone, your nose...

I'm a person, but the rest of the world treats me like an object to be pretty or felt up or that my only purpose of existence is to be attractive, have babies, and preferably die after all the messy parts of child-raising are over. I hate it. I hate it so much. I hate all the people who endorse it. I hate the entire industry centred around putting me into the same mould as whatever vapid stereotype happens to be the leading example of what a woman is supposed to be. In brief, I hate this entire world. That's why I'm going to do my best to kill it.

I know I can't get all of them, but I know where the worst of them are. Where the predatory gyms are, the ones suck money from people whilst promoting punishment for eating. Where the diet cults gather to promote the next rash of desperate souls unaware that it's all a scam. Where there are endless streams of images that have been altered to the point where the women in them are no longer human... but still look human enough to make women want to look like that no matter how impossible it is.

I heard they've given up on photoshopping real models and have gone directly to CGI. Not that it matters. Some of those predatory scumbags will mate with a pillow with a picture on it. Surely you agree that there are some who need to die.

How are they going to die? Quick, loud, and messy. Everything a girl shouldn't do. Thank the lax weapons laws around here for the means. Thoughts and prayers won't stop me from destroying as much as I can about this vain dream of controlling the likes of me.

First man to tell me to smile is going to start it all. Shouldn't take long, then.

Of course I'm willing to die for this. Die ugly, so they can die mad.

They might be cute when they're angry.

#  Challenge #229: iStalkU

Of the three main causes for murder "Lust" is the most ignoble and most distressing. What could not be given in Love was stolen, then in fear of reprisal or 'the damn bitch struggled" a Life was taken. – Anon Guest

Let me tell you about the one I love. They are perfect. Perfect body. Perfect looks. Never a hair out of place. They always smile for me when I go to order my morning fix. I always tip generously. I want to make them feel special. I want them to know that they are special to me. I want... I want... I want them to be mine.

I want to roll over in the morning and make slow, lazy love to that perfect body. I want to kiss that perfect face. I want to mess up that perfect hair and see that sweet smile... _my_ smile... as I make them scream my name. I want to be the only person in their world. I want to keep them. I want to have them. I want to hold them. I want... I want... I want them to be mine.

The campaign starts simple. Little questions that are harmless. A birthdate, a favourite flower. Innocent things. Scattered into the conversation so casually. Things like, "Cool pin, is that your birthstone?" You can find a lot about a person like that. I listen of course, because you're _supposed_ to listen to your loved ones. So I listen, and I learn.

They play a specific game on a certain server and I join. I spend a lot of money on getting their characters things they want or need. I become their playmate. They need help with their rent and I 'accidentally' tip a hundred dollars, becoming their saviour. I remember their birthday, and I become their friend.

It's the little things they remember. Flowers or a small treat when they're having a bad day. A compliment every time I see them. A little flirting, but nothing that sets off the alarm bells. Pretty soon, they're comfortable enough to tell me little things without me asking. Like... they have a cat. Cute little thing. Fluffy as hell. I immediately start researching cats so it looks like I care. If you love someone's pet, you get even closer to having them love you.

Once I've seen the cat, I can find the owner on social media. It's not hard to get deep into someone's life if they share online. It's right there for anyone to find it. Now they don't even have to complain about little things going wrong. I can fix them. I know their name, I know where they live. I can become their neighbour. A friendly face every morning. A confidante. Familiarity and comfort and soon enough... companion.

I know everything they like. I start inviting them to things I could never afford because a non-existent friend or relative bailed at the last instant. I'm so close... but now they dare to refuse me? I spent all this time and effort on being perfect for them, but they refuse? How dare they refuse!

They're _mine!_ They belong to _me!_

I spent _days_ learning how to make their favourites and they _dare_ say _no?_ I perfected _everything_ so that I could own their perfection and they _refuse?_

It's the ultimate betrayal.

So I take what's owed me. I make them take me in... with the knife I used to cut them a portion. I make them scream... with the knife. I _make_ them smile... with the knife.

They're mine.

And now they'll never belong to anyone else.

#  Challenge #230: Should Have Ordered a Bear Claw

Don't we all love some self-important type throwing a Grade One 'Tanty' - strongly reminiscent of a spoiled 2-year-old on camera. – Anon Guest

Like all spectacles, this was one best viewed from afar. It was loud, it was violent, it was utterly ridiculous, and the people at ground zero had seen all varieties of nonsense and were therefore relatively unflappable, or just too tired to be bothered with reacting, it was difficult to tell. In person... it was just strange.

To the confounded spectator on site, it was just an ordinary day in a coffee shop. The people in the queue were just people in a queue, as regular as every other person going about their business. That is, until the very moment that the person ordering went from zero to ballistic in a matter of seconds.

Most of the incident was caught for posterity by a vlogger who had, right up until the moment of chaos, been talking about American Coffee Culture and the artificiality of literally everything in it. The apparent bone of contention was a fancy-looking danish in the display case and a peculiarly complicated coffee order. The coffee was a quad long shot grande in a venti cup half calf double cupped no sleeve salted caramel mocha latte with two pumps of vanilla substitute two pumps of white chocolate mocha for mocha and substitute two pumps of hazelnut for toffee nut half whole milk and half breve with no whipped cream extra hot extra foam extra caramel drizzle extra salt add a scoop of vanilla bean powder with light ice well stirred. The danish was a Raspberry and Candied Mint Leaf windmill with frosted swirls with a clear placard saying: _CHRISTMAS SEASON ONLY_. It was June.

"There's one right there, and _you_ keep getting my order wrong. Listen. Quad long shot grande... in a venti cup. Half caf double... cupped no sleeve... salted caramel mocha latte. With two pumps of vanilla substitute. Two pumps of white chocolate mocha for mocha... and substitute two pumps of hazelnut for toffee nut. Half whole milk and half breve. With no whipped cream. Extra hot. Extra foam. Extra caramel drizzle. Extra salt. Add a scoop of vanilla bean powder. With light ice well stirred. Get. It. RIGHT!"

"I already put the order in, it's a quad long shot grande in a venti cup half calf double cupped no sleeve salted caramel mocha latte with two pumps of vanilla substitute two pumps of white chocolate mocha for mocha and substitute two pumps of hazelnut for toffee nut half whole milk and half breve with no whipped cream extra hot extra foam extra caramel drizzle extra salt add a scoop of vanilla bean powder with light ice well stirred. Correct?"

"NO!" The complaining person rattled off the exact same instructions regardless of the impassionate clerk's eye roll and then added, " _And_ the Christmas Special Danish!"

"We can't give you the danish, we have none in stock."

"There is one. Right. There!" Agitated pointing at the display case.

The clerk took a deep breath and gave out the sigh of those all too familiar with the service industry. "Sir, that case is a display only case, the cakes, cookies, and danishes in there are all plastic fakes, nobody can eat them. There's even a sign–"

"I DON'T CARE HOW THEY'RE DISPLAY, YOU HAVE ONE AND I WANT TO BUY IT! I DON'T CARE IF YOU CAN'T OFFER IT OUT OF SEASON! IT'S _THERE_ , I SHOULD BE ABLE TO BUY IT! WHY DO YOU DECEIVE YOUR CUSTOMERS LIKE THIS?"

"Sir, the display case is sealed and we can't reach in there. It's a permanent feature and all objects for display are made of plastic. We literally can't get anything out of there and we don't–"

"DON'T GIVE ME ANY BULLSHIT ABOUT NOT HAVING ANY IN STOCK! YOU OBVIOUSLY _HAVE_ THEM IN STOCK, THEY'RE RIGHT THERE!"

"Sir, that's a plastic imitation for display only, and–"

"I DON'T CARE I WANT IT! I DEMAND TO SPEAK TO YOUR MANAGER!"

"Certainly, sir." The beleaguered clerk left their post and vanished into the back. Everyone, visible in the video pickup was muttering about tantrums and why some people refused to pay attention or be polite. Some people were playing games on their phones, some were calling their bosses about being late, and the vlogger was impersonating David Attenborough offscreen.

"The hardy urban entitled boomer is now seeking comps as a potential mating display," they whispered. "See how the male's face and neck are now completely red in a display of alleged vitality. Little does he know that this is just one of many criminally understaffed coffeeshops in the local area. There is in fact, only. One. Staffperson at any time. Let's see what happens now that Sandra has had some time to scream into a pillow out of pure frustration."

Sandra the clerk returned, this time with a manager pin under her nametag. "Hello, sir, what appears to be the problem?"

"Your ungrateful brat of an employ–" His brain caught up with his mouth. "Wait. You're the same bitch who couldn't get my order right? Where's your manager?"

"I am the manager of this establishment, sir, and I must ask you to keep your language civil. If you insult me again, I'll have to call the police to escort you from the premises."

The vlogger called out, "There's a couple of cops like five spots behind me, Sange!"

"Or simply summon them from the queue," said Sandra, still unflappable.

" _Give_ me the number for the regional manager or I'll sue this place into oblivion."

Sandra, not looking away, reached into a stack of cards and presented it to the entitled boomer. "Certainly sir."

The vlogger started giggling. "For those playing at home," they murmured, "That's Sandra's business card."

"You watch," said the angry boomer. "I'll get you so fired you'll have to shack up with a sugar daddy just to live another day." They spent some time getting the number right, but when they did...

Sandra let the ring tone sound and said, "Excuse me, I have to take this." She answered the phone. "Hello, this is Corner Coffee. Your order was a quad long shot grande in a venti cup half calf double cupped no sleeve salted caramel mocha latte with two pumps of vanilla substitute two pumps of white chocolate mocha for mocha and substitute two pumps of hazelnut for toffee nut half whole milk and half breve with no whipped cream extra hot extra foam extra caramel drizzle extra salt add a scoop of vanilla bean powder with light ice well stirred, and an out-of-season danish we literally do not have in stock, was it not?"

The double-take was priceless. "You obviously _have_ the danish, it's right there in the display case!"

"Sir, those are plastic, and there's no way to access them anyway."

"I'LL SHOW _YOU_ HOW TO ACCESS THEM! GO AHEAD AND CALL THE COPS, BITCH!" The boomer grabbed a chair and smashed it through the glass of the display frontage. "I GET WHAT I WANT! I GET WHAT I WANT!"

The cops shoved through just as the boomer triumphantly brought the plastic display danish to his mouth and discovered that it was, indeed, incredibly inedible. The fact that he had hurt himself in the effort was not yet obvious to him, but he was outraged even further.

"THIS IS _PLASTIC!_ WHAT THE HELL? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS BULLSHIT?"

At which point, the cops tasered him. There was no actual applause, but everyone who watched the spectacle insisted on tipping extra and apologising for the hassle.

It took two weeks for the songified version of the tantrum to go viral on the internet.

#  Challenge #231: Organically Sourced Isotopes

Imagine the surprise across the Galactic Alliance when they discover that humans have more than a mild tolerance to small doses of radiation, and that some of our plants are (in large enough quantities) active enough to set off sensors designed to detect much more harmful materials...

<https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banana_equivalent_dose> _– Adam in Darwin_

The stasis box arrived in successive layers of protective wrapping, depending on which port it had shipped through, and which species did the transporting on the next leg of its rather long journey. Upon seeing the parcel that was now the rough dimensions of a sleep pod, Human Jef had one thing to say.

"Bloody _hell_ , this is gonna want a lot of unwrapping." Human Jef started rolling the dolly and the parcel on it towards their special enclosure that protected the rest of the Havenworlder crew from everything Deathworlder that could potentially harm them. "All this fuss and bother for some fruit from home."

"Fruit?" echoed Thys the Companion. "This is Deathworlder thing, yes? It explodes? It is poison?" The package had warning labels on top of other warning labels. By all rights, it should have been thrown into the heart of a dying sun just to make certain that the Universe would no longer have it in existence.

"Nah, it's only a little bit radioactive. Zero point one microsieverts. Not even enough to get fussed about."

"Ah. Radioactive," said Thys. Then hir brain caught up with hir mouth. "You eat radioactive food?"

"Calm down... it's not even cumulative radiation. The body processes it and it's _fine_. Honestly. You get more trouble from an X-ray." Human Jef also had their brain catch up with their mouth. "Well. The Human version of an x-ray. You lot have to work with picoseconds of exposure."

Thys considered the parcel as it trundled towards the Human's heavily-shielded environment. Jef did belong to a species who simply mucked around with radiation for significant years before they realised that it was dangerous. They put _lead_ into their atmosphere and had to fight to eliminate the process. They ignored their own heavy environmental impact until the very last moment for intervention to occur. This was a species with extremely limited forward planning skills when profit was on the line.

"You are certain you are not radioactive after consuming your hazard fruit?" Thys asked. Ze really had to ask. Humans were dangerous and deadly creatures at the best of times. They were most often hazardous to themselves. They could eat themselves to an early death because the unhealthiest food was also the tastiest to them.

Human Jef rolled their eyes. "I'm certain, but I'll go through all the scans anyway. You're probably going to be fine."

It was the use of the qualifier that alarmed the most.

#  Challenge #232: Crit Happens

Most gods throw dice, but Fate plays chess, and you don't find out 'til too late that he's been playing with two queens all along. ~Terry Pratchett

Also known as being a DM. (Dungeon Master) – Anon Guest

Imagine a game so complicated that even the experts have to look up the rules. It is not just played with dice, but also cards, charts, tables, books, miniatures, and a hell of a lot of imagination. There is only one person at the game table who knows anything about what's going on, and that is the holder of the core of the story. They know _most_ of what's going to happen. Well. What's most _likely_ to happen.

The one thing they don't have control of is what the players are going to do. Because everyone who plays this game is a chaos demon in roughly humanoid form. They have a set of rules, too. A set of rules almost as complicated as the entire game, with permutations and corollaries so complicated that nobody could keep track of them all. Player choices leading to potentially infinite customisation not limited to the character's appearance, but also throughout the game.

The game can last for _years_. Groups meeting to play on a semi-regular basis. Play interrupted by life events, by colds and other virii, by children and the associated shenanigans, by spouses, by family, by work... but they keep returning to play. A game that can involve pop culture, dirty jokes, incidental weaponised singing - both in-game and out - research, improvisation, and massive amounts of bullshit made up on the fly. No one session is completely predictable. No game is ever played the same way by any group of players. It's no surprise that something this phenomenally complicated is also something invented and enjoyed by Humans.

Some Galactic Citizens have been attempting to play along, but the learning curve is a little on the steep side. Fortunately, Humans are pack-bonding maniacs who can't help but share what they love with others.

"You Humans do this in your free time?" said Thorgax. This was a question that, almost like a ritual, they asked every game night.

"There's a lot of hours to fill and not enough books in the known universe," said Dan. "Quit stalling and pick an action."

"An in-character action," added Lyn. "Something your orc wizard would do."

Thorgax consulted their character sheet. "Hm. Yes. I reach into my ingredients pouch and bring out a single pork rind, which I hold in my hand and make circles on with the other as I mutter... _oleo controleo_ –" Laughter erupted around the table. This was what made the game so alluring... the absolute bullshit the players pulled. "And I cast _Grease_ under all their feet."

"What the _flakk_?" said the GM, which is the _other_ thing that made the game so alluring. Some files were consulted. "Yeah, they're standing in a ten-foot square... what the hell, Thorgax?"

Jol, the group's former Chaotic Nuisance, patted their alien friend on the shoulder and said, "My li'l player's all grown up and making conniptions. I'm so proud."

The twenty-sided die rolled. "Their leader slips and falls on their ass..." another roll. "The lieutenant slips and falls on their ass..." Roll. "The lackey slips and falls on their ass..." Roll. "And the luckless ensign just barely makes their Dex save, looking like a kid on rollerskates for the first time, or someone trying to negotiate a passage where Hyperlube has spilled..." the GM mimed the frantic arm motions of someone whose footing was extremely lubricated at best and uncertain at worst. "And he tries to think of something to do..." Roll. "And throws their hands up with a, _We surrender!_ "

More laughter, and a lot of applause.

"I only had level one spells left," said Thorgax. "I couldn't do anything else!"

"You saved our butts with a bullshit prank spell," crowed Jol. "It's not the power, it's the proficiency, man."

Of such plays, legends are made. In this case, it was the legend of the pork rind, and how their GM had to call a twenty-minute game break just so they could figure out where the hell this was going to go next.

#  Challenge #233: The Hubris Initiative

He was the sort of person who stood on mountaintops during thunderstorms in wet copper armour shouting, "All the Gods are Bastards!" ~ Also by Terry Pratchett – Anon Guest

There's inviting trouble to your door, and then there's stalking it for apparent fun and alleged profit. Inviting trouble is asking questions with obviously painful and demonstrative answers from the cosmos, like: "What else can go wrong?" or, "So what's the big deal?" or, "How can we possibly fail?" _Stalking_ trouble... well, to do that, you would have to be Fenris Pole.

Human Fen was one of those people who don't react to trouble, they go actively seeking it out in order to punch it in the nose. They drew a conclusion from a standing start and leaped straight to it with weapons drawn. Frankly, it was amazing that they survived to adulthood, let alone Human middle age.

When facing a system _potentially_ threatened by an apophis-class asteroid, Human Fen would fly out to the rock in question, analyse it, and devise seven different plans to stop it being so much of a threat, most usually steering it into the closest convenient gas giant or, if one wasn't available, the sun. On rare occasions, Human Fen would simply bust out the mining equipment and profit off the molecular contents. It all depended on the makeup of the asteroid in question.

Then there was the time that the asteroid was actually a stalking horse for a host of Vorax Raiders who were trying a few new tactics against the Galactic Alliance. A fact that Human Fen found out when the tactic of steering it towards certain demise repeatedly failed through naturally unlikely _course corrections_ by the asteroid in question.

That was the true near-disaster that almost killed Human Fen, the crew of the _Investigator_ -Fen's ship at the time- and possibly the planet they were trying to save.

Human Fen attached a fission explosive to an automated borer, and rigged it to go off when the bore stopped encountering resistance. The Vorax Raiders didn't stand a chance. The _Investigator_ barely escaped by the skin of its metaphorical teeth. _Human Fen_ was dangerously close to the explosion.

In fact, they were presumed lost in the effort until they turned up with a net full of asteroid and Vorax ship remains... and a minor case of radiation poisoning.

It was a miracle that Human Fen managed to die of old age, all things considered.

#  Challenge #234: Revolution Temporarily Postponed

" _Ok look, I haven't eaten anything since this morning, and the meeting was THREE HOURS long, I'm sooooo stressed I just want to play punch something" – Anon Guest_

Is there anything more frustrating than a day that goes nowhere due to circumstances beyond your control? The boss buttonholes you for two hours about inefficiency. The staff meeting drags on as someone in the higher echelons demands a full explanation in small words of the exact, precise, fine details of the problem that literally everyone else there already knew how to solve. Then, once the explanation was finally accepted, the selfsame upper echelon representative pushes the entire meeting away from the one solution that would fix everything in the long term.

They preferred, instead, a series of small patches that would make everything more complicated for everyone and increase everyone else's problems for the immediate future and for potential years to come. No arguments against it would be heard. No explanations of how it would work were heeded. In the end, the vote was in this abominable decision's favour just because everyone else wanted to get some lunch. A lunch that was cancelled because the meeting dragged on thanks to the aforementioned upper echelon member's pontificating after the fact.

The first patch implemented crashed the workplace's network and efforts to reinstate connectivity dominated most of the afternoon, which was the natural cue for the upper echelons to insist that everyone work overtime to reach their quotas for the day. Revolution began to coalesce in the air when one of the upper echelon said something about the staff not being paid overtime.

Tammy broke first. "Okay look," she said to her immediate superior. "I haven't eaten anything since this morning, and the meeting was _three hours_ long, and I am _so_ stressed I just want to punch something until I lose feeling in my entire arm. If you continue to keep treating us like robots, today, that something might just be you. Do you understand?"

The boss stared at her as if he had just realised that he was talking to a human being. "You aren't allowed to behave like this... That's unprofessional."

"So's enacting a set of actions that will inhibit workflow and efficiency for the foreseeable future. Actions, I might add, that caused the clusterfluff of errors that we're still working to fix. So's preventing your entire staff from having a lunch break. So's forcing us to work overtime without pay. Did you have a point, sir?"

It was four thirty in the afternoon, and only the people in charge had had anything related to a snack, since the office refrigerator was locked for anyone without executive privilege. A day fuelled entirely by shitty office coffee and shittier shortbread biscuits was not a day of joy and productivity... especially when the shortbreads ran out. The general atmosphere of the entire office was that of hair-trigger revolution.

In a self-preservation instinct born of the memory of madame guillotine, the executives unlocked the office refrigerator and ordered in some pizza and doughnuts. One even went as far as to acquire some small crates of popular soft drinks for the late workers. In a rare display of benevolence, they also added double-time and a half for the extra hours in the evening.

Once in a while, employers remember that employees are human beings, just like them. On those supremely rare occasions, one might have cause to possess faith in humanity.

#  Challenge #235: A Study of Abnormalcy

On the Edge there are many prisons. Some of them are just normal, regular prisons, but you can also find a special prisons.

Heavenworlder (name) is trying to learn about human psychology. Probably the best place to learn about "true human madness" is prison for unstable human murderers.

" _He talked about murders with some sort of weird passion. But he started to be aggressive when I asked him about his childhood experiences. He struggle against cuffs and tried to reach me. If not for the guards behind me this would be probably my last day." – Anon Guest_

Walls and bars do not make a prison, but they certainly help. That said, there are many ways to restrain those who are abundantly dangerous and Humanity has been through literally all of them. From outright execution through shipping them off to a distant land with optional deadly hazards[70], and finishing with... _this_.

An entire planet dedicated to keeping the homicidally dangerous peaceful, happy, and contained. The population is incredibly sparse, and the landscapes are stocked with animals for them to predate upon. Those who need company have companions who are trained to handle them without making it look like they were being handled. Those who don't are well away from any intelligent life they could harm.

There is a city, but it is populated almost exclusively by the people who study the people who only know murder as a valid response to life's challenges. It is well-fortified. Entrances and exits are tightly controlled. Not that the dangerous residents care very much for city life, but those who choose to live there prefer to feel safe whilst they do so. Many who live there are fellow Humans. Some were Galactics of a tougher breed. One... was not.

Sheri had invested in a battle-proof livesuit, one that could keep him protected even in the heart of a gas giant. It seemed overkill, here in the clean and inoffensive halls of the Mental Studies Centre. At least it did, until she met one of the tame murderers.

The one known as David liked blood. He liked to make his victims bleed as much as they could before they died. It wasn't about the quality of the wounds for him, it was about the quantity. When telling Sheri about it all, the murderer David delighted in watching her take her calming medication. He was also into horrifying all those who listened to his stories.

"I cut the last one a hundred and seventy-two times... all the blood was a beautiful thing... Do you know what colour yours is?" He leaped across the table, "Let's see!"

The guards intervened with stunners, and dragged Sheri out of the interview room. The only thing she knew at the moment was a breach warning in her livesuit. Murderer David had somehow managed to smuggle in a weapon _and_ pierce two of the five protective layers between Sheri and complete vulnerability.

Perhaps studying Human insanity was best approached more cautiously.

[70] See file: _Australia_. Offensensitivity warning for deadly hazards including: poison, toxicity, radiation, deadly temperatures(hot), deadly temperatures(cold), confounding environments, hostile fauna, hostile flora, and deadly storms. See also: _Lunar penal colony_ and _Ghiishem_.

#  Challenge #236: Trust Us On This

First meal of the day, in a 'Greasy Spoon' Space diner. – Anon Guest

There are some spaces that are eternally stuck at one hour. In most casinos, it is eternally early evening - just after work, so there's plenty of time to kick back and relax. Shopping malls have a similar atmosphere, but generally put themselves earlier in the afternoon so one doesn't have to rush to collect the kids. In diners, it's always a little late, but not _that_ late. Plenty of time to get a bite and a coffee and maybe some witty reparté with some guy named Bob who apparently lives there.

It's never breakfast-time. It's always a late dinner-time. Sometimes, if you are lucky, you can wrangle a late-lunch. The point is, you should probably never ask for scrambled eggs and a fried slice. Cake or pie, the best breakfast-type food is probably a bagel, but only if it's one of the fancy ones. Spoiler alert - diners are _never_ the fancy ones. If you want fancy, you don't go to a diner.

The newcomer to the Unsuitable Food emporium known as _Joe's Dinner (yes we spelled it that way on purpose)_ had obviously not got the memo. The Bob on the corner and a few of the truly determined stared at the fresh-faced newbie who was very obviously Not From Around Here, who had emphasised the point by saying, "Any chance of scrambled eggs and a waffle?"

The cook, named Dan, glared over the service window at the newbie. "You want some what?"

"I haven't had breakfast, so I was hoping for some scrambled eggs and a waffle?" said the newbie. "Or is it too late?"

For a twenty-four-hour dining establishment, there is technically no such thing as 'too late', but diner's always have the hour of being 'a little late'. The dichotomy temporarily stunned Dan so much that he said, "Hey Bob... have we ever had scrambled eggs?"

"Only after a date with Maisy," crackled the Bob.

Maisy, absently spreading a spill around a table, said, "Shut up, you can't handle me."

"This is a diner," said Dan.

"Oh yeah, I noticed the spelling outside, are you sure–"

All the regulars chorussed, "Yes, it's meant to be spelled that way."

"We serve dinner," said Maisy, actually breaking out the paper towels. "If Dan's in the mood for it, you might get a lunch. You could try the pie?"

"So... no waffles?" said the newbie.

"Hey din'cha do pancakes that one time?" rumbled the Bob. "It was Marilu's birthday or sump'n..."

"Never did it again," said Dan. "Sent Marilu to the Mediks. Rough trip."

The newbie had appropriately enlarged eyes. "OkayI'lltrythepieandI'mverysorryIasked..."

#  Challenge #237: The Tune Called Yakety Sax

Explaining 'The Benny Hill Show' to future Culture classes. – Anon Guest

Every entertainment is a product of its time and a product of its medium _and_ a product of its culture. Nothing shows this more than the audio-visual media of the twentieth century. Here, technological progress evolves over the passage of a handful of years and highlights cultural evolution at the same time.

In this unit, we're examining a pre-Shattering comedian Benny Hill, and the show he created in his name and image. Here, we witness a grown man occupying the 'naughty schoolboy' archetype in a semi-burlesque series of sketch comedies that sometimes barely managed to sail past the censors. This is the direct result of the dying embers of prudism meeting the rising forces of sexual liberation, in an era where an older man interested in a younger woman was still not viewed as a creep.

Established values are parodied for comedic value. Here, the older man is not an authority, but rather a figure of ridicule. One that is ridiculed even further by being overwhelmed by young, virile, and powerful women. The titular player in the show is often incompetent, or accidentally beneficial in a way that offends the majority. The culmination of every episode is the chase sequence.

Every one of these sequences is a combination of mime, trick photography, stunts, assorted farce, and the aforementioned burlesque comedy. They have often been imitated, but never to the degree that the original artist was capable of. In fact, more modern imitations lack the pacing and style of the original, as well as some of the more cosmetic signatures of the original.

That said, much of the comedy inherent in this show depends on sexism, homophobia, outdated gender roles, and the male gaze. Much of the comedy is no longer funny, because the people being ridiculed now have voices we listen to when they explain how much that ridicule hurts.

Is anything lost in this process? Is anything gained? How has humour changed now that ridicule is no longer the goal? Study five complete episodes of your choice and compare them to modern farcical comedy. Share and compare your results.

#  Challenge #238: Resistance Training

being a telepath isn't easy. Being an apprentice one even less. That's why all apprentice telepath first learn and practice on their teachers, then on volunteer from mind reading friendly species, practising the basics, be it reading someone's mind, communicating basically and making the whole thing as less uncomfortable as possible.

The first true "test" is to go and listen as long as possible to a small group of humans passing by the main hall. Officially it's to make sure the basic are learnt, utilizing the relative low telepathic capability of humans to prevent any high backlash.

Unofficially it's to present, or more subject, the apprentices to one of the most chaotic thought process known.

The record for an apprentice is less than 30 seconds. – Anon Guest

The Melil have lived their entire lives with telepathy. They have not lived their entire lives with other species. As a long-lived people, they have plenty of time to learn acclimatisation to other beings' mental emanations. The Melil are used to restraining their thoughts. Other species are not.

Thus, when a Melil wants to enter into the greater spaces of the Galactic Alliance -which they do owing to complicated fertility reasons- they have to train to be accustomed to what they refer to as Galactic Static. This is thousands of different minds, with different views and ways of thinking, with different ways of viewing the world around them. Most are relatively uncomplicated. A special few are not.

Of all the varied services they could perform, Melil telepathy is most widely useful in the UFTP's eternal search for all of its colonial worlds. The people on the other end of the freshly-opened wormholes definitely do not speak GalStand, have a vastly different culture to the one finding them, and may not be at the same technological level. Things can get complicated _fast_.

Take BravNu. It began as an environmental dream, with the inhabitants aiming to come to a stage of peace and harmony with the new, alien environment they found themselves in. They quickly learned that alien environments were not the best for keeping Humans alive and did whatever they could to survive over the generations they needed to make it back to terraforming-capable civilisation. They spoke a creole of all the disparate cultures that went down on their starry-eyed mission. Their technology had devolved to something close to the stone age, and life was brutal, harsh, and often short.

Compared to that, the average Ships' Human is almost a dream. A chaotic nightmare running on at least five different channels, but a dream nonetheless. Something Lyon was discovering for hirself.

Hir tutor and co-parental, Daen, was acting as buffer, blocking out things that Lyon might find disturbing or harmful before they became a problem.

The Human, Theri, smiled and said, "So this is the padawan, eh?" but they also thought, _Aw it's a baby!_ and, _...straight town rock is gonna eat my soul... straight town rock is gonna eat my soul.._ and, _If I rush outta this, I'm gonna look rude, but I really wanna catch Gorx and warn them about the mix-up with the granular flavour crystals and how to chemically check the contents..._ and, _Cheese criminy, was anyone ever that young?_

"...straight town rock?" said Lyon.

"Humans get song lyrics stuck in their heads, my little," soothed Daen. "You can tune it out and stick to the more obvious conscious thoughts."

"I can certainly try," sighed Lyon. "Are your people's heads always messy like this?"

Human Theri grinned wide and laughed. "Pretty much, yeah."

#  Challenge #239: Fresh as the Day...

Due to a new find on Earth the whole Galaxy's is in a State of utter bafflement and confusion.

Even Scientists are clueless about the How.

One Human has Survived. Locked away deep underground in a sort of Cryogenic sleeping Cell, years before even the First Prototypes where built.

The Signs on the Pod says "Activated 2019. All Vitals normal. Beginning Waking-Procedure. T-24 Hours"

A Human still alive from before the Shattering. – Anon Guest

The vault under the mountain was brilliantly engineered to stay intact despite the passing ages. It ran on a combination of geothermal, nuclear, solar, and wind power. It had backup systems on its backup systems. It had conditions on its conditions.

Nevertheless, when it was discovered and then subsequently breached - because there is no such thing as a locked box that a Human will not want to open - sensors and systems activated, and surviving displays activated.

For the record, a properly shielded CRT screen can last forever if it is made out of bulletproof perspex. All the partially broken ones showed the same display. It read, _Cryosuspension chamber V12.87.12.3 Activated 13 Dec 2019._ Dots crawled across the screen. _Chamber breach detected._ More dots. _Atmosphere analysis complete. Beginning revival process._ Further dots, then some incomprehensible technobabble. The bottom of the screen maintained the same information.

_Full revival in: 23 hours, 54 minutes..._ and the seconds were steadily counting down. The automated machines had lain in a state of neglect for almost five hundred years, but the engineers behind it all had evidently thought of this. The electronics were all housed inside casings of toxic petrochemicals melded with poisons that even the most determined of vermin couldn't survive consuming. Where possible, everything was bronze or aluminium gears. It was built to last the ages, possibly even the end of the Earth. Nevertheless, the available technicians and historians swarmed, making sure a hundreds-year-old machine was actually functional.

Media makes an enormous deal out of ancient, abandoned temples with functioning death traps. The sad reality is, if you have an ancient, abandoned temple, it _is_ the death trap because architecture that has stood firm over thousands of years just might collapse because your stupid ass bumped into an inconvenient wall, thus burying you alive. Nevermind the giant boulders and the conveniently un-rotted thousands-year-old ropes or amazingly well-preserved weighted pulley systems.

They had to move carefully[71], whilst at the same time rushing to non-invasively diagnose machines that had activated and were trying to perform tasks. They had to figure out what the machines were designed to do whilst also making sure that they were still capable of doing them and, if they weren't, actively assist in the function on the fly. It was a very tense twenty-four hours for the shifts of people attempting to save a life that may already be cryogenically mummified[72].

It was almost a miracle that ninety percent of the entire machine worked, and that the failsafes actually kept safe the functions that failed, as they were supposed to do. Finally, the singular sarcophagus opened and a living, breathing, Human male was exposed to twenty-fifth century air for the first time. Of course, they did so inside a well-constructed isolation tent because twenty-first century diseases and twenty-fifth century ones should never mix.

The head Medic of the team entered in a specially-sterilised livesuit to double-check the vital signs and welcome the living artefact back into life. Eyelids fluttered. A body stirred. A smile formed.

"It worked," he said. He noticed the suit. "What? Y'all haven't conquered disease yet? Or am I overdue a few booster shots?"

Of course, twenty-fifth century people wouldn't be speaking the language we know. It would be the same as expecting the populace to be well versed in Chaucerian English or even the lingua franca at the time - Latin. Therefore the translation modules in Medik Taki Khaadya's livesuit kicked into gear and provided the best fit dub. "We will not shoot," said Medik Taki. "We need samples to tailor engineer specific immunoflus for yourself and the rest of the populace. We require a blood sample, and a cheek and nasal swab." Ze lined up hir equipment. "Please introduce yourself to the recording crew. You are a very interesting case we all wish to study."

This seemed to please the man and he allowed Medik Taki to take hir sampled. "The name is Martyn Dominion Alberthorne the Fourth. My family are likely famous historical figures by now."

"I studied medicine," said Medik Taki with some evident diplomacy. "The people here are recording history, not studying it... yet."

Martyn Dominion Alberthorne the Fourth decided to fill them in. He came from a family of -in his words- business geniuses. They were actually what history now described as Lead Exploiters. Those who made their fortunes on legal-but-unethical practices whilst using those fortunes to keep the unethical legal. Well, _some_ of those fortunes. They kept the majority of their wealth to themselves and paid lip service to charity whilst siphoning off the majority of the money and using it to fuel the fires that caused the charity to be needed in the first place.

His father made a fortune on exploiting loopholes in wage laws, tax laws, and political laws that were kept wide by his fortunes, and Martyn Dominion Alberthorne the Fourth made his own way on his own merits, thanks to a top-notch education at the most expensive and most exclusive schools... and a 'small loan' of two billion dollars from his super-wealthy family.

At the time, many billionaires were looking to escape Earth by moving into space. Martyn worked out in a cold second that they were all idiots and the money was better spent in future-proofing himself. Therefore he poured his 'fritter money' - staggering amounts of money - into cryogenic suspended animation and the best of reliquary-esque technotombs that could keep his body safe until the world had passed through whatever apocalypse the 'tree huggers' feared.

Medik Taki showed excellent restraint in not ending that man's life then and there. That said, she may have taken some supreme delight in giving him the Bad News.

"It has been a little less than five centuries since your... embarcation," ze said. "In that time, the Green Revolution has eliminated all excessive fortunes equal to or above five million of the United States Dollars. All the mansions except those of profound historical significance have been destroyed. The surviving ones are all museums with free public admission."

He seemed unfazed. "I predicted this. There's another vault containing several artworks that have been recovered from the hands of art thieves," translated: he paid for the art to be stolen and made it 'vanish' himself. "I have every confidence that the art world will pay a fortune of whatever currency is most valid for their recovery. Art nerds are just like that."

Medik Taki checked her feeds. "Ah yes, the other vault that was cleared out a century before this one was found. Even then, it was over two hundred years old and therefore exempt from fiscal evaluation, since literally nobody can keep the Time they need to afford it."

"Say what now? Is that currency? Time?"

"As the only non-bankable valuable asset everyone has, yes. It is. The leading cause of economic upset through disparity of resources was the ability to pass valuable assets on to succeeding generations, so it was eliminated. Anything over two hundred years old is no longer valued at a price. In order to make profit out of art, it must therefore be displayed for the public to appreciate. Recommended donations of up to an Hour per visitor are encouraged."

Now the smile began to fade. "I still have gold. Precious gemstones... some holdings that are worth something..."

"Every planet has gold and precious gemstones. As for jewellery, it is also art in excess of two hundred years old and therefore best suited for display."

"Are you seriously telling me that I have _nothing_?"

"You have your health," said Medik Taki. "Free of charge."

"This is a leftist-run _nightmare_! Tell me I have _something_ that can be used for trade. I'll work my way up. I'll prove I'm better than this... this... fascism."

Medik Taki raised a brow-ridge and said, "This is the opposite of fascism, sir. This is a regulated socialist meritocracy with accomodations for those like you who find themselves lacking."

"Like what?"

"Since you left society at the end of Terran Common Calendar 2019, you can become an Ambassador for that year. We do this for the temporally displaced. Since your -ah- time ark can be directly placed into that era, there's no need to prove your identity through archives. You can start fielding questions through the Archivaas... and most likely from them. If you overlap with Ambassador Shayde, you can provide some counter-perspective into what you recall of her era."

"Ambassador... what?"

"Ambassador Shayde. Her story is... complicated[73]. She is Ambassador to TCC 1986, since she left society in the middle of TCC 1987."

"I was preceded," he said, "by a _woman_?"

"She wasn't cryopreserved, sir. As I understand it, her complications include a nasty run-in with extra-dimensional entities calling themselves deities, and some anomalous temporal disparities in other realities. Amongst some other things. _Do_ your timelines overlap?"

"What? No! I'm in my twenties, there's no way I'd even be here if I was -what- forty something? The technology could only work on the young and healthy." An idea occurred to him. "The technology! I funded all of this. That has to be worth something residual, right?"

"No, sir. Patented technology is no longer allowed, sir. Either it benefits the greater societal group as a whole, or it doesn't. Sales are based on partial payment of the inventor's original time spent inventing, and afterwards based on a small profit from the Time taken to create it. This lasts for the remainder of the inventor's lifetime."

A society that did not allow family lines to accumulate wealth, that capped even corporate income to a percentage of its expenditures, and made the body corporate responsible for the health and welfare of its employees. A society that valued things opposite to those that Martyn Dominion Alberthorne the Fourth had held dear to his shrivelled heart. The only things he had of value were his own memories, and the stories he could tell... and he had direct competition in the form of a low-class woman with a streak of mischief in her roughly as wide as the Milky Way.

She sent him gift baskets and a primer for living in the twenty-fifth century.

He almost turned around and put himself back into cryosleep.

[71] Because a five-hundred-year-old structure is still five hundred years old even if it's been over-engineered to survive, and is therefore potentially vulnerable to things the original designers didn't foresee.

[72] An unfortunately common side effect of early cryogenic attempts.

73] See the novel _Adapting_ , out soonish I hope. Chapter one is available for free [ here

#  Challenge #240: In a Name

I'm one of the fortunate or unfortunate (depending on your perspective) to have two first name, them being S***** Kirby. – Anon Guest

There's just something about having a first name as a last name that gets to people. It's memorable, yes, but also... it can make nametags problematic. You would not believe the number of people who tell me it should be my surname in there or, in non-surname occasions, my given one. Then you get the accusations of being an impostor of some kind.

"I thought your name was Savannah," or, "I thought your name was Kirby." Small wonder, then, that people like me gravitate towards the kind of jobs where the full name is part of the identification. After that, there's the connection between _certain_ names and popular franchise characters. Yeah. People in my family never quite make it to upper management and always watch their weight.

When there's one obvious joke to be made about you? Trust me, you will move heaven and earth to avoid it coming close to reality. Even when they use that joke anyway. It gets tiresome. _Really_ tiresome.

The only plus side out of it all is that people never forget you. Which might be also why people in my family have never been inclined to join a life of crime. Tempted - often. Actually inclined - never.

There's a lot of hullaballoo about how surnames are going extinct as certain families stop at girls and other such causes. I can't understand how lots of them are upset about this.

I, for one, will be glad.

#  Challenge #241: Elements of Bad Design

The tailbone is virtually useless, a big target near our ass, not to mention the design of our spine is structurally fucked, AND DON'T GET ME STARTED ON THE FOUR WISDOM TEETHS THAT I NEED TO BE SHATTERED AND EXTRACTED. – Anon Guest

[AN: Don't get _me_ started on _my_ wisdom teeth. That was a horrorshow.]

If there was ever an argument against intelligent design, it is simply found in vestigial portions of anatomy and the troubles they cause. Just for example: The appendix, tailbone, wisdom teeth, and possibly the tonsils. Much that some doctors adore whipping out the gall bladder, it is still a necessary organ. At least, it is for the portions of the population who still consume animal-sourced foods.

Consider also the Human leg. For a majority of evolution, creatures did not roam around the scenery on two legs. The hip joint itself is a prime example of concatenating disaster chains working together to create a nominally functional joint. Just about every joint in a Human leg was initially for a different purpose and therefore, when applied to bipedal motion, are doomed to fail through lengthy use. See also: dislocated shoulders.

The ball joint is the worst of disaster joints to stick inside of a living being, yet most life on Earth has _four_ of them. Humans, once evolved to brachiate, needed that flexibility, and now that flexibility becomes a literal pain in the anatomy. Then there's the entire mess that is the Human digestive system.

Primates are mostly vegetarian, with rare supplements of meat and proteins from non-plant sources. Humans, on the other hand, are omnivores with a preference for meat[74]. So the vestigial organ of the appendix lies mostly unused and un-usable, until something goes wrong and the organ itself gets an infection. This causes extreme pain in the afflicted Human and, if left ignored, their death.

Something is very obviously wrong with the design of the Human body. This is an intelligent species whose ability to obtain foodstuffs has outpaced evolution. Thusly, a preference for soft, easily digested foods has lead to a shrinkage in the Human jawbone, but not the Human teeth. There are still teeth that evolved to replace those lost to natural attrition in the ages of gather-hunting. Those teeth most often no longer emerge, and become the source of dental woes later in life.

Humans have invented surgeries to correct most of these, and seem to be waiting for evolution to catch up. This does not seem likely to happen as surgical correction has no effect on evolutionary elimination of vestigial portions of anatomy, or what _becomes_ vestigial later in evolution.

That said, the palmaris longus tendon is gradually fading from Human anatomy and may eliminate Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. Many Humans can barely wait for the day, despite the fact that evolution takes literal millennia.

[74] This is at an evolutionary perspective. Your choice of veganism or vegetarianism matters not to the evolutionary scale.

#  Challenge #242: Unfortunate History

" _No way. A society advanced enough to even think of getting into space must live in harmony with itself. Everybody has following the rules encoded in their genes. The consequences of disrupting the system of government are equivalent to those of an asteroid impact. Of course you'd say that I'm a Havenworlder, things work differently on Terra, yada-yada-yada, but that's an universal rule... _right?"_ – Anon Guest_

"Er. Not really. Humanity's first steps into space travel were the direct result of an antagonistic -uh- widdling contest between two overpowered polities as a method to show whose ideology was better." Human Dae seemed embarrassed, but it wasn't about the choice of bowdlerisms. "Then, the first colonies on another planet were made by a bunch of billionaires to escape the climate change disaster. They sold tickets to potential colonists when they were really meat for the grinder. They died of all the space hazards whilst making some rich vent-hole's off-planet resort the pinnacle of safety and luxury."

Thrrp stared "You are not serious."

"It gets worse. Our first colonies on the moon were scientific, but the gloss came off that gingerbread in under a year and they converted everything into a penal colony - a dumping ground for the people that the governments didn't agree with. It stayed that way for years until the Nae'hyn liberated them with a network of underground tunnels and lots of therapy." Human Dae paused to stare at the muggers waiting in Memory Lane. "Lots and lots and _lots_ of therapy."

"It's impossible. Even the nastiest of Deathworlders managed to band together to create offworld colonies and begin space exploration. Though... usually by eliminating all opposition before they began."

"Yeah, we had different ways of eliminating the opposition. After we discovered the one-way wormholes, there was a lot of bundling up dissident groups and throwing them down time to make a world in their own image. Big shock - they often made better worlds than the groups with the power."

Thrrp possibly wasn't ready for the answer, but still had to ask, "What worlds did the powerful groups make?"

Human Dae said, "You've visited Greater Deregulation..."

#  Challenge #243: One More Thing

Do it yourselfers have a problem, "I needa", and after multiple trips to the local hardware store you acquire stuff. Which leads to 'innovative storage'. – Anon Guest

It starts with a project that should be simple, but you need more than what is present in the allegedly simple kit. The people who put that kit together assumed that you were starting from a certain level of familiarity. So you go out to acquire the missing items of necessity.

Once there, you realise that there's a few items that are actually better than the ones in the kit, and it couldn't hurt to have suchlike for the next time. That's how it starts. Once returned with your new items, the kit's instructions have left out a step, a tool, a piece, and now the race is on to find out what it is. In the process, you discover that the kit is absolute garbage and literally everything in it needs to be replaced with something better because it's all made out of non-standard, unmatchable parts.

If you are phenomenally lucky, the replacement of the kit takes one trip. However, the odds against that are so astronomical that you are more likely to create a new reality by snapping your fingers. After that is finally accomplished, comes finding out that the tools you have are inadequate for the task, and you need to upgrade all of them. Eventually, though, the project is finished, and you can relax.

At least, you can relax until you realise that you can fix _another_ little thing that is mildly awry in your environment with _just a few more things_. That's how it all snowballs. Now, keep in mind that you invested your earnings in a lot of these things. Even though they were sub-adequate for the initial project, they are still inherently useful. Perhaps for lighter tasks, but not the heavy lifting. Before you know it, you own three different brands of electric drill, two of them battery powered and one with a need for access to the main power via a cable. They are all necessary, and none of them can be thrown away. Besides, you paid good money for those things.

Every new project just adds to them. New pieces. New adapters. New tools to do that tricky little thing that complicated the last project you worked on. Specialty pieces for an embellishment you decided you needed. Then, if you are not prescient or careful, the workspace becomes dominated with... stuff.

You've been meaning to make shelves for them all, but you can't find the pieces you acquired for them because they're buried under the tools you were going to use and the tools you only needed that one time, and the tools you got but cannot return because they're faulty pieces of crap but you no longer have the receipt or the box it came in... and the boxes for _other_ tools that work just fine but you can't throw away because -what if?

Thus, you go out for replacement stuff because you can't find the stuff you swear you had. Which leads to ever-increasing amounts of mess in ever-decreasing amounts of space. Until you either organise or build a new workspace, which will of course need new tools. Oh! And maybe one of those spiffy tool chests. Why not two? And a proper workbench for everything, because it's way past time...

No matter how good the intentions, they always end the same way, with you moving on to a bigger and better workspace much like a hermit crab moving to a bigger and better shell.

Of such a process, JOAT Tosheroons are made.

#  Challenge #244: For Dreams Behind Bars

Dimethyltryptamine, a "Class A" drug that is illegal across the world, but not in some country and states. An potent Psychedelic that can make you believe that you can warp reality. The funny thing is, it is created when we dream. – Anon Guest

Dimethyltryptamine. Quite the mouthful when you're chasing that high. Some call it DMT, some call it God Complex. Some call it Dream, because it is literally the stuff that dreams are made of. The brain makes it naturally when we hallucinate in our sleep. Well. When _most_ of us hallucinate in our sleep.

Did you know? A Human who can't dream suffers from long-term psychological impacts? I bet you didn't. I bet you're looking it up right now to call me out on my horseshit. You see, it's not widely studied because most Humans make DMT on their own and, though some claim they don't dream, they do. They just don't remember. It's the unfortunate few who literally can't make that chemical who suffer.

Also, just so you know - self-medicating for that is HELL for someone like me. First off, in order to get DMT legally, the government is all up in your business. Medical hoops have to be leaped through. Red tape has to be untangled. You need to acquire and keep updated five separate forms of ID... Ever since the greater forces of Science figured out how to make it artificially, it has been a heavily controlled substance. Which means that all you need to do to get it _illegally_ is to go looking for a Sandman somewhere close to the nearest bodega.

Yes, that's what the dealers are called. After that ancient song from like a century ago. Bring me a dream and all that hoorah. Yeah. Memetic propagation is something else.

Anyway, my Sandman goes by Oogie and I don't ask questions about the supply. There's all kinds of scarelore going around about how they make DMT in the drug kitchens. What criminal activity they undergo in order to get the ingredients, how toxic the ingredients are... frankly, I don't really care. My need for DMT is real and getting the illegal stuff is actually less fuss and bother than getting it legally.

Interestingly, going to jail for possession is also going to guarantee a supply because of my affliction. It doesn't look good for a penalised person to wind up going somewhere beyond bonkers in captivity because they're in there for having the controlled substance that prevented them from going beyond bonkers in the first place. Besides, once I start suffering from the lack of DMT, I can't be used as next-to-slave-labor for the prison industry.

Thusly, the punishment-first right-wing wowser set have actually made it attractive to break the law. All because they were afraid of a crime spree running out of control.

#  Challenge #245: The It Factor

As a Havenworlder the stuff in space is pretty scary, but I like trying new things. Asking a human to play "tag" was the worst decision of my life. – Anon Guest

Humans are a walking paradox. They are level four point five Deathworlders, and are the most warlike species known in Galactic space, yet they are also the most caring and considerate cogniscents the Alliance has ever known. They're social creatures, requiring a modicum of positive physical contact for proper mental balance... yet there are highly antisocial types for whom solitude is a benefit. That said, Humanity tends to spread its pack-bonding indiscriminately throughout their surrounding areas.

Humans can be sensitive and insensitive, rough or soft, gentle or harsh... sometimes it's all one Human, and in the space of an hour. They are the laziest pursuit predators known to intelligent life, and will go out of their way to find a simpler means of doing literally anything. Faster, cheaper, easier... those seem to be the keys to Human fulfilment. All so they can spend more time playing games. It is the Human capacity for games that prompted me to try one of the simpler ones.

'Tag' should not have been a problem. It was, according to my research, a game played amongst their softer, younger varietals. A game made for infants and juveniles should not be much trouble for a Havenworlder. So I thought. I should have realised that instigating a game of Tag on a mixed-species vessel, so close to Human Silly Season, was so much more than a mistake.

Some games of Tag can survive amongst Humans for _years_.

"You're sure?" Human Syl said as I discussed the idea with hir in the Mess. "We can get a little _intense_ sometimes, and Farr always goes overboard. Plus Humans in Predator Mode creep you little fuzzies out."

"But... this is a game," I objected.

"It's a game of hunt down the other guys. The kill is symbolic, but... it's still in there."

Rules were drawn out: No tag-backs, no tags during work cycles, no tags of a force that could possibly harm the tagee, and whoever is 'it' has to warn any room they enter with a cry of 'olly olly in free'. Those _not_ playing are allowed to signal such with a rude gesture at 'it'.

The games... began.

Let me tell you, there is no greater exercise of growing horror and paranoia than a shipwide game of Tag. The daily status of 'it' changed rapidly amongst the Deathworlders. Once a Havenworlder such as myself became 'it', there was the unique experience of being persona non grata anywhere that heard the 'olly olly in free' from their vocal apparatus. When a Havenworlder _wasn't_ 'it'...

Stocks of calming medications plummeted as paranoia rose. The worker by one's side could be 'it' and the rush was on to be among the first into a room, and thereby not leave until 'it' announced themselves, whereupon they would scatter to whatever bastions of safety remained.

Farr... went overboard. The Humans had forgotten to add the rule, _no gilly suits_ and Farr... had a collection.

Many a Havenworlder had a near death experience when a shrubbery reached out and said, "Tag, you're it."

Fortunately for all aboard, anyone is allowed to stop playing at any time. Just as soon as they are no longer 'it'.

I have been 'it' for four months... may the gods help me, the Humans are still playing. The Humans are _still playing_...

#  Challenge #246: A Concerning Countdown

I am a big fan of your "Humans are Space Orcs" Series, I read them every chance I can get. I would love to see this one for one of your stories. A deathworlder, a human, has been living with a Havenworlder as his bodyguard for quite some time. He is a scientist and was working with ways to extend a Human's lifespan and she has always been willing to volunteer for his work. Even when she was warned it might hurt. His people live the equivalent of almost 600 Human years. She was the fourth, or was it fifth, to guard him while he worked. His experiments were always careful, always gentle. And those that volunteered, for no one was ever forced, were always well compensated and made as comfortable as possible. Well, I can see his experiment actually succeeding this time, with her, and over the years, the two fell in love. Problem is, they are very different species and it's not always... well looked upon. But love doesn't care. – BrighidRavenwolf

Love is strange. It's so strange that even Humans have noticed and, of course, written about extensively. They have such short lifetimes, compared to mine... a hundred years, and most of that spent in the decay of old age. Whereas my people can live six times that long without much in the way of suffering. It is not even remotely fair.

When I met the Perette bloodline, I let them know I expected their family to loan me their service as bodyguards. I like consistency, and swapping one familiar face for another once every fifty years or so is far less stressful to me than trying to hire new talent in the same interval. The Perettes have been my guards and companions for decades. I have been trying to help them since the beginning of our arrangement.

Humans are also fascinated by immortality. They have thousands of stories about people who, despite all logic and reason, simply fail to die. There's even a song or two on the topic. Some of them have devoted entire planets to extending lifespans and the associated health. Myself? I just want to keep them around, in good health, for longer than their usual time.

My people have been working on it for generations. I'm merely using the research and results of my predecessors. That, and I'm motivated by my Pam.

She is closer to me than she should be. The experiments have proven successful on her family and the gengineering is looking successful, but... She will not live any number of years closer to mine. I will have her with me for close to two hundred years. That is an immense breakthrough for Humanity, but... not nearly enough for me.

Call me selfish, but I am not ready to bid her farewell. I do not want her to leave so soon. Though she is happy with me, and content to spend her time in my life, and welcome me in hers... Two hundred years past her firm adulthood is not enough. Not for me. Especially since fifty of those are doomed to be spend in degradation of her body and associated pain.

We've already spoken of the B'Nari methods of brain patterning and artificial or cloned bodies... She is morally opposed to having a second or even a third meat suit. Pam does not want to live in a robot, nor cost a potential life to be overwhelmed by hers. She says it's creepy.

I cannot pay for my selfish desire to keep her with her discomfort. So I continue my work, I continue trying to slow her telomeres from decay if I cannot yet stop them. Buying one more decade at a time is worth it, so long as it doesn't cost her any discomfort.

Her smile is my greatest treasure. I would not besmirch it just to have the rest of her around. Should she die before I can help her and her family completely? I don't know if I could continue.

Who wants to live forever anyway?

#  Challenge #247: Looking For the Light

The human had seen his entire ship destroyed. It had been a sneak attack, an ambush. He fought for hours, it felt like months to him, but in the end, the pirates had overwhelmed them by sheer numbers. The only reason he survived was because one of his crewmates had done a "hail mary" maneuver and jettisoned an engine that had gone critical. The pirates were so badly damaged from that explosion that they were no longer able to go after what they'd come for. He had managed to get into an escape pod which, after being picked up by a havenworlder's transport, got him to a spaceport. But now he was alone, everyone he cared for was gone, and every part of him wanted to join them. How do havenworlders help a man who has given up on life itself? How do they react, when they find him unconscious after a botched attempt at suicide? – BrighidRaven

There was one survivor. A Human whose nameplate declared them as Jenkins. They didn't say a word when the Anisoptae found them. They hadn't said a word for weeks. The Anisoptae tried their best to provide intermediate therapy, but Human Jenkins remained unresponsive.

Human Jenkins didn't want to talk at all. They did not respond to physical contact. They did not wish to get involved in any kind of activity that the Anisoptae attempted. Human Jenkins just... sat there. Staring. Not at anything at all, it was more like they were staring across space and time at something they found disturbing. They went through life like an automated machine.

Though they hurried to reach a Human medical expert, they could not get there fast enough. Something was bound to break, and it was the Human Jenkins. Deathworlders only seem invulnerable by comparison to the more fragile Havenworlders. They do have their vulnerabilities, some of them were inside their own heads.

Weeks out from a station where they could find help, Zyrzzyk went to cue Human Jenkins into their actions for the day. They expected to find the Human in their sleep nook, staring at nothing, and waiting for life to happen. Life was not going to happen easily that day - as Human Jenkins was in the relative privacy of their ablution module, having attempted to cause a fatal injury.

The Anisoptae saved them, and Human Jenkins gave no sign of gratitude, disappointment, or acknowledgement. When finally prompted into speech, all they said was, "They died so I could live. Why?"

There was no answer. There never could be an answer to that question. There could be best guesses, there could be hopeful guesses, there could be wishful ones... but the people who could answer it truthfully were dead and gone. Lost in a core explosion that laid waste to all vessels in the area. Even the lifepod Human Jenkins was found in had suffered immense amounts of damage. They were lucky to be alive.

Human Jenkins didn't seem to want being that lucky.

It took months to figure out why. The Humans called it Survivor's Guilt. The simple want to be with their pack-bonded allies.

Even when those pack-bonded allies were dead and gone.

#  Challenge #248: A Perfectly Normal Chip-shop Keeper

Too many of the one name so, Evans the milk, Evans the bread and Evans the dragon, nice man, doesn't play Rugby though. – Anon Guest

There's always an Evans family in any given village in Wales. Often, there's more than one Evans family in any given location in Wales. It's a very popular surname. In order to distinguish Evanses apart, there are associated eke names. Additional surnames, sur-surnames if you will. You get names like Evans the Milk - the Evans who works as a milkman; Evans the Brick - the Evans who works as a bricklayer; Evans the Spark - the Evans who works as an electrician; and Evans the Drive - the Evans who works as a taxi driver.

You get a lot of that in Wales.

In the little mountainside town of Cilfachgorsaf-ddefaid there are so many Evanses that they have an Evans the Dragon. He works in a chip shop and is one of those people who've been there forever. Well. Just about everyone who lives there has been there all their lives, but... Evans the Dragon has somehow been there _longer_.

He knows the old Evanses who have long since retired. He knows the young Evanses and their families. He knows everyone, even the lost tourists who stumbled across it on their way to some summer festival and have never set foot in Ireland before. He has an easy smile and has seemingly met the entire world's whole family.

Everyone agrees he's a very nice man. Nobody at all is certain how old he is. Nobody has asked why he's never in the town-wide rugby games. He's just always in his chip shop and seems to know what you want to buy there when you happen to wander in. In fact, there's your exact order fresh out of the deep fryer as you walk in. It would be spooky, except the people who live there are so used to it that they don't question it.

Just like they never ask _why_ he's called Evans the Dragon.

Never mind how close you enter to opening hours, when other chip shops are still warming up the coconut oil, Evans the Dragon has his hot and ready, as well as your order fresh out of the fryer for you. Of course, with a name like that, there is some jocular speculation regarding his actual draconic nature. But it's never more than a joke.

Actual Dragons alive and well in modern Wales? That was ridiculous. There had to be another reason for the sur-surname.

Pity nobody can tell what that is.

#  Challenge #249: All Perfectly Reasonable

Just because I have demonic powers doesn't mean that I'm a bad guy, and I have valid reason murdering 36 people. – Anon Guest

"Was it the voices?" said Lady Anthe.

The Warlock smiled. "You mock me, but you can't understand. Ardnassac can remember the future, so he bids me to alter it for a better world. There's so much disaster that each and every one of those people could have caused. Averted now." A smile that was so deep in the uncanny valley that it needed its own illumination to get around. "That one... will raise an army to defeat Ardnassac and must be terminated."

Marvin got between the Warlock and the small child they'd just rescued. "Considering that you essentially murdered their entire home hamlet... I'd say they're vindicated for wanting to do that."

"The babe is three years old," said Wraithvine. "Do not do this. It is a crime above crimes."

"Ardnassac sees... Ardnassac knows. The child remembers the crimes of... a... warlock..." now they paused as the slow and steady tide of realisation grew and swept them under. "Have we been making disasters? Ardnie? Talk to me."

Steelfoot pulled the trigger of her latest device. A starmetal dart, propelled by a powerful spring, tore through the air and embedded itself in the Warlock's heart. It was prophecied that the weapons of Man could not harm him, and that was true. Steelfoot, a woman, had invented and made every single piece of her high-powered crossbow, dart and all. It was therefore not the weapon of man.

Blood spilled out of the Warlock's mouth. "You... cheated..." he said, and died.

"Ardnassac," Lady Anthe repeated, committing the name to memory. "That's a demon we'll have to take down for good and all. Just to protect those who still have a choice."

Wraithvine was already studying the Warlock's tome for information. "That's going to be a long-term one," they said. "Good thing we have allies."

"An entire army's worth?" guessed Marvin.

Prophecies have a way of coming true. It's all down to the wording, really.

#  Challenge #250: Special Case

A: ok, bending spacetime to your will is very dangerous and it can kill you

B: you do it all the time and you just did it right now to grab your coffee mug

A:......... I'm a special case – Anon Guest

"What exactly makes you so darn special, then?" Arloest demanded.

"Well, for starters, I've been working on this for seven hundred years," said Thalemoor. "Second, I'm actually a Silver Dragon. I'm basically a cousin to one of the oldest gods. You can more or less assume that my kind and I are _used_ to these levels of nonsense."

"Nonsense? _Nonsense_?" Arloest raved. "These are cosmic secrets of ultimate magic! I need this stuff to defeat the Malevolence of T'kraal." In fact, explaining the entire chain of aggravation that lead to the Malevolence of T'kraal and the rise of truly demonic levels of evil would likely take a day that Arloest didn't have.

Thalemoor, currently appearing to be an older Elf, all in hues of silver and white, raised a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow. "I haven't heard of _them_... I'm guessing it's bad business for you to come all the way here and seek me out."

"Bad business? This complete crungenut is a worse threat to the world and all the associated planes since the Great Cataclysm. He's breaching the gaps between the planar systems and trying to lock power into his corrupted gemstones. He's draining the life and power from literally everything."

"I've never heard anything of such malevolence described as a _crungenut_ before."

"I swore a sacred vow to never swear. Trust me, this is straining its very fibre of being."

Thalemoor consulted a crystal sphere. "Hm. Yes. Crungenut indeed. I can't convey the knowledge you need in the time needed to deliver it. What I _can_ do is give my knowledge in the form of my assistance. I will join your cause in defeating the Malevolence of T'kraal and reversing the damage he's caused."

Arloest felt like she could finally breathe again.

"However..."

"Oh no..."

"There are others we will need to gather together in order to win."

Fabulous. A fetch-escort quest. "Can it be made to happen quickly?" begged Arloest.

#  Challenge #251: The Mikado's Song

Puns: a beautiful amalgamation of the language it derives from, and that situation that comes forth. – Anon Guest

Of all the atrocities committed by the English, I give you one that has passed into the levels of international crime, yet has also passed almost unnoticed by the law. I give you - the pun.

Words are plastic. Meaning is malleable. One word can sound enough like another to make the actual joke hit like a missile. It is a form of cruel and unusual punishment metered out by those smart enough to create them, to those smart enough to understand them. The kind of joke where the punchline is not greeted with laughter, but with moans of pain.

Only _Humans_ could come up with a style of humour specifically centred on the mental anguish it could deliver. One reliant, specifically, on the easy confusion between words. Further, some puns only work best when they are read in text format, and cannot be communicated verbally. This is simply because the words sound so alike that they cannot be a pun in an audio-only environment. Yet, Humanity did not stop there.

Enter - the visual pun. Once allowed to crossbreed with memetic humour, there were no limits. Ease of use of graphical manipulation programs only made creating them easier. This in a world where a specific arrangement of vertical and horizontal lines can evoke anger and the meaning 'loss' at the same time. Where a cartoon dog sitting in the middle of a house fire is 'fine'. Entire stories can be evoked with these nouveaux hieroglyphics. Most of them make the reader mad.

As to _why_ it is deemed funny to make the receivers of a joke angry... The answer lies in the anger that is created. There are many types of fury known to the Human mind. There's destructive anger, which -of course- results in its sufferer destroying things, not always physical things, but destruction occurs nonetheless. There is also intellectual anger, in which the sufferer is mad about things on a conceptual level, but none comes out as physical violence.

It is quite the phenomenon, and unpredictable in its occurrence.

Just be wary when you travel into Human space. If you encounter a culture that professes to love language and education - they will mangle language and infuse linguistic acrobatics into every conversation they can. Fortunately there is a clear 'tell' for those unable to find such data on the infonets. Places with abundant Humans of a more cerebral bent are less likely to clean their public areas often.

Thusly, the pun-ishment fits the grime.

#  Challenge #252: Free Will

When humans went to war in the past, they created weapons that can kill their enemies quickly and painlessly. As such they banned weapons and ammunition like hollow point bullets, flamethrowers, and any weapons that don't kill humans as quickly as possible. – Anon Guest

They say war never changes. They lie. What actually never changes is the depths to which combatants will sink to in order to gain a victory -any kind of victory- over the other side. Germ warfare is as old as the ability to fling a corpse over some fortified walls, or to leave one upstream of the besieged city's water supply. Murdering the innocent and unarmed is even older than that.

In war, more civilians die than any number of soldiers. They remain uncounted because they are civilians. They aren't important to the movers and shakers who create the wars in the first place. In war, there are terms of combat and the main battle is in seeing which side decides to ignore those first. Or which side can create a supremely vile weapon which wasn't discussed in the original terms of combat. New and more disgusting or horrifying ways to end the opposing forces.

First, of course, was germ warfare. Predating even the germ theory of disease dispersal. Next, came an assortment of attacks on supply chains. Burning the fields, diverting the water, or addicting the populace to debilitating drugs. Following that came mass poison. Adulterating the water supply has always been popular, but when they discovered how to adulterate the _air_. Gas attacks became the new terror. From there, things could only escalate.

Mustard gas. Nerve gas. Aerosolized pathogens. Humanity, especially, goes out of its way to kill the populace but leave the infrastructure intact. It's not about killing quickly, any more, to make certain that the other soldier doesn't get up to kill you or your friend. It's about spreading fear.

Terror has been weaponised. Ignorance and misinformation work hand in hand to spread ideas like a plague. Falsehoods like The Great Replacement, or the idea that the Other is also a terrorist, or the fear of the Thug who is not like a proper, upstanding citizen like yourself. Of course _you're_ a proper, upstanding citizen. You're not one of _Them_. In order to prove that you're not one of _Them_ , nor sympathise with _Them_ , you repeat the horrible untruths to all your friends, lest they get infected with Themness.

So an ideology may spread, and suddenly perfectly nice people think it's okay to massacre everyone in a primary school, a place of worship, a gathering of the devout, a shopping mall... all because there were too many of _Them_ going there. As for the innocent bystanders? Well... they can't have been _that_ innocent, as they were tolerating the presence of _Them_.

With war sinking to the level of memetically-propagated hatred, it is harder and harder to end. Radicalisation of the citizenry leads to the destruction of historical monuments when people aren't available to slaughter. Without a past, the radicals can make the future into anything they like.

Hatred is the true poison. Not just in the air, but in the words we speak. In the ideas we believe. We don't even have a way to detect it, nor to erase its presence once it's got in. Hatred is the toxin without a decent cure, without a recovery rate... without a hope.

Hatred erases rationality. Hatred makes excuses. Hatred deceives the hater into believing that they are strong, that they are right, that they are fighting for their very way of life when, in fact, little such threat exists.

Hatred _lies_.

Fight it if you can. Choose peace. Choose to help your neighbour. Choose to assist. Choose the light.

Despite what hatred tells you, there is always a choice.

#  Challenge #253: The Mystery Deepens

I read one of your short story of how how the rarity of humans and elves are swapped, and thought this:

A: "Based off these texts this Human is of the European breed."

B: "But that's impossible the closest Human gate is in a-siá I think."

A: "Blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin like elves. Shorten the ears and lifespan you get a European Human."

B: "Still how would it even get here, it takes days to get here from the gate." – Anon Guest

AN: This prompt harkens back to [ this thing ]

In an Elven village somewhere reasonably close to Omnidale, and Elf named Klimantyne is attempting to raise a small, probably intelligent being he has named Ham. So far, Klimantyne has learned that Ham is omnivorous, a fast learner, and an absolute little devil for getting into anything and everything. The best news was that Ham knew what a privy was for. The worst was that the little dickens had figured out how to undo quite a lot of locking mechanisms.

Ham picked up the Trader Tongue a lot quicker than they could manage Elven, so that was the primary means of communication. Especially when Klimantyne was trying to make things clear.

"This is no," said Klimantyne. "No Ham room. Much danger, yes? No want Ham be hurt."

"Pretty," argued Ham.

"Yes, they are very pretty," agreed Klimantyne. "They are also very heavy. They could squish you flat. One wrong move and no more Ham."

Ham whimpered and zoomed in for reassurance. Klimantyne scooped them up in a warm embrace. "There, now. Just stay safe, eh? Stay away from the very big things."

"...m'kay," Ham murmured, not letting go.

Klimantyne thusly had to keep carrying his charge as he answered the door. It was far too early to receive new goods from his cadre of artists. As it became evident, his visitor was not a tapestry artist, but rather a friend and neighbour, Pohmgranaat. He had a book.

"I found Ham," he said, grinning from ear to pointed ear. "I've been scouring the library since you brought them home -hi, baby... and I couldn't find any evidence in the scientific texts or compendia of intelligent life. Instead... I found him in Lymontrii's Fanciful Tales for Small Children." Frantic page flipping to a specific entry... and there was Ham. Dappled skin, pale hair and eyes. "These are the kind from the distant lands of... Eh'ur'opeh. Far to the north. A ridiculous land where it snows for half the year and monsterous animals roam."

Ham, turning to look at the brightly-coloured illustrations, pointed to an illustration of a Human wearing a bear skin and carrying a sword. "Ham," they said, excited. "It's Ham!"

"It looks a lot like you, yes," agreed Klimantyne. "This one is a lot older. Were you bigger when you were younger?"

Ham thought this amusing, giggling, "No-o-o-o... Silly Papa."

'Papa' was a word that came with Ham. Something they had said to describe a caregiver in the days before some people in the Underdark managed to trap them for their vile trade. Ham's use of it for Klimantyne made the Elven trader feel oddly warm inside.

"Well, this has to be someone else then."

The ritual of bedtime -Ham could not achieve Elven meditation- that evening included some stories of the Humans until the little being fell asleep.

E'ur'opé sounded like an unlikely place for any kind of intelligent life to exist. Snows for half the year. Wolves the size of bears and bears the size of elephants. Houses that walked on chicken legs, and wildlife that could converse like intelligent creatures[75]. Considering the hazards inherent in taking a walk through the woods, it was no wonder that creatures like Ham were scarce.

...there _was_ also that seemingly large self-destructive streak, which was closer to home and far more likely than walking houses or talking birds.

Wherever they had come from, Klimantyne was certain of one thing - it was not worth the risk to find out how to get there.

[75] I'm taking a chance and figuring that some stories told by Humans would spread further than the Humans themselves.

#  Challenge #254: Wilful Air Adulteration

They were out on a scientific survey of a new planet and pirates were on their tail. They knew they had at least two hours before they were caught and their ship had little by way of weaponry. They made their ship's human his favorite, but usually forbidden unless they were planet-side where there was lots of fresh air, meal. Hot dogs and BEANS! As he smiled, thanked them, and dug in to his meal, the gas masks were being handed out. The pirates boarded, thinking it would be an easy win. As the air grew hard to breathe, even their livesuits were struggling, they never knew what hit them. – BKFecyk

_Don't be a pirate if you can't afford the suit_ \- a peculiar saying in the Edge territories.

Submitted for your education, the Battle of the _Far Sniffer_. The vessel was on a scientific mission in the Edge and had therefore hired a Human to be their bodyguard/assistant/hazard deterrent. Fortunately, Human Jef was good at their job. Unfortunately, they greatly favoured dishes that resulted in noxious fumes emitting from their digestive system.

Those meals _were_ restrained to open-air environments, simply because his sulphurous eructations were too strong for the low-budget filters on the cheaper livesuits available to both public and private organisations. Too strong, and -as many complained- too frequent. Human Jef was greatly amused by this, and obeyed the _Far Sniffer_ 's rules. That is, until the pirate ship attacked.

They made the mistake of hailing their intended prey before docking or otherwise penetrating the hull. They had evidently had many success by asking their prey to prepare for surrender. Indeed, they had far better weaponry and could condemn the _Far Sniffer_ to a long and lonely death, far from home or help.

The crew, dedicated scientists all, secured their samples and prepared them to be found at a later date. They left final messages... and allowed Human Jef to have their favourite food. Hot dogs, beans, and fried onions. Human Jef had three helpings, and made sure that the crew had their hand-crafted air filters on.

"No worries," they said. "Reckon those pirates are in for a shocker."

The pirates had plenty of expensive weapons, but when they entered the _Far Sniffer_ , something else became evident. They, too, had only invested in the cheapest of livesuits. It could filter out actual toxins from the air, but the noxious sulphur scent remained. It wasn't toxic, but it was unbearable.

The effect on the pirates was not immediate. They had just enough time to provide shock and awe before they began to collapse from the abundant fumes. Thus allowing the prepared crew to immobilise them and contain them for later delivery in a bastion of civilisation.

It wasn't the first time a Human used their digestive system as a weapon, and it certainly wasn't the last... but it _was_ the most notable.

#  Challenge #255: Our New Friend

We have a lot of "dragons" in our history, whether they be a legend, fairytale, myth or cultural history. Humans find that there is a dragon-like species that matches many of there historical depictions of their dragons, but are treated like outcasts. The Alliance, not knowing this, get a little worried when they threatened about the dragons. While humans try to make the dragons feel less like outcasts. – Anon Guest

At first, the Humans thought it was a joke. Galactic Alliance maps held pictograms showing the intelligent species that lived within any given territory, though some were so small that an observer would have to zoom in. The territory of the Drakkoen was large and had a picture that the Humans instantly recognised.

"You're kidding, right?" they would say. "Here there be dragons? For real?"

The patient map-holder would have to explain that, yes, that was a real territory and those were the real _Deathworlder_ beings who lived there and yes, they really were dangerous and– why are you jotting down co-ordinates, Human? Following this was the dawning horror that the Human or Humans were actively planning to go there and say 'hello'.

On one hand, this was clear evidence of Human insanity. On the other, it could be a case of, "Set a Deathworlder to deal with Deathworlders," and one problem might just cancel the other out.

They never anticipated the Humans making _friends_. Usually, be it Vorax or any other hostile Deathworlder, the Humans would beat them back, reach an impasse, or otherwise establish a boundary. _This_ time, the Humans took one look at giant, gliding, lizard-like beings[76] and decided unanimously that they were going to be _best friends_.

Negotiations did not proceed with the usual Human shock and awe, but a careful series of close encounters followed by attempts at friendly trade. The Galactic Alliance held their collective breaths as disparate Human polities, empires, and colonial ranges actively worked together to _make friends with real Dragons, you guys!_

The good news for the newly-formed United Fellowship of Terran Planets was, they made friends.

The bad news for the Galactic Alliance was, now there was an alliance of Deathworlders on their borders.

Now everyone who heard the news knew. _Humans would spread their pack-bonding around towards ANYTHING._

[76] The ability for individual flight is counter to the ability to develop cogniscence. If you can just fly away from all your problems, then there's no need for brains.

#  Challenge #256: Do No Harm

_In her late teens, early 20's, she went into space to learn to be a medic. From the time she was a small child, she had wanted to be someone who saved lives. She was a Lucker with a twist. For though she never won at cards, dice, or at any game she played, when it came to the struggle between life and death, death would always lose. And she had vowed, no matter her patient be a friend or an enemy, death would never win. –_ DaniAndShali

_I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures that are required..._ – Hippocratic Oath.

Allie was obsessed. What she was obsessed with was medicine and medical help. _Alliance-wide_ medicine and medical help. She searched the infonets for all free information on how to help the assembled cogniscent species of the Alliance, and even those who existed in or near the Edge. Every day, she would find something new. Every day, there was something new to know.

Her first rescue happened when she was eight. Her school was on a field trip to a museum to see... something. It was forgotten by her adulthood, but she never forgot the Fethrix woman. As part of the gathering and show, small refreshments were going around. Simpler fare because some of the more resilient Havenworlders were present. Many didn't think twice about the nuts on the cupcakes, but Allie did. When the Fethrix woman began to have a reaction, Allie knew exactly what it was and how to administer the correct medication. That was the day she knew she was going to be a Medik.

It wasn't easy. The worthwhile things never are. Even with her obsession, it was years of study, tests, onsite training, and the mandatory running around and doing the essential menial tasks that are overlooked until they are not done. Working as an assistant to a doctor, running triage, listening to patients... it took years.

One test was a surprise. The Luck Factor test. People entering Galactic Space - especially humans - had to be genetically tested for the Luck Gene. It was a safety issue and some certain Luckers could never travel off planet because of it. Some, once tested, had to live inside a bunker in the bottom of a hole underneath a mountain and communicate exclusively by telepresence. Fortunately for Allie, she had an interesting variant of the usual Luck permutations.

Her Luck was in gifting others with it.

Have you ever heard the phrase, "Lucky you were here"? That applied directly to Allie. When death was on the line, she always one. Her first idea was always the best one. She learned to use it, to hone her Luck like a knife, to trust that she could win against Death.

Not all death. Not all the time. Even in the twenty-fifth century, some things are inevitable. However, if it could be prevented, Allie was the bulwark against mortality.

One might think that this would lead her to being an exclusive servant of the elite, of the wealthy or of the powerful. Such was not the case. She spent most of her time in one of the more extensive Medik Hubs, where she dealt almost exclusively in kill-or-cure cases.

Cure always won.

When she toured on the Edge, as all Mediks must, one of the patients was a Vorax captive who attempted to opt for death before dishonour. It took her five hours, some intensive surgery, and several medication options that had not been options before that day, but the captive survived.

That Vorax would provide so much useful information, and not just in battle strategy or tactics. Just a glimpse of everyday life for these Deathworlders was enough to develop new negotiation lines. Thus ending war in a different direction.

#  Challenge #257: Solid, Documented, Scientific Evidence

There has been a new thesis being passed around about this development about a new transverse electromagnetic wave that move a supersonic speed, nothing can surpass it without a warp drive, and can pass through nearly everything. A human picked up the thesis and said "isn't this just light?" Apparently the human was in part of the galaxy where many forms of life didn't need sight. – Anon Guest

Welcome to the Edge Territories. Things get weird. Havenworlders mingle with Deathworlders at their own risk. Livesuits are sold on the kind of hostile environment they could help the wearer survive, and the fragility of the being who could survive in there. Where the Pterops and Crystates are meeting with a specifically safe variant of Deathworlder known as Humans.

Things were doing well on a Galactic Standard Science Vessel registered as the _Sciencer EVR890_ as the combined Havenworlders went about their business, studying the universe. Monitoring emissions from the stars.

"What is this?" muttered Thyrk as she listened to her readings. "This is dung! How can an emission be both wave and particle based on differing observations?" Frantic and furious interface tapping. "I can _not_ be hearing this. It can't be real."

This gathered a cluster of fellow scientists, who did what scientists do - take the readings, examine them, and then take them again to be certain of what they took. The results were annoyingly consistent. The waveform was, indeed, a particle when observed under certain conditions, and an electromagnetic waveform in others. Worse, it could travel right through certain solid substances.

It was baffling. It was infuriating. It was scientifically impossible. Nobody seemed to know what it was, why it was, or how it was, it just... _was_. Worse, it was everywhere. Stars emitted it. Navigational aids in the hallways emitted it. Some of the flat surfaces in the ship emitted it.

Only the Ships' Human, Kev, seemed to find this all amusing. "Dude," they exclaimed. "You're all making a fuss over _light_?"

This would be roughly equivalent to hearing a barbarian laugh at you for not being able to solve a quantum physics equation, then walking you through the solution with a handy patch of dirt and a stick.

The amusement continued. "Man, wait until you find out about rainbows. It's going to be a blast."

#  Challenge #258: Butsuri Mage

There is a famous or infamous trends that been happening in the anime community of people going to other worlds and become the most broken character in the series, called the isekai genre. So let set this up. You've been transported to another world. You had been studying some post grad physics and know a thing or two about the world. But in this world, there's magic and it is heavily influenced by how the world works in yours. Soon enough you became the most powerful mage in existence. – Anon Guest

One moment, Shin had been browsing a crowded old curio store of the Escherian variety[77], the next, he was falling from a purple sky towards an open field of low plants. Not that he could see in that great a detail from that height. The next surprise, after coming to terms with the rapidly-approaching ground, was the animal person who rose to greet him. It was easy to tell they were an animal person. They were people-shaped, covered in fur, and had a snout and pointy ears.

...and very pointy teeth when they grinned. "You're new," they cheered, and caught Shin in a hug. "I'm helping!"

What happened next would be confusing until it was explained to him. The rate of their fall slowed, and assorted strawberries from the fields below zoomed upwards into the air around them. First, the fattest strawberries bordering on being too overripe, then the smaller and greener ones until stones and clods of earth elevated from the field. They only elevated a few inches, because by then they were safely close to ground level.

The earth fell first. The fruit fell with an interesting splat, covering them all with strawberry juices. "Hi," said the animal person, tail wagging furiously. "I'm Koinu, and we're going to be best friends." As if to prove this, they enthusiastically began licking strawberry juice off of Shin.

Shin tried to fend the creature off, still confused as to the goings on, when another impossible being appeared. They were clearly an Elf, the pointy ears and indescribable beauty were dead giveaways. "I see you've met my apprentice. Good morrow, I am Janshiru, and you are the Hero Foretold."

That was just the beginnings of Shin's bizarre adventures under the purple sky. Learning the art of Butsuri Mage. What surprised him was how easy it was to grasp the fundamentals. It was, after all, simply physics. Physics that could be pushed and pulled by the will of the wielder, but physics nonetheless. Koinu was a little bit bitchy about his fast pace of learning, and his ability to outpace her in the space of a couple of months. She couldn't help it, after all. She _was_ a dog person.

[77] As in, the geometry of the store could have easily been drawn by M. C. Escher. One can climb three sets of stairs, whilst browsing the labyrinthine shelving, and surface near the front door. Or at least, it's easy to believe that could be possible.

#  Challenge #259: Weapons of Mass Amusement

it was all fun and games until humans found medieval style energy weapons – Anon Guest

"So this is like an electric ballista?" had never before been words of impending doom, but these were _Humans_ who were doing the talking. "The spearpoint is a trigger for a giant capacitor, right? Delivering a blast of excess electrons to the target."

"Er. Yes," said Museum Director Gorx, who was starting to believe this tour had been a mistake[78]. "The use of this weapons against enemy forces has been forbidden since the Treaty of the Arminath Pass."

Then the Human said the true words of impending doom. "Ooooh, what does _this_ one do?" They were standing near a frame that was almost like a cranefly without its wings. "I can see a plasma generator, there, and a hinge, and... a magnetic field initiator in the basket arrangement." The Human gasped and grinned. "Please tell me this is a plasma trebuchet!"

Museum Director Gorx quickly consulted the infonets to find out what a 'trebuchet' was. The file they found had a small, instructional video. Oh dear. "The principal is similar," they allowed, "but that weapon creates a self-contained plasma ball and launches it at a hypothetical foe."

"No way. It shoots _ball lightning_?" Instead of being horrified, the Human was enthusiastic. "Please tell me you have a range where we can play with replicas?"

Museum Director Gorx, far ahead of the curve as it turns out, weighed the potential devastation in the balance and found themself wanting better insurance. "No," they said.

[78] Hindsight being 20/20, Museum Director Gorx is only slightly ahead of the bell curve by coming to this realisation before major structural damage has occurred. Let's see if they manage to prevent some.

#  Challenge #260: Proof Positive

Don't mind me, I'm just listening to "back in black" with Tesla coils _– Anon Guest_

For those who need proof that Humans, a class four point five Deathworld species, are the indomitable space orcs everyone says they are, look no further than the Zeusaphone.

Humanity harnessed the electron. Harnessed electromagnetic radiation. They used both to make music. They used it to create artificial lightning. Then they noticed that the lightning could make music-like _sounds_. The faraday cage, always boon to those who 'played' with Tesla Coils[79], soon evolved into the Faraday _Suit_ , and dance joined the performances of musical lightning.

Then Humanity had to further what they called "The Fun" by making merchandised Tesla Coil _kits_. Now just anyone with enough knowhow to read and follow instructions could have tamed lightning in the relative safety of their own home. Which meant that just anyone could play their music via bolts of plasma.

It's amazing they got to space, really. It's almost miraculous that they created colonies on other worlds and astounding that the proceeded to use such colonial expansion as a means of dumping the unwanted portions of the populace.

Humanity has made many interesting worlds. Humanity has made many interesting things. If Humans have one flaw, it is that of their administrative bodies, and the lack of foresight in any established system that they have created. Dumping people down wormholes now only works in the short term, as their descendants come back to sue the planets governing bodies for retroactive damages. Yet, the governing bodies insisted on maintaining it as a 'peacekeeping policy' no matter how deeply in debt it got them as a direct result.

That's Humans for you. Their own worst enemy in every way you could imagine.

[79] Frankly, that phrasing alone should tell you everything you were never prepared to know about the dominant Human psyche.

#  Challenge #261: Which War Game

" _So you're telling me... that you have an actual WAR GAME!!" – Anon Guest_

The Humans had been playing Symbolically Kill Your Friends with something called Water Guns. Traxx, watching the mayhem, was rather puzzled, and asked the obvious question: "This is a game of hunting, or a game of war?"

Human Deb answered, "Oh we have loads of games of war." Then they casually shot their ally across the hall.

Which lead to the next question: "How much number is 'loads'?" Which, Traxx had to admit, came out with more than a vague note of panic in it.

The game the Humans were playing ground to a halt as the Ships' Humans attempted to figure that out. There was a card game with that name and an argument as to whether team sports count. One of the few they all agreed on was dodgeball. That was definitely a game of war.

Then they commenced to argue about the tabletop simulations, LARP wargames where participants pretended to fight with blank rounds, including pretending to die on cue. Then there was a game called Skirmish, in which opposing teams of Humans shot each other with paint balls.

Traxx surrendered at that point. " _All_ your team games are war!"

Human Deb said, "Huh. Never thought of it that way before."

#  Challenge #262: Tolerance Overload

Genders are like the twin towers; there was two of them, now it's a sensitive topic. – Anon Guest

[AN: Oh boy, am I glad you're an Anon or I'd track you down and logically explain how this is so wrong on multiple levels]

There were rainbow flags everywhere. People wore their identities on their chests, on their faces, around their wrists and draped over their shoulders like a caped hero. Dave only knew what half of those colour combos meant, and was afraid to ask about the other half. Still, a party was a party and Dave was never one to turn down discounted booze on account of who was partying.

This bar was relatively quiet, and Dave welcomed that. It was the kind of place where people gathered to get away from the noise a little, though it was still jumping. He picked a spot next to someone who was apparently not part of the party crowd and said, "Genders are like the twin towers; there was two of them, now it's a sensitive topic."

The person who turned had a flag-striped bow in their hair. Blue, pink, white, pink, then blue. Dave had no idea what that one was, but he knew that this one was one of the party people after all. "Excuse me? Is that an attempt at a joke?"

"Uh. Yeah? Are you one of those snowflakes who are easily offended or something?"

"Dude, I have people arguing whether or not I can visit a public bathroom without getting harassed about it. My offensensitivity has been dulled by constant abrasion. Nevertheless... that wasn't funny. At all. There's so much wrong with that statement I dunno where to even start."

"Uh... Good?"

"Not good," said the person at the bar. "One. Grammatically incorrect. It's 'were' two of them - not 'was'. Two. Emotionally deaf. The twin towers attack was a hideous disaster that cost thousands of lives, both in the attack and the war afterwards that paved the way towards the rise of Isis and other terrorist groups that have been a pain in America's ass for literal years. Too. Soon. Three. Presumptively incorrect. Bold of you to assume that there were ever only two genders. Four. Scientifically incorrect. Gender and the assumptive qualities thereof are a byproduct of the culture around us– hey!"

They had caught him trying to leave, and moved to block his way. "You dropped this bomb, pal, you hang around for the fallout."

A big, burly wall of human flesh that Dave had assumed was a guy moved to join the blocking. "Yeah, buddy. You need an education." That was a warrior woman. A valkyrie. One of the ones who slaughtered the unworthy before taking them to a frozen and desolate hell.

Dave swallowed nervously and sat back down for a quick course in gender and identity throughout history, with respect to global cultures before the British went all over the world and ruined everything for everyone forever.

"Five," said the lecturer, "Educationally incorrect. We learn that there are two genders in third grade just like we learn that there are only seven colours in the spectrum. In the real world, there's way more variety than that. I bet you could name ten colours without hitting the seven in the rainbow."

"We can name at least three genders without hitting the common two," said the valkyrie.

"The only thing you got right was that it's a sensitive topic," said the lecturer. "But the people who are most often offended are heteronormative, white, alleged christians like yourself. Keep your politics out of our party. Thanks."

They let him go, and Dave didn't try out that joke ever again. Like it or not, he had learned better.

#  Challenge #263: A General Warning

" _Do you wanna go with me, [fellow Havenworlder]? Human Frank invited me to a showing of one of his favourite - what's the word? Ah,"movies"! No, stop screaming! This one is just some made-up story about wooden mush or something. Sounds pretty safe, probably not much violence there."_

[ten minutes into Pulp Fiction]

" _AAAAAAAAAAAAH!" – Anon Guest_

Never trust Human entertainments. They are made by Deathworlders, for Deathworlders and, for many years after they met and learned about Havenworlders, about Deathworlders. They assume, in their typical egocentric way, that all species are more or less like them. It doesn't matter how wrong they are nor how often they are that wrong. They will keep making that assumption for many years yet.

Even the entertainments aimed at their young have to enter the Galactic Standards Distribution scene with copious warning labels for more sensitive species. Frequent entertainments for Human young contain one or more deceased, dying, or otherwise absent parental figures. Elders and household pets are frequently shown dying. Human young are taught about mortality early.

Sudden loud noises, uncanny valley imagery, supernatural elements, unnatural abilities, and an assortment of similar things are viewed by Humans as 'safe viewing' for their young. What is not safe, apparently, is excessive gore and nudity. Those things are solely for _adult_ Humans, or Humans who are close enough to adulthood to be considered nearly immune. It should not need to be said that Havenworlders should check the cautions list against their own resistance levels before viewing _any_ Human entertainments. Yes, even _Boobahs_ [80].

Let's not get started on the entire Talking Animal genre. This has lead to many a diplomatic error that, thankfully, the Humans are over-prepared to forgive. They recognise its their own fault for creating the mis-assumption, and are generously at ease with the mistakes it causes.

Animated and puppetry violence is often more extreme than live action violence. This is because neither animated nor puppet figures are real and therefore more can be done against them than could be tolerated by a living being. Even then, Humans spend a majority of their time figuring out ways to make it _look_ like a living Human is tolerating levels of pain and endurance that only a cartoon or puppet character could believably achieve... all without actually hurting the Human involved.

Believe it or not, it took the Humans _years_ to develop laws that prevented harm coming to actors both Human and Nonhuman.

_Always_ check the offensensitivity notices published by the Galactic Standards Committee.

[80] For the lucky unknowing: Boobahs is an entertainment for extremely small Humans that contains footage of rainbow, blobby humanoid figures apparently performing elementary calisthenics to assorted squeaky noises. This is somehow both completely harmless and oddly disturbing.

#  Challenge #264: You're in Trouble Now

Newscast Breaking news!

Successful but peaceful Human colony world "Nirvana" a category 2.5 Deathworld, gifted to the humans for their contributions during the Acridith Incursion, has been attacked via Orbital Bombardment. Casualties are expected to be to be in the in the 10's of thousands, with the Injured numbering in the Millions.

The Vorax Empire has immediately distanced themselves from the atrocity and ,in a once unfathomable move, has offered aid, condemning the unknown aggressors for attempting to destabilise the most peaceful and prosperous period in galactic history. Humans are attending the colony world en mass, to render aid, medicine and shelter to survivors

All Heavenworlders are advised to avoid the region unless directly involved in the relief effort.

Humans as a species, while having a proclivity for war, have innate pursuit predatory abilities due to their Deathworlder evolution. Until now, Never had it been seen in the combined Allegiance, Vorax, or Human histories, a species wide predatory drive or hunt. Human scouting ships are are already tracking the distortion and slipstream wakes. – Adam From Darwin

In retrospect, the Humans said, they really should have named the planet something like _Asspit_. Planetary colonies with optimistic names always have a bad end. This made absolutely zero sense to the Vorax, but that's Humans for you. The species with the widest reputation for battle, war, and sudden death of their enemies is also, by pure happenstance, the goofiest.

Nevertheless, Nirvana was burning. The Humans who settled there weren't stupid. They had prepared for cataclysm and most were warned in time of the bombardment. Those who weren't... well... there was still an unfathomable number of the injured, dead, and dying. There were still epic amounts of ruin. Nirvana's crops this year were craters, burning fields, and an atmosphere of despair. Whoever attacked couldn't have selected a better time than Cyclone Season, thus whipping all the atomised ejecta all through the atmosphere and threatening a Fallout Winter.

The Vorax, by now, knew which side of the bread the whipped lactate fats were on, and immediately offered help. So, too, did a large volume of Humanity's allies, and those who felt in their cores that they owed Humanity a favour or three. Help _swarmed_ towards Nirvana. Large and small, those who had a duty, those who had an obligation, those who really shouldn't be there, all of them. Some who could do little more than carry things to where they were needed, or dole out rations, or roll bandages.

There was a definite sense that _Someone_ had attacked Nirvana. The meteoric and cometary debris that pummeled Nirvana on all sides was not a natural phenomenon. Those who detected the attack knew from the vectors that the oort debris was _aimed_. The assembled forces of science were now working on finding any and all traces of those who had aimed it. Someone, somewhere, was playing Silly Buggers, seemingly unaware that Humanity were already virtuosos.

With the Vorax on their side, the _other_ masters of mayhem, chaos, and destruction... well. All bets were on a near to total erasure of the responsible party. More moral sections of the Galactic Alliance pleaded for clemency or at least an effort at understanding why the attack had happened and maybe negotiations for reparations.

Revenge, after all, can only fill more graves.

_Nobody_ knew what was going to happen when the Humans and the Vorax found the perpetrators together. Given their mutual history, there was going to be a bloodbath of epic proportions. While the Vorax preferred quick raids or absolute extermination before retreat, the Humans were pursuit predators and could track something for _years_. No matter where they originated, no matter where they hid, Humans would find them, even if it was literal generations later.

Fortunately for everyone's nervous tension, the Humans found them. An aggressively xenophobic planetary polity known only as the Nux. They only sought out new worlds with new civilisations in order to tell them to keep the flakk away. Therefore, when the Vorax _and_ Human fleets turned up on their doorsteps, they were understandably upset. Followed shortly by being understandably panicked.

Their greeting message -if you could call it that- was, "What the flakk? You were supposed to be fighting each _other_ Zhyakk-damnit!"

The Human response was similarly epic. "Yyyeaaah, how's that working out for you?"

The Vorax went with the classics. "You have only succeeded in angering us all. Surrender or die."

Reparations were successfully negotiated very, _very_ quickly. Rather desperately, as the observers were wont to recount.

#  Challenge #265: Murder Most Satisfying

What if someone was addicted to murder? They had to kill someone one out of necessity, but enjoyed it too much. Now, they want to stop, but it's hard. – Anon Guest

You know all those hokey old serial killer dramas? The ones where the murderer always says that killing's a rush? They were right. There's no thrill like it, you know.

I know that watching the light die from that bastard's eyes was the closest I could get to heaven without dying first. I know for sure _he_ won't be going there. I'm... I'm not to certain about me. See, most of the time I'm perfectly ordinary. I do things like everyone else, but...

Once in a while... sometimes a long, long while... I want– no. I _need_ to kill. As the song says, there are so many assholes who just need killing. Well. The song doesn't say that in as many words, but the spirit is there. I _know_ there are horrible people in the world. We see them every day. We're taught to ignore them.

The first time was my abuser. I drove his body out to the middle of nowhere and walked home. Let the bears grow fat off him for all I care. The world didn't miss him. I swore I didn't know where he was when the few people who came asking about him did actually ask. Four months later. In another two I was coping without him just fine.

I took his job. I spent his wages more wisely than he ever had. I was just starting to put my life back together and then... then my _boss_ started to get handsy, saying that I could have everything I wanted if I just let him do what _he_ wanted. Sure, I could have reported him to HR. Sure, I could have done any number of things. Except, he didn't wait for permission.

I swear, sometimes, abused people just have this sign following them around that only other abusers can see. Once someone gets free of one hurt cycle, another one zooms in to start again. He was friendly at first but really... aren't they all? Evidently, he'd got tired of being in the friendzone and decided to break down my barriers. I broke his nose. Did you know that the nasal bones, broken with enough upward force, can pierce the brain? I didn't.

Since I was definitely upset and definitely in a state of disarray when the police came, it was a clear-cut case of self-defence. Besides, the dumb asshole decided to attack me in full view of the office security cameras. There was a visual record of the entire thing.

After that? I guess you could call it a bad habit. Like, I have a bad habit of meeting "Nice Guys" who turn out to be manipulative, abusive dinguses. I have a bad habit of calling them out on their bullshit. I have a very bad habit of killing them when they least expect it.

It's a rush, every single time. There's nothing like it. The excitement of the stalking. The thrill of the kill. The look on their ignorant, piggy faces as they realise that I am not just any other victim.

It's glorious.

I won't go into the disgusting details of body disposal. This isn't that kind of confession. Let's just leave it at the fact that pigs will eat anything and I'm more or less best friends with a bunch of feral ones. Okay? Okay.

Thing is... I want to stop. I'm sure all this murder is bad for my soul, but... I can't help noticing something. For every asshole who goes to join the _non_ male chauvinist pigs, there's like ten women who smile more. Ten women who have a happier day. Ten women whose lives are easier by _just that little bit_ because some greasy entitled skeezo is no longer in this world.

There's no news about them going missing, either. Turns out the perennial abusive manipulator is the kind who changes locations easily... and is also the kind to skip out on rent as they latch onto some potential sugar momma and then drain the very soul out of her one cruel word at a time.

The world does not miss them... yet I want to stop.

I could just... not murder any more. Explore cohabitation with a nice lady, wear lots of flannel and keep cats. I could. It's a possibility.

The trouble is...

...and I mean the _real_ trouble...

For every asshole I end, there's always two more. Pushing their way into my life, telling me how I deserve a nice man in my life. Giving me opinions I never asked for. Telling me I could be so much better if I just gave them everything they want.

I _might_ deserve a nice man in my life. It could be true.

I'll let you know if I ever find one.

#  Challenge #266: The Tough Nut

" _I would like to acquaint your facial features, with the fundamentals of a brick wall, at high velocity, REPEATEDLY." – Anon Guest_

"Thrown or wielded?" challenged the Human.

This was not the expected reaction to a threat. K'rux startled for a second or two. "You are meant to be intimidated by my bulk and violence," they protested. "That will make you go away."

The Human raised one of their furry eyebrows. "You're new, aren't you? Haven't had the _entire_ introduction to the Galactic scene, yet. Right? You can call me Daz. I'm a Human."

Only now did K'rux realise that there were _other_ , big tough beings in this area. Most of them were bigger and tougher than the Human called Daz. Every single one of them was giving Daz a respectable wide berth.

"I am also Deathworlder," said K'rux, still attempting to show their strength.

Human Daz snorted. "Cute. You're like a two at most. Maybe a one point five. Here." They brought out something small and round and brown from a pocket. "This is a Macadamia Nut. One of the toughest nuts to crack from my world. Inside is a nutrient and energy-dense edible seed. Impress me."

K'rux tried, they genuinely tried. The shiny round surface defied their claws. Something in its structure resisted all the pressure K'rux could apply with their teeth. It skittered away when K'rux tried to hit it with the heaviest thing they could lift. "I can not," they confessed.

Human Daz took off one of their heavy boots and, holding the nut still, brought the heel of it down on the nut. Then they prised apart the shell via the resultant cracks. "I actually have a thumbscrew variant nut-cracker, but this is way more impressive." They sheared the nut in half. "Better scan that, just in case."

K'rux was too busy staring at the shattered shell pieces. "Does that not hurt?"

"Stings a bit," Human Daz popped the other half into their mouth. "Might bruise, but I doubt it."

Considering this very visceral demonstration, K'rux decided on diplomacy. "I would like to state that I am extremely apologetic and appreciate greatly your patience with me."

#  Challenge #267: Please Explain

I like my women how I like my TV... thin, highly defined, turned on and flat against my bedroom wall

I like my women like I like my whiskey. 12 years old, and mixed up with coke.

I like my women how the age of consent in Japan is 13, LEGAL – Some Gross Asshole Anon

The three men at the table laughed at the joke. They were the only ones laughing. Their server was less than perfect at putting their plates on the table. He said, "Really? _Really_? That's funny for you all? That's just gross."

"Wow, looks like someone doesn't want a tip," said one of the grossness 'brothers'.

"My mom always said, _never be mean to people who can spit in your food._ Words to live by, alleged gentlemen."

One said, "Geez, you can't even make a joke any more," said a second one.

An older woman turned around in her booth seat so she could peek over the partition. "Excuse me, but I couldn't understand your joke. Do you mind explaining to me how it's funny? Let's start with the last one. Why is the law the only thing that stops you from pursuing young girls?"

Another woman turned up at the apparition, "Are you implying that you'd travel to Japan just to have sex with a thirteen-year-old? You're -what? Thirty-something? Almost forty? I don't know about the Japanese, dude, but I liked being thirteen and only having to worry about midterms."

Now they were bracketed by another woman on the other side, "What's funny about drug-addicted minors and your desire to have sex with them?"

A fourth boxed them into the booth by blocking their egress. "What's hilarious about anorexia and sex addiction?"

The original matriarch said, "What's the matter? I thought gentlemen like you _loved_ explaining things to women. Speak up. Explain the joke to us."

Never before had three men been driven to such silence by women asking innocent questions.

[AN: Any further sexist bullshit prompts like this will be expunged from my queue. FYI]

#  Challenge #268: One Link

I am not determined to be incompetent. I just want to feel safe. – Anon Guest

Marvin nursed his arm, which he was told was only a sprain. He could only see out of one eye because his friends and allies in the Malitovs had given him one heck of a shiner for mucking up the capture of the wizard and their pet Kobold. Now, to prove his worth to his gang, he had to guard them. The wizard was bound and gagged, but the Kobold was just bound. Not a threat, they said. Something even an idiot like him could accomplish, they said.

All he had to do was stick them with the pointy end if they tried to escape. Just stand - because he'd fall asleep if he sat down - and watch them and don't let them out of his sight. Whatever they had done to his leg could certainly keep him uncomfortable enough to stay awake after a long, long day.

The Kobold was looking at him funny. Almost like it was... more intelligent than Kobolds were supposed to be. "You were watching the inn, last night," it said. "That was close to midnight... How long have you been awake?"

"Uuuhhh..." Well, they didn't tell him not to talk. "Since yesterday morning, I think? I dunno. I go to sleep when they tell me. If they catch me being a lazy asshole, they hit me some more."

"They hit you a lot, don't they?" said the Kobold. "Every day, by the looks of it."

Marvin was about to deny it, but... he couldn't remember the last time they forgot to hit him over something. "So what? I'm real dumb. I deserve it."

"So... they punish you for your mistakes," said the Kobold. "Does it help you learn how to be better?"

Marvin didn't even have to think. "I don't think so. Nobody's said. They call me bad things, and they say I'm 'determined to be incompetent' all the time." He heaved a sigh. "I'm _not_ determined to be _incompetent_. I just want to _feel safe_."

"We could help you," said the Kobold. "My name's Anthe, and this is the wizard Wraithvine. They helped me learn to be better than I was. I want to pay that favour forward."

"To me?" said Marvin. "Why?"

"Because I know what suffering looks like, and it's something I can fix."

"Okay," he said, "but... how do you plan on doing that? You're just a wizard's familiar."

"Actually," said Anthe, wriggling free of its bonds and slipping between the bars. "I'm a Rogue. If you give me the keys, we can get you out of here."

The Malitovs were going to curse him for his sudden and inevitable betrayal, but Anthe was kind enough to ask for things and let him make choices. Even a bad choice was better than no choice. "Okay," he said, and handed over the keys. "I get the feeling I couldn't have stopped you anyway."

#  Challenge #269: Simple Pleasures

" _Okay, I'm going to ask again, and this time you better give me an answer that makes some fragging sense... HOW IN THE NAME OF ALL SANITY DO YOU 'MISPLACE' AN EIGHT-FOOT-TALL PIG-MAN?!" – Anon Guest_

"Okay, firstly, the correct term is Peccaroid..."

"Actually, firstly, the matter at hand is how the hell they managed to go missing. If the cops see them, they're going to wind up in some super-luau."

"Or on the force?" Lucas attempted a grin, but the joke wasn't that funny, even the first time. "Okay, so I swear they were right behind me when I went into the kitchen to fix us some food, but when I turned around..."

Alice sighed. "You turned around for just a second, oh my god..." She took a deep breath and sighed. "Okay. Let's think like our friend the Peccaroid..."

"Um," said Lucas. "I'm big and I don't speak good English, and I _love_ mushrooms beyond reason and–" lightning inspiration struck and he dashed out the other door. "FAIRY RING!"

Alice dashed after him to the backyard, where their humongous, porcine friend was cheerfully harvesting fungi from the fairy ring that had cropped up in their yard over the previous week. Neither Lucas nor Alice knew if any of those fungi were poisonous or not.

Their strange new friend sniffed them and ate them without apparent harm.

Alice and Lucas took in the spectacle. "We are gonna have to invest in some home mushroom farms."

"Yeah."

#  Challenge #270: Endless Fascination

_While assisting the Archivaas, Shayde discovers_ Dr. Pimple Popper _. – Anon Guest_

[AN: Trigger warning for gore and surgery for that entire channel. Go in prepared for disfiguring nastiness on all counts]

It was fairly common to find Shayde entranced in the viewing lounges of the Archivaas video archives. It was _not_ that common to find her there without food or beverages within spill-safe containers. This viewing had her sitting almost immobile and staring intently at the screen.

Rael knew better than to look at what she was watching, as the headphones were a dead give-away that the goings-on she was watching were overloaded with offensensitivity warnings. Nevertheless, he had one question, "What _is_ all of this?"

"Trainwreck hypnosis," she said. "Skin blemishes turned up tae eleven."

In spite of his better knowledge, he peeked. That... that was a blackhead the size of a small coin. He quickly turned away again the instant the scalpel came into frame. "Train... wreck... hypnosis," he echoed.

"Aye. It's like a horrorshow 'cause of how it happened tae real folks. You know it had tae hurt t' get that bad, ye ken... and there's an entire process fer treatin' 'em too. It's _fascinatin'_... and it's horrific. Human skin is like... this mad compromise of maladaptation an' narrow misses of everythin' that could go wrong."

Rael couldn't help but use the metaphorical boot, "And yet you persist in believing in a benevolent creator god that made you this way."

"Never said they were benevolent," said Shayde. "Besides, th' creator made the universe. No' our pores. This is like... everything that can go wrong wi' a skin that was supposed tae be covered in fur."

He risked a peek again. The 'everything' was pouring out of someone's skin in a lumpy, roughly cohesive fountain of grey and yellow. An accumulation of sebum, dirt, pus, and epithelials extruded through the incision, thanks to pressure applied by a surgeon.

The question of how people could allow such things to persist to that point remained unanswered and unasked as he, too, succumbed to grousome fascination. It was like looking at the aftermath of a disaster, attempting to patch together the story behind such a ruinous fate.

...trainwreck hypnosis indeed.

#  Challenge #271: Like Humans Do

" _Don't worry I based this defence system off a deathworlder immune system"_

As I ask in a shaken voice, "What kind?"

It bares its teeth, that I later I learned it was a sign of affection. "Humans"

_(A quick lesson to the immune system_ <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQGOcOUBi6s>_) – Anon Guest_

The thing about Deathworlder immune systems, is that they evolved to deal with Deathworlder problems. As such, they could be viewed as needlessly complicated. They could also be viewed as deadly, hyperactive, and entirely too aggressive, especially with some of their 'kill or cure' tactics.

Thron nervously glanced at the Human who had installed the system. "It isn't going to immolate the entire base, is it?"

The reply was not disarming of Thron's concerns. "Only as a last resort. Residents and employees will get plenty of warning to evacuate before then. Shall I walk you through everything?"

It was only later that Thron realised that this was an offer of demonstration and not a volunteering of protection services. This, of course, was long after the explanation of how the fortifications worked.

"First, there's the exterior defences. Regenerating ablative armour, re-enforced with Hungry Caterpillar salvage systems designed to tear apart anything that hasn't sent in the randomly-generated passcode. Quick tip, don't just hand out key generators willy-nilly. If necessary, use your own shuttle system to meet up with the freight or passenger ships and ferry your stuff in from there. Scanners on the gates, of course, to pick up any and all anomalies, which will alert the drones to isolate them for a more personal analysis. Once inside, automated patrol bots circulate through all the public halls, seeking out any life forms that do not carry or have implanted the special RFID chips. Each one's key-coded to the individual and locked with their DNA..."

Already, this was sounding suitably secure.

"...in the unlikely event of anyone trying to sneak past _that_ , the scanners on the patrol bots would be able to pick up a programmed clone, and thereby activate the more aggressive attack bots–"

Yikes. Thron had to ask, "What about hacking attempts?"

"Listen, we wrote all the programming in Assembler Code. If they can crack that nonsense, they've earned it. Hardly anyone uses that horseshit any more. For obvious reasons. On one hand, we have the most compact and unintelligible code in the known universe, on the other hand... it's the most compact and unintelligible code in the known universe."

"Oh," said Thron, "That means nobody will hack it, right?"

"Well they bloody shouldn't. We ran it through fifteen different encryption protocols. Nobody's getting at that guacamole but authorised programmers. We've got a semi-annual update schedule and a crew of hackers testing it at every turn."

Thron checked. The Human was still pleased with themself, and not -as the Humans themselves might put it- pulling their leg.

"We've got the best possible scrubber protocols on every entry and exit. People trying to get in via the sewers will have to sneak through klicks of pipes this wide," the Human demonstrated with finger and thumb. It wasn't a wide gap. Even the most flexible of Cephalopoda couldn't squeeze their way through that and expect to survive. "Everything in or out goes through scrubbers and sensors, and in the case of outwards waste, molecular disassemblers," said the Human. "We won't say it's impregnable, but we will say we'll patch any and all holes our dirty tricks team can discover."

Of course they would. These were _Humans_. The best way to break into an impregnable facility was to tell a Human that it was impregnable.

Thron could tell that their research and development team would likely encounter something amiss in the theme of 'auto-immune disease' before they encountered any threat from the outside. Therefore, there was only one thing to do...

Thank the Humans profusely and insist on on-site troubleshooting staff.

#  Challenge #272: Works Every Time

So, based on your story about visiting aliens having to hover their hands over something to check if it was hot, imagine if one alien (or maybe even human) uses it as a pick-up line. Like, they hover a hand over someone's wrist or hand and they just say "hot." I think it would be cute! – Anon Guest

Love is many things, but it was never logical, reasoned, or well thought. In literary terms, love is that idiot who dives into a midden for the laughs and comes out with the golden crown. Love is the friends made along the way. So it is when a Havenworlder repeatedly crushes on Humans.

That is, they develop sincere and soft affection for humans. There are very few Havenworlders who can even attempt to crush a Human. Even when they do, the general reaction is (a) positive, and (b) some comment regarding how soft/fluffy/cute/huggable the Havenworlder in question is at the time. They don't even get mad.

P'taal had what could easily be considered a fatal flaw in that they found Humans to be very attractive indeed. This was a problem because many of them could literally crush them without so much as a second thought. Havenworlders have never had to evolve much in the way of defences, before they got out into the Galactic Alliance. It wasn't much to be concerned about. Humans would rather break their own heads than harm a Havenworlder.

It's something of a power balance, if it's only just a strange one.

P'taal was working on their game. Dating Humans was always interesting, but the key was to get them laughing. In that, P'taal had a perfect starter line.

They hovered their hand over a potential date and waited.

"What are you doing?" said the Human.

"Checking the temperature," said P'taal. "Feels pretty hot. Are you sure it's safe to touch you?"

The Human laughed. Success!

"You're cute," they said, which was even better.

#  Challenge #273: A Not-So-Little List

Rael's introduction to cream pie, please. – Anon Guest

AN: You can find something similar in my [very first anthology under the title of _Time Out From That Good Fight_ (It should be in the late one hundreds, but if not,  here's the link to the version on Steemit.]

Was there any bigger portent of impending doom than Shayde singing a certain song from _The Mikado_? Rael had unfortunately found out that the answer was 'yes'. It was Shayde singing a certain song from _The Mikado_ , whilst wearing Insulter Silvers _and_ filling aluminium pie plates with shaving cream.

"I'd ask," he said, "but finding out involves a sanity check."

Shayde stopped singing to grin, which would have raised his hackles if he had had hackles to raise. "Aw, c'mon. You know you're curious."

"This is connected with your latest public service," he deduced. "It _is_ tax season..."

"Aye, guid," she said, spraying the interior of another pie plate with foam. It slowly expanded into creamy-looking mounds of imitation confectionary. It looked... almost delicious. Shayde had evidently done something like this before. "and...?"

"And you're helping balance the scales of justice with your own special brand of 'flavour'."

"Of fookain course I am." Shayde singsonged. She lined up a tray of these faux pies with a rack of similar creations and counted them. "One more fer luck, then..." She started lining up empty pie tins on a new tray.

"This is a Pre-Shattering Terran Tradition you're bringing back into existence."

"One that should'nae have ever gone extinct."

"What's it called?" he sighed. Powers damn it, she was right. He _was_ curious. "And how authorised is this activity?"

"It's called pie-ing, and I vetted it through Chief Insulter Wattanabe-sama."

Yikes. Top of the totem pole, then. "Not quite an answer, Ambassador."

"He gave me a list." She handed it over.

Oh... so many assholes and so little time, as the Human saying went. Many of them were on his _personal_ list of people he dearly wanted to extract a pound of flesh from. If not a pound of flesh, then an equal weight of humiliation and mortification would do. She'd never have the time to get them _all_...

"Do you want some help?" he said.

The resultant laugh could have come from planet-conquering evil overlords. "Oh aye, it's what ye might call an open contract."

Tax season should never be this much fun.

#  Challenge #274: Night of the Living PJ's

" _I fucked up my internal clock and having insomnia always triggering midnight hunger."_

" _Midnight hunger?"_

" _A zombie like state that make me crave food."_

" _What's a zombie?"_

" _You'll see tonight." – Anon Guest_

Humans have weird terms for everything. Spacers, even more so. It's as if being locked inside a limited space with only audio channels available for communication triggers its own unique permutations on language. Either that, Grux speculated, or they were just Like That from the beginning.

"Just a warning," said the Human trucker who was giving Grux a lift to Nowhere Station, "I messed up my internal clock, and my chronic insomnia is always triggering midnight hunger."

Grux briefly pondered educating the Human in the many ways that time was a social construct to keep large masses of intelligent beings lined up in the same work cluster. But it was also an important unit of currency that no wealthy person could hoard. Instead of any of that, ze said, "Midnight hunger?"

"Yeah, it's like a zombie state that makes me crave food."

Why did Human answers lead to more questions? "What's a zombie?"

"You'll see at midnight."

Ominous forebodings kept Grux awake in the middle of Ship's Night. Ominous, _ominous_ forebodings. They were why Grux made sure hir livesuit was both on and sealed. The appointed hour came with matching chimes of the Human's archaic clockwork timepiece, and minutes passed in terror and darkness.

The Human shuffled through the shared space in their Ships' Skins, murmuring a deep noise in the back of their throat that had nothing to do with words. In this absent state, the Human stumbled towards the food stores and selected a single serving of Nutri-Food(tm) in its easiest-to-ingest format of a liquid puree.

Grux watched in amazement as the Human stood there, sucking the regulated mixture of vitamins, minerals, and so forth from the bag, whilst apparently staring into the rest of the food stores. Once they extracted the last possible morsel from the baggie, they closed the stores, put the empty bag in the recyc chute, and stumbled back to their rest nook.

Okay. Disturbing, but not deadly. Humans were capable of performing mundane tasks in a non-cogniscent state. Who knew?

#  Challenge #275: No Ordinary Fool

Master Chef in SPAAACCEE!!! – Anon Guest

Chefs tend to treat certain groups of people differently. Professionals who mess up are far more likely to get the chewing out of a lifetime than a small child or a student who is just beginning to learn. The most famous of them who held this philosophy has managed to spread it memetically through most of Human space. Now, _every_ Human chef follows the same philosophy.

Now, because of the Train Wreck Phenomenon, cogniscents all over known space watch entertainments in which at least one Human chef bawls out alleged professionals competing for a prize. What the prize is, but what never differs is the length and breadth of creativity in the Human's insults towards the other chefs.

That's what most people tune in for, anyway. They come for the insults, they stay for the pageantry of competition, creativity, and tension created by all of the above. Some watched strictly to test their resilience by the method of exposure to dramatic musical stings. Very few indeed watched it for the cooking ideas.

"Ee, that's naff," said Shayde, passing the popcorn. "That's no way Havenworlder friendly. That citrus' gonna cause some pain."

"No, they're adding cream to neutralise it."

"Wrong cream. Tha's gonnae curdle fer sure."

The Human chef in the studio finally noticed how badly this particular competitor was messing up the challenge. "What the flakk is this?" they demanded. "You're cooking for _Havenworlders_ , not little miss flakking muffet! Get that [BLEEP] out of here and start over!"

"Get 'em Gourd," Shayde cheered.

"Serves them right for trying suspicious shortcuts from five-minute craft videos," said Rael. "That stuff should never have been labeled as 'instructional'."

"Not one o' these sods e'er watched 'im debunk those videos, neither. Dafter'n a broom fact'ry."

On the screen, another victim presented itself. "Oi! Are you making a nutritious dessert or a flakking meringue?"

"Havenworlders don't have any trouble with sugar, chef..."

"They also have trouble with diabetes. Fix it, you great numpty!" Gourd code-switched for a contestant who was nearing a nervous breakdown. "What's the hassle, love?"

"I followed the instructions, but it's just collapsing..."

"Too much air in there, or not enough?"

"... not 'nuff, chef."

Gourd inspected the mess in progress. "Oh yeah. Add a teaspoon of pure gelatin and whip it again. Works a treat. Then transfer little bits back and forth until it's nearly mixed. Remember to leave in chunks. You've got this."

"...'nks chef."

Rael, who was relatively new to competitive cookery shows, said, "What the flakk was that?"

"There's a difference between those who try an' fail, and those who fail 'cause of how they're no' tryin', ye ken. They get different treatment. Obviously."

Realisation dawned. "Oh, it's the difference between the student who's willing to learn and the one who thinks they know everything."

"Aye. Th' latter has tae prove it."

#  Challenge #276: The Folly of (Rich) Man

with a wave of his finger and flick of his wrist, he cracked his neck and grinned like a bitch – Anon Guest

[AN: Ugh, the prompts that make me think about my new D&D character who didn't exist when this was submitted... Not doing that noise. Keep it professional...]

There's two ways to go when the forces of fate conspire to brand you for the sins of your father. One, of course, is to sink even deeper into sin, since people expect you to be like that anyway. The other was to be more pure than the driven snow. Some try both, because neither work. Some, like Fastophel, deliver cold justice with devastating accuracy.

The god's brand on his left cheek reads _wrath_ in the Divine Script, but Fastophel is not wrathful in the slightest. He takes care to weigh everything in the balance like a logician at zero kelvin. He is a Justicer. Those who pay for his services get _Justice_ whether they aimed for it or not.

So when the High Lord Blystur brought forth fifty starving peasants on a claim of conspiracy to commit Grand Theft, Fastophel sent the Lord out of his court to hear each and every one of the peasants in turn. He heard about taxes, he heard about Prima Nocte, he heard, too, about how slow their Lord was in paying his debts to the people. He heard each and every one of them complain that they couldn't even glean the fields for stray grains to make their daily bread, since their Lord insisted their toil last from dawn to dusk. Even the smallest of children were forced to work.

That was why, they said. That was why they gathered up those who had some kind of ability by sunset, to raid the Lord's coffers and kitchens. The latter for some food for their families, and the former to gain more food at a later date. They had even concocted plans to smuggle in better quality food than the weeds they could cultivate on their over-farmed lands.

Fastophel did not make any judgements before they heard the full story from High Lord Blystur. He sent the peasants out into a holding area and listened to Blystur's story. It was a very different tale. A tale of lazy serfs who kept demanding handouts, who kept complaining every single time he did something for the betterment of his lands. They complained when he diverted the river for his fountains. They complained when he directed the outflow from his mansions to the riverbed, and claimed that that had put sickness into the water. They complained when he magnanimously chose their crops or cattle for his tables. They complained about _everything_. It was tiresome, he said. He would be better off without having peasants at all.

Fastophel considered it all. He waved his finger, cracked his neck, smiled like a demon, and said, "You are correct. You will purchase their lands and sponsor their move into another Lord's lands. You will be free of all your peasant problems."

So it was judged, and so it was that the peasants once belonging to High Lord Blystur now belonged to the Justicer Fastophel, who owned a lot of land and dedicated all of it to food farms. That which he or his people could not eat, went out to the deserving and downtrodden. Fastophel never asked for more than his people could pay, and made certain the young ones were schooled to their best capacity.

It took a year for High Lord Blystur to realise that lands needed people to tend them. He turned his peasants' houses into fine gardens and wasted money on decorative Follies and mazes and, after the first winter, realised that he had no incoming taxes to help support them all. Acre by acre, his magnificent gardens fell into neglect. Month by month, he also fell into neglect. There was only so long a person could live on hunted game alone, no matter what their position and title.

High Lord Blystur chose desolation rather than a bruise to his pride. He chose to let go his remaining servants. Chose to watch his fortunes dwindle away. Chose to die of scurvy in the one room that had not been stripped of its finery, alone but for a few servants who were merely waiting for his passing to take what little was left.

The peasants returned, as peasants do, to a land that had lain fallow and thus rejuvenated itself. They built their new homes out of the ruins left by a once wealthy man. They grew what they wished, free of a Lord's taxes until another, different Lord noticed and could not abide peasants demonstrating that they didn't need lords at all.

Fortunately, he was wiser than the late and unlamented High Lord Blystur. It was hard, indeed, to be _less_ wise than he was.

#  Challenge #277: One Game Round

" _I won't let you harm this child!"_

" _It's not even your kin, why would you protect him?"_

" _His mom will whoop my ass if I don't." – Anon Guest_

Of all the occupations in Human history, childcare has to be among one of the least respected. It is expected to be easy. It is not. Especially when the child being cared for is not one's own. Especially when that child has a fae-wrought destiny.

For those unfamiliar with the Fae, they are most definitely _not_ the tinkly, sparkly, little children in leotards with butterfly wings. There _are_ insectoid features about them. That's how you know they're interfering. _By the pricking in your thumbs, something wicked this way comes._

There's just something about human thumbs that makes them want to poke. Nobody's figured out why and the Fae don't involve themselves in civil discussion. If they involve themselves in _any_ kind of discussion, it's only to discover what you've got and figure out how they can get it. The Fae are the opposite of 'nice' in every conceivable way. Which is why Lonnie is wracking her brains to try and figure out how to get herself and little Dae safely home out of Tyrnanog without any significant loss of time, life, limb, or teeth.

If you go down to the woods today, you're in for a big surprise...

She had armed herself, of course, with the things she knew the Fae feared. A silver-backed mirror, since mirrors show the truth. A steel blade, since the Fae feared iron. Knowledge, because they didn't actually know everything. The good news was that she had found little Dae. The bad news was that she still had to get the kid out of there.

"I won't let you harm this child," she said, "By action nor inaction. I am his protector."

"Why?" said the Fae who currently looked like a rock star of indeterminate gender and open sexuality. "It's not even your kin. Why do you protect him so fiercely?"

The truth spilled out of her lips. "His mom will whoop my ass if I don't."

The laugh was warm and welcoming. The voice sweet and lulling. "You could both stay with us. You're clever enough to find your way to the heart of Tyrnanog..."

_A fly is not clever for finding its way to the heart of the spiderweb..._ The realisation of the lie helped Lonnie retain her awareness. "I'd be truly clever to get my charge and I properly _out_ of Tyrnanog."

"Oooh, the truth. A formidable weapon in the realm of dreams," cooed the Fae. "Do you want a battle of wits? Riddle for riddle?"

"Wits could be fun," Lonnie allowed. She had lots of riddles. Some that the Fae had certainly never heard of.

The smile was full of sharp, sharp teeth. The Fae were _hungry_. "If I am I and we are we, what has eyes but cannot see?"

Ooof. Too easy. "A potato, a dictionary, an encyclopedia set, a novel, a blind person? Any of the above?"

"Clever human," cooed the Fae. This was bait and switch for sure. Make her think that she was winning and then pull the rug out from under her feet. She had to remember that these alleged people were dangerous. "Correct. Your riddle."

_As I was going to Saint Ives, no. None of the old ones..._ "A baby born on leap year day, has his eighth birthing day. How old is he?" She could pull the bait and switch too.

"Thirty and two. That's not a clever one at all." The Fae took a deep breath in. "At cock's crow, and seed's sow, at the rising of the sun; one thing cannot be done - what is it?"

"The harvest," answered Lonnie. "It was never a boat, and yet it floats. When it sinks, it is ready to sink again, yet it will rise anew. What is it?"

Blam. That beautiful face flickered, as did the illusion of paradise. Anger boiled just under the surface of that perfect facade. "You... that is not– I– I must know the answer!"

"You'll get your answer when my charge and I are back where and when we belong, with no injury to mind or body or soul. Pay your forfeit."

There was rage and fury, but the Fae never forgot a debt they owed. This one had them back where... and when they started, with no further harm. "What. Is. The answer?"

Well. By the next time the Fae kidnapped a kid, more things would change. Lonnie showed them. A frozen piece of pork belly in a sink of hot water floated, and sank when it was thawed and ready for the deep fryer. Once in there, it sank while it was raw and floated once it was cooked.

"Ridiculous," objected the Fae. "I could have thought of that!"

"But you didn't," said Lonnie. "Leave this place, and leave this child to their mortal fate, and leave all the families alone forevermore."

"Done and done," mumbled the Fae, who vanished. "Until we are invited once more."

Lonnie took a deep breath, holding close to little Dae. "See? _This_ is why you don't birthday wish to go to fairyland."

#  Challenge #278: Human Jae's Video Log

Up next, the top 10 questions you'll get from your intergalactic crewmates. – Anon Guest

Hey, out there, infonets! It's your friendly wandering Human Jae! Living large on the Edge of the Galactic Alliance, yeeeaaaahhhh... Have no fear, I am mostly harmless, I swear. That thing with the Vorax scout troop was a fluke I have yet to explain. Promise.

So I've been doing the round robin thing, escorting the. Absolute. _Cutest_. Havenworlders on their scientific excursions, and oh my _God_ I could die from how adorable they are. Anyway. I took some footage with permission from my livesuit helm-cam and found... The top ten things your Galactic friends will shamelessly ask a Human! Wooo!

Okay, so mandatory offensensitivity warning for people unfamiliar with Humans, uncomfortable with incidental swears, mentions of blood, mentions of disease, mentions of violence and -hey- it's a _Human_ talking, that should be offensensitivity warning enough. Okay? We good? Cool. On with the show then.

Number ten: "What kind of entertainment is _that_?" I dunno either. I wiki-walked my way here and now I'm watching because the train wreck phenomenon. Escape while you still have the willpower.

Number nine: "That is not a– Why do you call that a dog?" Meme culture. Link in the extra info. Educate yourself.

Number eight: "What is that noise you keep making?" It's called laughter. Sometimes it means I think something's funny. Sometimes, it means I'm scared outta my wits. Everything is in the tone, friends. Also, the phrase, _I think we're all gonna die_...

Number seven: "What is this obsession you have regarding the smaller, censored pants you wear?" They're called 'underwear' and should only be viewed by special, intimate partners. You do not count. Stop barging in on me when I'm changing. God.

Number six: "Will you try to _climb_ anything?" Descended from arboreal apes, dude. It's a legit instinct. Bite me.

Number five: "Will you try to _ride_ anything?" If it looks big enough and fun enough, yeah. You would not _believe_ the critters that are rideable in this big, beautiful universe.

Number four: "Will you try to pet _anything_?" Sure, if it looks fluffy or adorable. We're tactile people. Deal with it.

Number three: "What's sex like with you?" Buy me a drink, tell me I'm pretty, and we can play 'yes and no' until it goes somewhere. Usually it's not a good idea with Havenworlders. You guys are mondo breakable when Humans get carried away.

Number two: "Why are you like this?" plays with different cogniscent species asking in different cuts.

What can I tell you, bros? My species had a difficult upbringing and we find amusement in big fires and loud noises.

Honourable mentions 'cause they're funny:

"What the flakk is that?" Lunch, usually. "What the flakk are you doing?" Uh. I was bored? "Why are you doing that?" See the previous answer. "What is that?" (subtitled V 2.0) I'm playing a game. If you hang around, I might teach you how it works.

And the number one thing Galactics like to ask Humans...

"Are all of you like this?" plays in multiple windows, with multiple species asking the same question in unison.

Hahaha, I dunno, peeps. I haven't met all Humans and neither have you. There's outliers in every direction. Can't tell for sure.

As always, share the love because life is short. Stay cool and remember - humans are weird but you can love us anyway.

This has been Human Jae! Okay, I love you, bah-bye. Mwah!

AN: Special thanks to my daughter-from-across-the-water [DualityAndSuch for helping me with some of these top tens. Give her love and commission some of her arts, she is amazing.]

#  Challenge #279: Tougher Than Tough

" _What's wrong I heard screaming!?"_

" _Oh, hey can you help me get my hand out of here?"_

" _I was practicing with Australian Bull-oak and made a hole."_

" _What were yo- by the stars you're bleeding!"_

" _I know that so help me!"_

<https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Allocasuarina_luehmannii> _– Anon Guest_

[AN: Changed the spelling of Buloke so people could read the prompt a smidge easier]

Humans with a fascination for martial arts -especially _fictional_ martial arts- are more insane than what passes for normal amongst Humans. Some part of them wants to believe that the things they see on the screen can be real, and that they can do what it took several actors, a team of scriptwriters, stunt-men, and special-effects people to make _look_ real enough to be believable.

Things like stabbing one's hands into containers of sand, beads, or lentils makes a certain amount of sense. Doing so causes microfractures that, thanks to Deathworlder healing abilities, make the hand bones stronger through natural re-enforcement. Theoretically, tapping wood with the fingertips or other parts of the hands is the same principal, but with less danger to low-gravity environments. This was, as evidence decreed, the logic behind Human Pel's little board.

The little board that had a series of instructions written on it... and one unfortunate knothole that was not resistant to persistent, percussive pressure. Now, raw, dry buloke wood was splintered in Human Pel's flesh with no immediately foreseeable way of withdrawing flesh from wood without further damage. After the initial scream, Human Pel was remarkably calm about the entire predicament.

Fortunately, there were procedures for this kind of nonsense, including a general pathogen alert because there is little that is _non_ toxic about any fluid that comes from a Deathworlder's body. After the alert is sounded, livesuits or other protections should be donned by those on the scene, _then_ the offending fluid should be contained by a disposable and absorbent material that is non-toxic to the Deathworlder in question. Apply pressure in a non-lethal manner and await expert attendance.

Of course, Human Pel was vexed that the Medik team had to cut apart her tap-board, and promised that they would be looking for a varnished one _without_ knot-holes for the next time.

It should not have been surprising that Human Pel planned for a next time, but Havenworlders expect people to _learn_ from painful mistakes.

#  Challenge #280: Close to the Skins

Tighty whities, saggy and baggy, or not much there at all... your wash tells a lot about you. – Anon Guest

Of all the mysteries of Human existence, the concept of 'clothing' and 'decency' are the pinnacle of Human attempts at civilisation. Primary amongst the examples trotted out for debate are 'underwear'. Human underwear has gone from articles of clothing to protect the outer clothing from assorted bodily excretions, to hardly anything at all designed to cover intimate portions of skin from accidental viewing, to skin-tight copies of outerwear and back again.

Rael, for instance, was sometimes reminded about Humans 'never having enough trousers'. A quote from one of their own writers about their people's ideas of what was proper clothing. In this case, Ambassador Shayde couldn't have enough pants.

She had the long, grey slacks that were part of her everyday uniform as something of a public servant. Underneath that, because she had been taught it was proper, and because it was a form of armour, were the Ships' Skins. Or, as she referred to them, _witches britches an' a belly tee._ What witchcraft had to do with Ships' Skins evaded Rael, and he was almost too afraid to ask.

Under _those_ , Shayde wore her preferred pre-shattering cotton undies, purchasable only by catalogue from Terran colonies. He'd seen the catalogue. There was an astonishing array of patterns, logos, witticisms, and other means of display. All of which completely confounded him.

"You don't let anyone see these," he said, indicating a picture of a pair of briefs with the words, _Are you nasty?_ printed across the rear. "What's the point?"

"Well, I'm no' buyin' _those_ ones," Shayde flicked off the display. "It's more about what's fun, I guess. Li'l daydreams about someone around tae appreciate the view."

Rael shook his head. "I don't get it."

"Says the man who owns patterned longjohns."

#  Challenge #281: Fluidity

A genderfluid human whose sexuality changes along with their gender, attempts to explain how they experience life to someone with very little context, save for that this particular human is sometimes interested in them and sometimes... just wants to play video games together. – Anon Guest

Humans have so many labels for things. It could be amusing, were it not for the multitude of those who struggle with those labels and what they mean to them. Prefixes and suffixes and interfixes, oh my. The more varieties come into the light, the more language bends, spindles, and mutilates in order to accommodate them.

Do not consider this small tale a primer. There are new corners reaching the light every day. This just happens to be one. Welcome, one and all, to _plasti-sexual_. We will allow one who uses the label to define it.

Human Qor has just used it to try and explain to Ships' Companion Trusk. "Depending on the day, the mood, the phase of hormones, I can be anywhere from A- to Hyper-sexual and anywhere in between. It goes for the -romantic suffix too. Today's an asexual, aromantic day."

Trusk attempted to filter this through their translators and came up with a blank. "And that means?"

"I'm down for pillowforts and videogames. Dinner and a movie, yes. Hand-holding okay. Above that is a no."

"And your previous... condition?"

"Gender-fluidity. Yeah. That's not a factor into which romanti-sexual I am on any given day. Sorry."

Trusk came up with the perfect way to describe it, "You humans are confusing."

"True," Human Qor allowed. "We even confuse ourselves."

#  Challenge #282: Double the Experience

_They were twins, identical to the last freckle. It brought them no end of joy with playing pranks on friends, or on unsuspecting galactics, when they wore the exact same clothes and hair styles. Very few have ever seen humans that looked, sounded, and acted so similar that they could practically be ONE person in two bodies. But they were in space for a reason. To learn new foods, new cuisines, new inspirations. They wanted to open a restaurant that could one day be famous through-out the universe. Problem is, just what were the tastiest treats around? –_ DaniAndShali

[AN: So very tempted to do Taako and Lup IN SPACE! but they've already been there, sooo....]

There was a big lump under the bigger warming blanket that had one Human head poking out, looking around anxiously. Like all Spacers, this one had their hair cut short and the barest minimum of protections against random infection on. In this case, the only visible safeguard was a breath mask. In a handful of moments, the head would duck down, the lump would shift around, and the head would apparently pop back up again.

Finally, at last, their contractor arrived at the meeting place. Only then was it revealed that there were _two_ Humans under the warming blanket, which they folded in a co-ordinated dance. Apart from the fact that there were visibly two of them, they were apparently completely identical. Only their nameplates distinguished them apart. One was called _Tash_ and the other _Kel_.

Captain Krasq startled at this. Ze had heard legends, for sure, but this? This could easily be chalked up to an emerging phenomenon known as _The Humans Were Right_. Which was a list of reports and footage from assorted beings who independently confirmed things that the Humans had been stating as truth for years, even decades. The N'Ozzies really did a number on Human-Galactic relationships.

"This," ze said once they were over the initial shock, "Explains why you sent dual copies of the same identity image."

"We didn't," said Human Kel, "Those were individual identity photos."

"If you overlay them, you'll be able to spot the differences," said Human Tash.

This sounded like more Drop Bear nonsense, but Captain Krasq verified anyway, checking both images and then overlaying them as described. It took hir quite some time, twiddling, and staring at the images as ze moved them, but... some freckles and moles were in _slightly_ different positions between the faces.

Humans Tash and Kel patiently waited for all of this to transpire. "There's also fingerprints," said Human Tash. "Even identical twins aren't identical there." She offered her thumb, as did her sister. "You can scan us."

It may well have been the very last time they were scanned for their fingerprints. Once they were on board the _Long Hauler_ as culinary experts and traders, all fingerprint scanners suffered a consecutive cascade of errors that meant fingerprint verification was next to impossible. That was the beginning of The Shenanigans.

Captain Krasq had heard of such things from Human tales of Humans. Identical twins using their visual similarity in order to pull pranks. This, Captain Krasq was certain, was some kind of 'hazing' activity. Getting all of the nonsense out in the open to see how the newcomers dealt with it. On one hand, it was annoying as every singular hell.

On the other hand, they were absolutely amazing chefs. A spectacle to behold, as they worked. A delight to taste their hard work. There was, to use the Human phrase, never a dull moment.

Nothing phased them. If the gravity engines failed, they could still cook in low to no gravity, effortlessly tossing implements, ingredients, and food in progress about as they prepared meals. When they weren't cooking, they were discussing things in one of the very, very many obscure Human dialects, and taking notes in their relatively primitive data management devices.

It was no small shock that they, relatively young Humans, were concocting a plan for the later part of their lives. A plan like many Human plans, full of ambition and dreams, and reliant upon rampant circumstance and synchronicity. When Captain Krasq investigated, their plans at this stage consisted of mostly one activity:

Find and document all the foods that all the creatures in the Galactic Alliance and Edge alike could enjoy with little to no repercussions.

"We're thinking of calling it _Everyone Eat_ ," smiled Human Kel.

"Meals together help sociability," said Human Tash. "We could be the vessel by which ambassadorial relationships grow and foster."

Captain Krasq was moderately certain that Human Tash had mispronounced 'fester', but with Humans you could never be _absolutely_ certain.

#  Challenge #283: GG Tho

_Paintball, Nerf, Air Soft, fighting competitions, obstacle courses, ect., are all games where humans play at war. It was something their children even played, preparing them to be warriors in the future, no matter their adult occupations. They had plenty of competitions to show their strength, their prowess, their aggression, and their ability to take down an enemy. Often other humans. Some Vorax have the guts to challenge some humans to a game, wanting to prove to their leaders that humans are NOT as dangerous as stories make them out to be. What do the humans choose? Paintball! –_ DaniAndShali

The logic was impeccable. Humans were too good at war, having practiced for most of their evolutionary timeline on their eternal enemy, the Humans. They had plenty of weapons of mass destruction that terrified even themselves. Newer, bigger, fresher, and most importantly _more numerous_ than any previous iteration.

Some Humans were just _obsessed_ with making more of the most powerful weapons ever created, just to have them and threaten the rest of civilisation with them. It has been theorised that, should anyone develop a weapon capable of vaporising an entire solar system from central star to oort cloud, the Humans would immediately want to possess twenty of them... and subsequently test them with absolutely no foresight whatsoever. There is another theory that _Humans have already done this_ which explains some vast pockets of empty space where solar systems _should_ be.

Humans can just be _that scary_ to contemplate. Therefore this particular group of Vorax had come up with an idea. It was far from an original idea, but it was pretty creative for the Vorax. They reasoned correctly that Humans used their Deathworlder games to replace combat, and that playing such games _with_ Humans might forge some kind of peace between two Deathworlders. Being Deathworlders themselves, the Vorax saw nothing wrong with opening the playing field to _all_ Human games ending in the word 'ball'.

It should not have been surprising or even mildly shocking that the Humans contacted chose 'Paintball'. It had many other aliases, including Skirmish, Urban War, Splat You (and variants on pronunciation), Shoot 'Em, and You Bastards. What remained the same was that body armour, eye protection, and a projectile weapon were essential parts of play. This, knowing Humans, should have been plenty of warning.

It wasn't. Deathworlders aren't often that great at planning ahead.

The next warning sign was one of the Humans, on suiting up, saying, "So how are we playing this, shirts versus skins?"

"It is red versus blue, this was agreed," said the Vorax leader, completely missing the point so hard that he almost looped back onto it from the other side.

The gathered Humans sighed and rolled their eyes. "Okay. We got Straight Men. No goofs yet, got it?"

Grudging and droned amongst the Humans, "No goofs yet..."

"All right," said the adjudicator. "Teams to your colour-coded zones, where ammo will be allotted. Five minutes to hide anywhere in the playing field, no wiping marks, the team with the least paint is the winner. No weapons other than paintballs permitted, you _will_ be searched before play." This, for the slow learners reading, should have been yet another warning sign. Especially when the Humans whined and moaned about it.

The next warning sign was the sight of the Humans playing at beating each other up before they were allowed to disperse into the playing field. The last was that the team performed the _Haka_ before they did so.

It was, at the end of play, a virtual massacre. The Vorax learned that paintball pellets _hurt_. Yes, even with a chitinous exoskeleton _and_ body armour. This, the Humans said, was how you learned not to get hit.

The Vorax lost by a mile. Humans may not have the quickest reflexes or the fastest movement, but they are quick learners, adaptive hunters, and possess -comparatively- the patience of a tortoise. Their famous endurance allowed them to out-pace the Vorax playing by sheer, unadulterated persistence.

That, and they were a pack of the sneakiest assholes to ever aim a paint pellet at another cogniscent being.

Nevertheless, in spite of the loss - or perhaps because of it, you could never tell with Humans - the pack-bonding exercise worked. The Humans of the Blue Team congratulated the Vorax Red Team on a great game.

Maybe, next time, they could try one of the lesser balls. Perhaps... 'Foot ball'...

#  Challenge #284: Yo Ho, Foe No Mo'

_A band of pirates attack a ship they'd learned would be mostly hauling civilians, students, and their possessions. What they don't realize is the ship they attacked, though owned by havenworlders, is filled with deathworlders, mostly humans. To pass the time while waiting for the fight to end, the humans pick up their instruments to practice the music they were going to play at the interspecies music competition. But there are other music lovers out there, too. Can a pirate learn to play a flute? –_ DaniAndShali

Never ask rhetorical questions that have obvious and painful answers. It should be a rule of life. The universe has a way of answering to your detriment. Many, _many_ people have found this out at the price of their own pain. Today's example is the crew of the _Embedded Blade_ , a gang of pirates in the Edge territories who took one look at a distance cruise vessel and said the near-fatal words, "It's a Havenworlder ship. What opposition could they possibly pose?"

It was a ship _registered and owned_ by Havenworlders. However, it was crewed and filled almost entirely by Deathworlders. The worst possible Deathworlders in known space. _Humans_. They had already attacked, boarding the vessel and demanding every possible valuable from the people therein and their relatives elsewhere. They were surprised to find bands of resistance in the form of physical, chemical, and mental opposition.

That was four hours ago. Pockets of fighting persisted, and most of the customers and crew were relaxing on the Lido Deck whilst everyone sorted everything else out amongst themselves. Even Humans recognise when there are too many dancers on the metaphorical floor and democratically decide to leave those who had it handled to handle it. Interestingly, some were tag-teaming with others. As for the rest... Humans get bored easily. This is also a hazard.

Fortunately, Humans are also a creative bunch. The ones lingering on the Lido Deck grew bored of games and, with instruments and song and wit, held something of an improvised talent show. It was, of course, the kind of glorified chaos that only Humans were capable of. Until one of the Pirates decided to sneak into the Lido Deck for a very much-needed break from the unending chaos and mayhem of the ongoing battles.

They spent an hour studying the shenanigans as they ensued and, after a few further minutes' thought, brought out an instrument and joined in with one of the easier tunes to gain the gist thereof.

Over the passage of that day, some of the more musically-inclined pirates also joined in with the self-entertainment shenanigans. It was not long after that that the fighting devolved into a battle of the bands.

Once the Humans start having fun with you, it's all over. Friendship is inevitable.

Once they were all friends, the whole reason for the raid went up in metaphorical smoke.

They failed as pirates, that much was true, but they gained benefits in truly bizarre directions. That's the Human effect for you.

#  Challenge #285: Conceptual Pretzel

_The mysterious mentor, the hero's best friend, a cast of stock characters to pad out the story. Have fun or not and pick one with a twist. –_ Knitnan

AN: If you're inserting stock characters to pad out a story, you're writing wrong. Also please read [this thing at the top of my prompts topic. Y'all should know me enough by now that I _always_ pick a twist.]

Imagine, if you will, that there is a space in which everything unwritten, unthought-of, and unconceived _yet_ in the creative ether can exist. Call it... Waitspace. It is a place where things _waiting_ to become an imagined thing exist in a nebulous vapour. The more an idea is reached for, the more it becomes a personality. Just one at a time, though.

There are physical qualities, like Enormous Bosom. There are more nebulous concepts, like Obligatory Stupid Guard. There's the entire cast of the Hero's Journey. All of them are waiting, once again, to be made Real. They're waiting for a scriptwriter, for an artist, for an author, for a game designer... For someone to use their archetype, their memetic pattern, their _base_ as the launching point for a character.

They wait, and they do not leave. If their pattern sparks something, they become just that little bit more solid. If their pattern is neglected, they fade. Some patterns are no longer needed nor wanted - like the Burden Child. It lingers in a narrative of a select few, but it is hardly used for _creative_ efforts any more. The people who use that one tend to be the opposite of creative. Do not be sad for that personotrope. It is merely an idea. There are bad ideas.

Besides, this is all just a mental exercise. No such reality exists. Except, of course, when we make you imagine it into reality. In the malleable and infinite plane of concepts, some of the more common ones can exist as people, and have... something approaching a real conversation.

For instance, Burden Child has once more sought the arms of the Perfect Mother. One of the few personified tropes who can withstand the Burden Child's inherently frightening nature. Mysterious Mentor watches on, with their face concealed in a shadowed hood.

"I hate anti-vaxxers," Burden Child sobbed. "They made me a monster."

"You're not a monster," soothed Perfect Mother. "Those mean people don't know how to love you properly."

"I wish the people who used me could learn that," sighed Burden Child.

Mysterious Mentor spoke. "You suffer now only to become great, later," they insisted. "Your destiny is at hand." Nobody paid attention to them. They were always coming out with nonsense like that.

Surprising Sage drifted by and said, "If you were loved instead of mis-used, your very essence would change. You would cease to be who you are."

"That's a good thing," said the miserable Burden.

#  Challenge #286: Dismantling Babel

Humans may not be able to recreate the visual cacophony of many species in the Allegiance due to a lack of chromatophoric organs,

(though the "body art" some inflict upon themselves both temporarily with chemical compounds on the Dermis, as well as via repeated and what they call "minor" puncturing of said dermal tissue coupled with the injection of colouring chemicals)

But what they can do with their vocal and pneumonic systems in mimetic creation and improvisation is incredible, and now it seems their version of GalStand, often referred to GalSimple, is starting to become the norm on the outer rim due to its ease of use by everyone for communicating – Adam In Darwin

Communication is... a problem. Most species rely on sound waves, specifically compressing and de-compressing air in rapid oscillation to make specific and unique noise. The form these noises take are as many and varied as the concept of noise itself. Others communicate strictly visually with flashes of light or with movements of their body. Some communicate mostly through scent. Understandably, this has lead to many difficulties and assistive communications devices.

Further problems occurred when linguistic contamination occurred, species picking up other species' words or phrases because they were just _so darned useful_ , mashing them into their own means of communication, and moving onwards from there. Something had to be done, and that something was GalStand. A collection of the most popular, useful, and versatile words and phrases with the pronunciation adjusted so that the most peoples can say them with the least amount of garbling. For those with non-verbal communication, there is GalStand Sight and GalStand Scent. GalStand is relatively easy to translate into GalStand Sight and GalStand Scent.

Then the Humans came along. They had languages with long, complicated histories out of creatively borrowing words from other languages and cultures, and using them for their own nefarious purposes[81]. The creoles _fissioned_ as a direct result. What also emerged was a new, pared-down language with a minimal grammar structure and simple conjunctions of meaning. Humans took one look at the increasingly-complicated GalStand, figured out the minimal possible ways to communicate meaning, and created GalStand Simple. Which, in turn, was quickly pared down to GalSimple.

Humans were adept at imitation and mimicry. They could, with a few false starts, echo sounds they hear with remarkable accuracy. Anyone who doubts the vocal plasticity of Humans has never heard a Beatboxer at their trade. The N'Ozzies, especially, seem to be very good at mimicry. Nevertheless, the Humans were the one that refined GalStand to its barest basics. They were also the ones who pared down GalSight and GalScent down to their most basic forms of meaning. They invented communication rigs that could input one and output another for the relevant users. They weren't as effective as a living translator but, in emergency situations, in extreme and unpredictable situations, they could make meaning understood.

It should be no surprise at all that GalSimple spread like wildfire. Not just through the Edge Territories, not just within the Galactic Alliance, but into any space where Humans and Human allies spread their near-viral influence. GalSimple has become so universal that species who have never heard of the Galactic Alliance have a grasp of it. It has become, intentionally or not, the _Lingua Universa_ , even if the cogniscent only knows the words, _want_ and _trade_.

Humans have certain knacks. One of them is mimicry. Another is creating things so inherently useful that nobody is willing to believe that anyone created it in the first place. Then other species use it to complain about how useless the Humans seem to be.

[81] Looking at you, English.

#  Challenge #287: Lawless Lands

A deathworlder and a heavenworlder talk about a City/asteroid/planet, choose the size you want :D

-It's a place with no rules

-You always need rules

-Not this place, it's called "Kowloon" because it's based off a human city that had the same name. It was more dense than any other urban area on the face of terra... and it was ungoverned

-.... and conflicts between them ?

-Human gangs of criminals (triads) were resolving civil conflicts, creating a volunteer fire brigade, and organizing garbage disposal.

-That's not what a criminal organisations normally do

-But there were no rules

<https://www.visualcapitalist.com/kowloon-walled-city/>

(Don't keep that part please it's embarrassing ^^, I love your work and I want to contribute once again

I'm not very good and confident in English since it's a second language so I took some part of the article) – Hyorky

[AN: I fix what I can of my prompts, but I don't delete huge parts of them. (Though I might delete the entire prompt if it is made of nastiness) Therefore, this one has grammar fixes only. Never be ashamed of having bad English, it's one of the hardest languages to learn. Also Kowloon is an amazing example of what Humanity can do, for each other and for profit.]

"Don't go there," said the stranger, pointing out a particular location on the holographic map. "It's a total Kowloon."

The entire area was already marked in red and silver, and had the warning, _Here there be Humans,_ on it. The people examining the map, concealed in their livesuits, looked at each other and then faced the stranger together. "Kowloon?" one echoed. "What meaning 'Kowloon'."

Their ersatz guide switched to GalSimple. "There being much bad place. No law. No organising. Crime running all things."

"If is no law, how is being crime?"

Damnit. There was always one who asked the smarter, and therefore more annoying, question. "Crime persons being crime persons in law place. Running things in no-law place. Much many bad."

"Many death?"" said one of the concealed cogniscents. Their artificial exoskeleton had a sticker of an apple on it. Apple would do as a name. The other had scorch marks on theirs, so they got Scorch.

"Many hurt?" said Scorch.

"Er," said the guide. Honesty had to be the best policy when talking to strangers without a strong grasp of the language. Exaggerating things and turning to rumour and gossip as a source was very bad all around. "No. Much small hurt, much small death. No many, no many..." Their guide tried to find a way to say, _There's no regulation, no rules, and everything there is unlicensed. They have their own economy, the crime syndicates actually cut down on crime and there's even home care for the disabled,_ without making it look like civilisation as they knew it was bad. "You is knowing Deathworlder Earth?"

Nods and enthusiastic noises. Good. The volunteer continued. "Deathworlder place, Kowloon. No law. Full of criminal. Bad people. Soft minds and poor people. Very small, Kowloon. No clean place. Much many, much _many_ people."

"Many many people," said Apple, "must wanting live belong Kowloon."

"Many many people having no choice."

"Bigger crime, that," said Scorch. "Choice much easy right."

Yes. Well. That _was_ technically true. Having the right to chose _where_ you lived was as much a right as food, air, water, shelter, and medical care. "Is Deathworlder place," they insisted. "Deathworlder many bad. Human Deathworlder having soft minds. Much many much danger. No going there."

"Thank," said Scorch and Apple together.

Two bipedal lifeforms in livesuits walked with their luggage towards another meeting place, following the inner-station map on their datareaders.

The one tentatively named Apple said, in their own tongue. _"Nice person, that. I still think we should have told them."_

The one tentatively named Scorch said, _"No, you shouldn't. We're barely tolerated out here on the Edge. They'd throw a wobbler if they knew we're from beyond."_

Apple sighed, and sung, _"Home, home, I'm deraaannnged..."_

Scorch snorted. _"Stop that. Just enjoy the journey instead of stirring up shit."_

" _Yes, dah-dah,"_ Apple mocked. _"It will be good to go home though."_

#  Challenge #288: Fair Scare Tactics

_The Havenworlders learn of the Human tradition of Halloween. Some Human nations have it as the day of the dead, some have it as All Hallow's Eve, either way, it's a lot of fun for the Humans, not so much for Havenworlders, and most other Deathworlders to be honest. As Humans get ready for their holiday with skulls, frightening movies, costumes, and treats, many nations tremble wondering what will happen when that festival arrived. –_ DaniAndShali

_This is Halloween! This is Halloween! Halloween! Halloween!_ – Incredibly catchy Human festival song.

Humans have an incredible fascination with things that could kill them. So much so that they _invent_ things that could kill them if they actually existed. They invent things to scare themselves with. Then, on a specific day of their calendar[82], they all decide to bring those fears into the open and _celebrate them_. The undead, the monsters of their assorted fictions, deadly beasts[83], or random concepts with the word 'sexy' tacked onto the front[84]... All of them come out when the Humans celebrate this one day of horror.

As the reader might understand, the whole 'fear factor' involved in that holiday does not mesh well with Havenworlders. This has lead to 'Deathworlder Zoning', so that resident Havenworlder populations can simply avoid all the weird Deathworlder horror elements scattered all over those areas.

Once Humans learned about the relative fragilities of their Havenworlder friends, once word got out and liability was understood... an amazing change occurred. Humans kept their 'spooky' factor, that was true, but they went with blatantly fake horror elements. Skeletons with googly eyes. Goofy carved pumpkins. Cartoon fictional monsters. All of that, and a surprising amount of all-gender "Sexy X" costumes. Harmless costumes too, where the wearer was pretending to be something clearly unreal and clearly non-hazardous.

That was when the Havenworlders, tentatively at first, started to join in.

Interestingly, taking a day to side-step from reality and into a world where a Havenworlder can frighten a Deathworlder can be fun for all players. Even when it's clearly pretend.

Humans _adore_ pretending to be frightened of their Havenworlder allies. The Havenworlders adore pretending to be scary.

[82] Some Human colonies have adapted their colonial planetary calendar to include it whilst others have not. Since all Human colonial calendars are out of sync with their origin planet anyway, it is entirely possible for all colonial Human festivals to be spread out throughout the entire Galactic Standard Calendar. Some Humans enjoy this as an excuse to leave their seasonal decorations up throughout the year. Yes, all of them at once.

[83] Thanks to more reasoned minds, those deadly beasts are (a) representational in a non-realistic manner, (b) live mimics with a guarantee of safety for all resident cogniscents, and/or (c) obvious costumes.

[84] This is no longer an obligation for those who identify as feminine, but rather an option for all gender identities.

#  Challenge #289: Hope in the Dark Times

A distant planet has caught ancient radio signals from earth. They are visual images and audio of the chronicles of a exploratory ship and it's crew.

Over 200 years before humans figured out long-term space travel...

_Everyone is confused. –_ AmberFox

Filtering things out of the Hydrogen Line is an interesting task. Though it is a band relatively free of interference, there is still signal fade as it disperses through deeper space. Those listening for the echoes of the big bang regularly have to filter out the newer signals using the Hydrogen Line in order to do their research. The Archivaas, ever hungry for the lost information of Pre-Shattering Earth, always want to know what this signal is, and whether or not it is within their interests.

The process behind _that_ is far more complicated. Removing noise from a faded signal is just as complicated as extracting the signal from the noise in the first place. Once one removes the relative noises of the stars, ancient or young, whatever remains must be the signal... most of the time. Some signals interfere with others, and filtering _those_ from each other is an interesting exercise, starting with matching one or more of those with known signal patterns.

After all of that complication, the end result is similar to that of a decayed artwork, where every sound or frame is almost unrecognisable from the original. It takes an immense amount of interpretive untangling to restore a lost transmission from that faded work. Thusly, the results are contested by many other experts who have had many other ideas. Artificial intelligences are used to make certain the result an Archivaas may have obtained to what the signal is most likely to be. On this one, they agreed.

The Humans in the 2D representation were wearing primary colours. The general aesthetic of the setting was blocky and retro-futuristic. Typical of ancient Human science fiction. The technobabble was a mixture of pseudoscience and nautical terms. The word 'star' turned up in some of the technobabble terms. There was even a starship that looked logically impossible in the present day. There was technology that was _still_ impossible in the present day. There were aliens that were clearly Humans in ridiculous costumes. Some of them no complicated than a thick layer of greasepaint.

It was set in the Terran twenty-fifth century. More or less in the era that the researchers were living in. As far as hitting the mark was concerned, it missed by light years. _Hundreds_ of light years. Perhaps, thousands. Viewed in the present day, it was pointedly ridiculous.

Then the mathematical team informed all involved in this particular process when this particular signal was most likely launched into the endless depths of the stars. A date two _hundred_ years before Humanity finally made itself known and acceptable to the Galactic Alliance.

They hadn't known that future would happen when they made it. They had guessed, with the best of their knowledge, what could happen with extant technology. They _hoped_ , as only Humans were capable of hoping, that they would last that long against the forces of their own self-destructive tendencies. It was made in a time when the biggest threat to Humanity's continued existence were their own weapons of mass destruction.

The truth, learned by Humanity's pain, was the risk lay in their own lust for profit, and the few's power over the multitude, including their own political systems. Humanity's trial by fire was in their destroyed climate, not in their weapons of war... though it was a close race.

The issues were more transparent in some stories rather than others. Social issues, moral issues, even ethical ones. Sometimes, the evil wasn't being perpetrated by the alien of the episode, but rather those who had invaded its environment.

There was no other embodiment of Human hope like it.

Humans, re-introduced to the transmissions, pointed to it as a defining entertainment in Human history. The thing that lead to many of their ancestors to keep looking towards the stars no matter _how_ bad things got. Those who kept working towards that better world no matter how hard it was to do so.

No other species can hope like a Human. Though the factual progress differed from the fictional, that seed of hope helped develop the future for themselves that they made. That was what made it the most popular set of archival files in the Archivaas' collected data files.

#  Challenge #290: What in a Name

_A small movement has cropped up amongst the Vorax. People who would rather try to live quiet, peaceful, lives instead of piracy and war. When the government goes to make an example out of them, they take the only ship they can get their hands on and flee. They find an uninhabited haven world that's suitable for them to live on and settle down to live quiet lives as farmers, raising their meat animals, hunting wild game, fishing, growing crops, and just having what they wanted most. Peace, not only with each other, but with the galaxy around them. When the less peaceful Vorax come to destroy the colony, they find out that humans, and others, don't take well to bullies, and show the peaceful colony how wrong, and how right, the stories were about the Vorax's old enemies. –_ DaniAndShali

When other cultures met the Vikings, the concept of Norsemen or Danes were conglomerated into that one, first idea. Never mind that those who farmed considered themselves different from those who traded or raided. They were all 'Vikings' to the rest of the world, because that was their first impression.

The exact same thing happened to the Vorax. Vorax was not, as it happened, a species name, but rather an _occupation_ , just like the Vikingr once were. They called themselves _Vorax_ because that was what they did. They were _Voraxyr_. The others called themselves _Thranityr_ but they called themselves that in vain. The rest of the Galactic Alliance had heard _Vorax_ first. So, too, had the Humans... and you know how terrible _they_ are at letting go of the first idea to enter their fluffy little heads.

For centuries, they could not be convinced of the existence of more than two gender identities because they claimed it was _unnatural_. The hubris and the ignorance inherent just boggles the mind. You have to do immense amounts of work to re-convince the Humans. Even then, the initial label will _never_ go away. Vorax, they were introduced as, and Vorax they will remain. Potentially forever. Hardly anyone remembers who the Vikings who weren't Vikingr were called[85].

When a Human colony settled a world _in co-operation_ with what they insisted on calling Vorax, it was hoped that they might eventually learn to use the word, _Thranityr_ or something approximating it. There were hopes, but they weren't high hopes.

Until, in a distant year, the Humans actually asked what their _species_ were called.

There were great hopes, then, for _Q'thalykk_ to enter the Galactic dictionary. One name, by which both factions could be known. They did, after all, have that one thing in common. Humans could be _engineers_ or _artists_ but still be Human. They could be N'Ozzies or B'Nari and still be Human.

Humans took _Q'thalykk_ and used it thusly:

Q'thalykk: (n) [ _kwoo-tall-ik_ ] Origin species of the Vorax and Thranityr. Level 5 Deathworlders.

[85] I welcome correction on this bold statement, because I really want to know what they called themselves.

#  Challenge #291: Considering Invasion?

In the past, Nordic Human warriors in the midst of battle would enter into a "berserker state" where many of the brain limiters would turn off and force the body into using 100% of it strength to pummel the enemy into submission or death. Of course, this severely injure the body afterward, since the limiters were there to keep the muscles from ripping themselves apart and disrupting the organs, or from erupting. Also due to the adrenaline rush and rush of endorphins, the thoughts of the respected human will be limited, even attacking their allies. Due to how society evolved that function was rarely seen, until today. – Anon Guest

Humans. Look at them. Ridiculous bipedal hairless apes. Most of them meekly wandering through their daily activities in a near-brainless state of routine. You'd never think that every single one of them has the capacity to be a monster.

Berserkers walk amongst them.

Any single one of those Humans could carry the Berserker Ability. A state of rage so intense that they can tear one of their fellows apart with their bare hands, and then move onto the next offender. They have new names for the triggered state, hysterical strength, adrenaline psychosis, superman syndrome... and some can even employ it at will. They are _trained_ to employ it at will.

Of course, it destroys the Human's energy reserves, tears muscle, and can even break their own bones whilst they feel nothing until afterwards. The Human body has the power inside it to _kill itself_ in the process of temporary power.

Fact: The Human jaw is so strong that it can bite the fingers off of the same body. The only things stopping a Human from actually doing this are pain and a nominal sense of restraint.

Any Human can become a force of destructive chaos. This is why their planet should be avoided at all costs.

#  Challenge #292: Complete Medical Intervention

It may be only 2% of our body mass, but for every cell we have in our body there ten of them. Bacteria are relatively harmless for the most parts. They help digest food, strengthen our immune system, and could kill us if escape from ours guts. – Anon Guest

Humans are, for the most part, completely unaware that they exist in a state of symbiosis. If asked, most of them would mention their mitochondria, a symbiote so involved that it has become part of almost every cell in their bodies. They do not consider their own bacterial ecology.

They have no idea, or most of them don't, that their bacteria are so important to the proper functioning of their bodies that changing the ecology inside their own digestive system changes the course of their health. In fact, many deny that this is the case, claiming that their bodily systems are completely isolated from each other.

Hollistic medicine - which examines the whole patient instead of one of their systems - has been anathema to enormous swathes of Human medicine. Including a great many patients. The opposition to such often borders on superstition. Therefore, dealing with many Colonial-Origin Humans can be... educational for the attending Medik.

Fortunately, the need to extract specific samples has been phased out over the years. Most diagnostics can be performed with an in-depth scan. Unfortunately, Humans are wont to argue with anything.

"I came in for my sore arm," insisted the Human on the scanner bench. "That's a muscle thing, not a heart thing."

Medik Kalypur sighed. This one was less advanced than so very many Humans, and most of _them_ were deplorable when compared to the sum of Galactic Alliance medical knowledge. Medik Kalypur said, "You're experiencing transferred pain. I can show you your heartbeat if–"

"ARE YOU CLAIMING THE SIGHT AND HEARING OF THE DIVINE?"

What? Oh sweet Powers That Be, this one was from an even more retrograde colony than ze had previously believed. "Absolutely not. I have special instruments that can help me see and hear what's going on inside your–"

"ONLY THE DIVINE CAN KNOW WHAT'S IN A BODY'S HEART! YOU'RE A BLASPHEMER! I CAME HERE FOR YOU TO FIX MY ARM! YOU FIX MY ARM. YOU FIX MY ARM RIGHT–" The pain must have been so intense that it cut off their outraged rant. What colour there was in his face drained right out of it as the growing horror of what that agony meant gripped their mind.

Fortunately for interspecies relations, Medik Kalypur was prepared for nearly such an emergency. Technically speaking, ze was prepared for several such emergencies and therefore had everything ze needed for just _this_ emergency. In order to be prepared for a precise, Human-related emergency, it certainly helps to be prepared for several more generic ones at once.

Medik Kalypur cured _that_ heart attack and did what ze could to stabilise the current arrhythmia, then administered a mild sedative to help hir patient remain calm for the duration. Because this _was_ , after all, an easily-irritated and irrational Deathworlder, Medik Kalyper was not afraid to admit that ze might have overdone the sedation.

"Human Bar? Can you understand my words?"

"Yeah? I guess... Why's you all glowy an' stuff?"

"Your eyes are currently unable to focus properly. Do you know where you are?"

"Uuuuuhhhh... 'm onna bench?"

Well, they weren't wrong. "Do you understand what happened to you, just now?"

"F'r sure," slurred Human Bar. "I died... an' you're my angel."

This was going to take longer than ze thought...

#  Challenge #293: Sauce Please

Humans are known to be very adaptable to most conditions thanks in no small part to the horrors that come naturally on their home planet. So while many aliens won't be making Earth a tourist hot spot of the galaxy, the next best thing to experience human cultures are the restaurants in the space stations or food markets on a human colony. Seriously, if you have to think of nutrition requirements for more then two different species but can only go to one source? An authentic human restaurant is your best bet. – from tumblr

Humans have a very wide definition of 'edible'. Many of them also pride themselves on their capacity for hospitality. It shouldn't have come as a shock that Human restaurants catered to local cuisine as well as disparate Galactic needs associated with a blend of Havenworlders, Deathworlders, and every creature in-between. Yet, it did anyway.

Welcome to the Edge Territories. The _best_ place to find hives of scum and villainy. Also the most checkered collections of civilisations ranging from 'technically' to 'surprisingly advanced'. You can also find the kind of restaurants that would not be found anywhere else.

Welcome to Eldy's. The 'Eat' has been crudely painted on two different pieces of salvage and bolted or nailed to the superstructure on either side of the sign. There, the scent of cooking food wafts out with the steam, where clever use of the ventilation system is more or less free advertising. The menus are in GalSimple with pictures of what the expected meal looks like. Halos and skulls indicate which offerings are safe for Havenworlders and which ones are strictly for Deathworlders only. The number of each symbol indicates which level they're safe for. While _everyone_ can safely ingest Level 5 Havenworlder fare, the same does not hold true for Level 5 Deathworlder food. Which, it might be noted, also can contain scofield scale levels.

It's always bustling in Eldy's, even when the titular chef is not cooking. She has chefs working on shifts and nobody goes away hungry. Here, the explorers of the Edge can whet their appetites on cuisine and ingredients they may never have seen before.

It was never a shock that it became one of the popular places for negotiations to take place. In every species with pack-bonding, it is mutual meals that help re-enforce that instinct. Hardly anyone is prone to feel angry about things with a stomach full of delicious food, after all.

For those situations, it is often wise to make sure that Eldy herself is in the kitchen. She is the most versed in identifying cogniscent species and therefore refusing to use them as ingredients. Ambassadorial-style relations have been saved by that one fact alone. There is also the factor that Eldy is also the most versed in cooking for extremely diverse groups.

If you ask Eldy, she will tell you, "It's all in the sauce." Or perhaps she is saying, "It's all in the source." Humans _do_ love their puns. There are sauces for the subtle. There are sauces for the gross. There are sauces that few other species have ever considered, and a few that most never have. There are sauces that only a Human on the Edge could have invented.

The right sauce can make a peace pact. Such as Eldy's famous _Peacepipe_ sauce. It's mostly sugar, and a blend of interesting herbs and spices that compound together to titillate even the most dull of sensory inputs. It can be consumed at any temperature in the positive Kelvin range by any species who can withstand those temperatures.

Considering the nature of the sauce, it's mildly surprising that it actually _has_ a nutrient profile and a rough recommended daily intake profile. People want to buy bottles of it to gift to friends and family at home. Many of the more mercantile-minded have tried to copy it and failed. That's because there is no singular Peacepipe sauce.

Eldy makes it unique for each party undergoing negotiations. Sure, there is a consistent base and starter flavour profile, but the specific _blend_... that's unique. The bottled stuff for other guests is dished out according to a set of circumstances known only to Eldy and those she has included in her family.

_This_ group are trying to crack the code.

"Cillantro, this time," murmured Hygan. "Salt... that has to be a mainstay. Cinnamon? Why cinnamon?"

"It's one of the more innocuous Terran spices," said Draniq, not looking up from hir scans. "Often attributed to the Human desserts despite some of its more harmful capabilities. Humans think it embodies purity and an amiable nature."

"...cinnamon," mumbled Hygan.

"It is because I was a part of the party," said Thrikk, a relatively large Havenworlder. They were attempting to recreate the new Base Sauce. "Eldy herself has often said I am a 'cinnamon roll'."

The analysts shared a moment of mutual crogglement that every non-Human shared when encountering uniquely Human phraseology. After that timed out, they went back to their analysis without a word.

[AN: Big thank to L.D. who has donated WAY more than they should have to my Ko-Fi in the last 48 hours. Bless you, and may the traffic lights always help your travels.]

#  Challenge #294: Sudden Onset Deification

_A young human in her early teens, a mere military cadet, is forced to fight in a war against an invading tyrant's forces and ended up facing off with the tyrant himself. Either due to her own small ability which was to cause someone to freeze for a few seconds which she usually used to escape bullies, or he made an error in the heat of battle, she got in a fatal blow, and his head fell from his shoulders. He had been a Greater War God. And at his defeat, the power of a god, and the command of his legions and the lands from which they came, fell upon her. The angels of war surrendered to the humans and then, kneeling before the young human, held up their swords to her swearing their fealty to their new goddess. However, that night, she left her tent in the encampments and fled. She was terrified of having that kind of power and did not want that kind of responsibility. Since the tyrant's forces were defeated and the human's lands were now safe, the search began to find her. But would she be found by those that wanted to aid her? Or those that wanted to control her for their own nefarious plans? She feared the immense power she now held, reluctant to accept she was the new goddess of war, and continued to run. –_ DaniAndShali

This is the reason why the gods should not tread the same soil as the mortals who are their charges. In such a world, things like... well... _this_... are wont to happen. Gamin, fresh new god of war, was running from the scene of her crime. She had -however accidentally- just _killed_ the previous god of war. The sword she used keeps coming back to her hand, no matter how many times she throws it aside. It still drips with the somehow ephemeral, and simultaneously visceral, blood of a former deity. Tears streak her face and terror grips her heart. She wants to run until there is no more 'run' left in her body but...

Gods never tire.

She is breathing out of habit. Crying out of habit. Running... well the running is simply because she, Gamin Helfarro, is now and always has been a pacifist. She never wanted to be in the army. She never wanted to be in the base. She never wanted to wear a uniform and she certainly never wanted to _carry_ a sword, let alone swing it at any living being.

But the gods aren't exactly alive, aren't exactly living. Even though they can be killed, they are not exactly alive.

She wasn't even supposed to be there. She was on convoy guard duty when the convoy was captured, and then swept along with the rescue team when they decided to take the opportunity to take out Codename Bloodthirst. Gamin had only intended to distract the man in blood-red armour with the eternally-dripping stiletto at his hip. To give someone else a chance to take the bad man down. To give someone else a chance because she knew she was out of them.

She'd never seen a walking god before. She didn't know the signs.

The instant the head cleaved off the body, he didn't bleed a mortal's blood. He bled _lightning_... all of which struck her in her heart and head.

She didn't know her heart had stopped beating in that moment. She didn't want to believe that she now had lightning in her veins.

Gamin ran. Ran from the enemy base. Ran from the bodies. Ran from the blood and the battlefield. Ran past all mortal logic into a space that did not contain the screams and shouts of war. She was not tired. She was not thirsty. She was _weary_ , that was true, but it was a weariness that she expected to have from running for miles.

The sword was in her hand again and she was too weary to throw it aside.

"Well," said a strange voice. "This _is_ interesting..._

Gamin looked up. The man was old, true, but there was a special depth to his elderly state. He hadn't just lived through decades and she could _tell_. She said, "I'm not going to use this sword. It... it keeps coming back..."

"Good to know. I don't think they let anyone be the god of two things at once, anyway. If you tried, it could end badly for the both of us." He gestured with his walking staff, and a berry bush sprouted, grew to its maximum, and fruited before her eyes. "I am the Old Man of the Mountains. I look after all those who come so high, and my sacrifice is the fools who came unprepared." He gestured for her to eat.

"Um." Gamin sniffed. "Thanks, but I'm... I'm not hungry."

"You ran a long way... are you sure you're not hungry? Not tired?"

"I'm not either of those." She looked back over her shoulder. Down a seemingly ceaseless path to the smokes of war far, far below. "Is it the sword? I didn't know it was magic and I didn't want to steal it... I just wanted to stop him hurting people."

"It's not the sword, poor child. You killed a god. Therefore, you take up their godhood."

"I didn't mean it," Gamin protested. "It was an accident."

"I know. Mine was an accident, too." Only now did she see that his staff dripped, too. The liquid issuing forth had slowed and faded, but it was still there for those who had eyes to see. "You are now the goddess of war. Your sacrifice is the blood spilled and cries for mercy. You look after the soldiers who are lucky in battle."

"I'd rather look after those who never belonged in battle, to protect the children and other innocents who get swept up in war despite their best efforts to stay safe," protested Gamin. "Soldiers don't need to be lucky, they need to be trained. They can look after themselves. I'd rather care for those who don't have any luck _left_."

The Old Man of the Mountains smiled. "Good," he said. "So you change the nature of war. At last... the world has long needed kinder gods."

Down in the valley far below, the regiments returned to their camps. The distant screams ebbed to a slow halt. Tomorrow, they would not have a god thirsting for blood on either side. They would have a god thirsting for peace. Gamin found a sheath for her bleeding sword, suddenly at her side. She looked... and saw the half-ruined houses of her chosen charges. The huddled families. The children without parents. The people searching for hope.

"What do I do for them?" she asked.

"Go be among them. Guide them. Show them your new way. Go do your best, and be on your guard. Gods _can_ be killed."

Give praise, mortal... to Gamin, goddess of war. Pray for her protection and don't raise a weapon if she appears. She will appear, if you need her mercy. If you have no hope. If you have lost everything and are scavenging for scraps. Sometimes she appears as a young maiden in bloodstained clothes. Sometimes, she is an older woman with a careworn face. Sometimes, she is a threadbare veteran... but there is always a sword at her hip. Sheathed. There only to protect those who have no protection from war.

#  Challenge #295: Essential Briefing

_A new security force is in training so they can be assigned to various stations. The subject of this particular lecture was the phenomena involving human Silly Seasons. What they were, how to recognize when one was about to happen, how to handle them, and most important, how to curtail the humans safely before the Silly Season got too far out of hand. –_ DaniAndShali

Given that this station has opened its airlocks to admit Humans, we at Administration are well aware of your concerns. We're well aware of Humans' unpredictability and the unique ur-festival known amongst their kind as Silly Season. Just as we are aware that one is impending. Humans get bored, no matter what their opportunities for enrichment are. The resultant tensions build up and result in a chaotic party-adjacent atmosphere that spreads like a virus until the Humans vent their pent-up tensions.

This... is Silly Season. _The soundless video shows a chaotic group of Humans jumping and cavorting in a group. Some of them, judging strictly by the rhythm of their gyrations, were possibly singing and dancing. Many were just doing chaotic things. Most were laughing._

For the most part, these activities are harmless. Humans play pranks - practical jokes - on each other and any species they know can withstand the jape in question. They do understand that there are environmental and biota protection laws and the pranks will follow _most_ of those legislations. Expect flour bombs- _the video showed a thrown object exploding in white powder_ -water bombs- _another missile, this time soaking the target on impact_ -and organic glitter or confetti bombs- _the thrown object cascaded small items around the target._ Here, the only lingering problem is clean-up. Fortunately, the Cleaners are attracted to this kind of nonsense.

What we have to be concerned about is the minor crime. Accidental assault, noise pollution, minor theft, public disarray, that sort of thing. Humans in a party mood do not always consider the full consequences of their actions. Humans will not lay charges against other Humans, and may consider accidental assault to be part of the party atmosphere. It is therefore our duty to prevent the frailer Havenworlders - level three and above - from entering the contaminated zone. The most common cause of the minor thefts is mistaken ownership. One Human puts a thing down and a different Human picks it up. This sort of thing should be taken to the nearest security booth to resolve by footage review.

Prevention is key. However, there is very little that can stop a Silly Season once it starts. Scientists are still attempting to discover _all_ the signs and causes. The instant you spot an outbreak, the procedure is as follows:

One: call Security Central with your location so that the footage can be scanned for any inciting incident. If you can identify the Humans at the centre of the initial outbreak, all the better. If we can identify them, they can be interviewed afterwards to find the inciting spark. This is not your priority, only a bonus.

Two: Locate any and all level four or above Havenworlders and escort them from the immediate area. Any Humans already inside the area are already a lost cause. They _will_ be infected by the mood.

Three: Notify traffic control. They will reroute foot and vehicle traffic to avoid the zone of influence. Do attempt to prevent the contagion spreading.

Species most at risk of joining Silly Season are: Melil, due to telepathic and empathic contamination; Gyiiks, because they never turn a festival down; Nufurrian Augments, because they are Humanity's creations and it shows; and of course, the Consortium of Steam. It's in their core programming. _If_ you can, prevent any of those species especially from entering the ongoing mayhem.

If we let this situation progress to the state of a station-wide party, our best options are to secure the Havenworlders, close all docks, and cut off their sugar and caffeine supplies. They may be pursuit predators with a seemingly unnatural endurance capacity, but even _they_ have to sleep sometime.

Once a Human becomes drowsy, or is falling asleep, that is when you escort them to the cells to dry out, calm down, or wear out. Whichever happens first. Document everything, stay with your partner, and above all, do not ingest or otherwise consume anything a Human gives you.

Stunners ready? Let's do this.

#  Challenge #296: Something She Ate?

A: I didn't know that humans spit acids

H: uhg we usually don't, I think I ate something toxic

A: I see so the acid is used to neutralize the toxins

H: it really isn't. Get back I'm gonna blow another chunk – Anon Guest

[Offensensitivity warning: descriptions of regurgitation]

_The Human digestive system is a mass of toxic substances in valved tubes._ – Gryxnu's Comparative Anatomy, 236 GalStand years before Human Admission into the Galactic Alliance.

221 Years before the Human Admission...

Human Bob evicted a stream of acid and other substances that Medik Gryxnu's livesuit registered as dangerous and informed on procedures to safely neutralise it. Step one included powdered cellulose. Step two was to seal off the area to prevent incidental contagion. Fortunately, a Medik's livesuit has extras that untrained lay people just don't have access to. Step three was where it started to get complicated.

Air recycling into biohazard-burn mode, which meant it and everything carried in it went through a superheating unit before it was cooled back to tolerable temperatures and fed back into the room from whence it came. And _what_ an array of chemicals. It was frankly astonishing.

"I didn't know that humans spat acids," said Gryxnu.

Human Bob coughed. "We usually don't... I think I ate something bad."

Well, that narrowed the field of potential trouble to any one of the thousands of things that Human Bob had crammed into her maw in the space of less than forty-eight Standard Hours. Nevertheless, Medik Gryxnu attempted to understand. "Ah. So the acid is used to neutralize the toxins?"

"Nuh.... it really isn't." Human Bob burped in an ominous fashion. "Ge' back, I'mgunnablowanotherchunk..."

The regurgitation was liquid, and not at all related to 'chunks' as far as Gryxnu could figure. Humans had confounding terms for _everything_ and worse, those terms became memetically infectious. Nevertheless, ze ran the scannable content past the ever-growing list of things that were toxic to Humans. In the process, ze found an awful lot of compounds that were toxic to everyone _else_.

Ze did what ze could for their ailing Ship's Human, monitoring her body for stress signals beyond the impressive Human tolerances and administering what care ze could whilst containing the pathogens.

When ze got a moment, ze would have to write some papers about this. Or at minimum, some kind of log...

#  Challenge #297: Some of Parts

_They used to meet you on arrival and arrange everything for your stay. Now they find valued jobs as Concierges in up-market hotels. The person who knows where to find experts and enthusiasts for Films and Docos. Inspired by a Thomas Cook employee who used to greet VIP's and smooth their path. –_ Knitnan

Some people are best at connections. They just... know people. They know another individual who might have the knowledge of the thing. They know a person who knows a person. They network, and hoard interesting people with equally interesting niche knowledge like a dragon may hoard gold and gems. They gleefully connect the people who want to learn with the people who already know.

Some people are best at finding sources. Where to get that esoteric fiddly bit that is apparently not made any more. Where to find the best examples of some species' delicacy. Who creates those marvellous little art pieces and why they leave them in seemingly random locations. If you want to find something, if you want to know the best place to get them at the most competitive price, if you're willing to pay for it to be made custom... these are the people who help you.

Rarest of all are the people who can do both. They are a beacon of friendly help, a central repository for local knowledge. They know a person who knows a person... they know where you can get that. They are the rock upon which the pillars of community lie. In the Galactic Alliance, they are known collectively as _Aunties_. It is not a blood relation honorific. It is a title. Those concerned with their gendered variant can also choose from Uncle, the masculine version, and Unty, the agender version. Some folks just can't be stopped from being specific in that one aspect. They know what to do to help almost any problem, and if they find themselves temporarily foxed, they _know_ how to network.

Even the ones who are new at their job. Unty Vrax checked hir pockets, hir carryall, _and_ hir carry-trailer for the useful things, making certain each was in place. Until hir community circle was cemented in hir mind, ze carried a minimap in hir data-reader with up-to-the-minute traffic information. There was location information on there and a list of useful people ze had already met.

Aunties tend to be JOATs by default, even those who just know people who know things. Today was another visitation day. Vrax was making hirself known to all in hir care. Residents of the neighbourhood, regulars who came through on their routines. The buskers who came to the transit stations in the area. _Everyone_.

In this case, everyone including the Human who preferred to be alone. Vrax found them feeding the birds in a grizzled and grizzly hunch. Mumbling to themself, which was never a good sign.

Vrax slowed into their line of sight, approaching slowly so ze could find this Human's boundaries and therefore respect them. It was in this process that ze realised that this Human wasn't old, just covered in a network of scars that aged them prematurely. There was something hurt behind their eyes. Something that didn't want to risk being hurt again.

"I don't need your help, go away." Their voice wasn't so much a growl as a mechanical buzz. They had an artificial voice box. One of their hands was synthetic. A primitive, bottom-of-the-market model that seemed designed to hurt rather than help. Its resemblance to a hand was at the functional level only. It kept the bag of birdseed steady by arranged co-incidence of their seating position and pressure against their torso.

"Oh, I'm not offering help," said Vrax. "I'm Unty Vrax, and I'm looking after your neighbourhood now. If you know anyone who needs help, don't hesitate to let me know."

"I don't help people any more."

Which implied that there had been a time when they had done so... and given the injuries, it had ended badly. Humans could take a lot of punishment and bounce back spitting, but this one had taken such and come back... broken on the inside. They had _chosen_ these bottom-shelf assistive additions rather than go for biological replacements or even fabricated ones that were just as good as the organic original. There weren't that many Spacers who held religious objections to being fixed up, so...

...this was a self-imposed punishment.

"You failed at helping people," ze guessed. "You escaped, right? And the people you were trying to help... got hurt."

"They died," said the Human. "They died... dragging me into the lifepod. I was willing to die for them and they... they killed themselves for _me_." _Me_ , here pronounced, _worthless garbage_. "I was supposed to protect them and... one survivor."

Vrax knew what was expected. The Human expected hir to leave them alone. To shun them like the hideous wreck they thought they were. "They were good people," said Vrax. Ze kept a respectful distance, waiting to be invited in.

"The best," agreed the Human.

"They thought you were worth saving. Their survival didn't mean a thing if you weren't surviving with them."

"I told them I'd catch up."

Oh shit. That one. "People know what that means, now. People who love their Ships' Humans don't let those last words be a lie."

"They deserved their lives."

"They thought the same for you."

The scarred face went through a series of grimaces. This Human had at least partially deified their dead crewmates and therefore couldn't speak ill of them. "Dunno why."

"They loved you," said Vrax. "Pack bonding goes both ways. We all know that now."

"So I did kill them..."

"No. You were unconscious when they died. How could you kill them when you couldn't act?"

"I was there. I shouldn't have been there."

Vrax took a breath. This was going nowhere. "Can you tell me about them? These people you loved and lost?"

The Human stared deep down their memory lane. "Guess I gotta start with Pokki. They were my designated companion, but... it got to be way more than that..."

Vrax got invited to sit with them, and listened to all the stories of all the lost and loved. Healing happens in various ways. This Human was broken in heart and mind, and therefore hadn't much cared for what happened to their body. They maintained their broken state by pushing away any of the society that Humans needed for mental wellness. Humans with what they called a broken heart needed a special kind of care, and it began with basic sympathy and more patience than even they seemed capable of.

The Human would be a long time in recovery, but at least they had finally made a start.

#  Challenge #298: It is What You Know

_They were fascinated by everything, and were fluent in Spanish and French. Then they got a job as a 'Gopher' on a Film Set and found their calling._ Knitnan

[AN: I am not fluent in either of those]

One thing about being a Gopher was that it was very good exercise. Tali quickly memorised the fastest ways to get between Point A - the sets - and any random Point B that the cast and crew needed something from. Then there was the surprise information that Tali had access to.

"It's _la_ petit dejuner, not le. Everything in French has a gender," Tali said.

"Oh. Yeah, I forgot that bit," said the person making corrections on the script. "Silly question, but would you know how much blood could make a one-ounce iron ingot?"

"Hang on, I have to head math this. There's nine point four eight grams in sixty liters of blood, that's..." Tali's fingers moved in the air... "Call it a third of an ounce in fifty-two quarts, so you'd need three times that... so a hundred and fifty-six quarts of blood, call it sixty to be certain."

The scriptwriter stared at Tali. "You... just know that off the top of your head?"

"I've shared airspace with a writer. They come out with all kinds of specifically-useful facts. The math is me. My parents insisted that calculators can be wrong, so they forced me to be able to do math without whipping out my phone."

"And the metric-to-US conversion you did there?"

"I have friends on the internet and like, literally the rest of the world uses metric. I kind of absorbed the conversion charts over time. Things get stuck up in there." Tali tapped their head. "Anything else I can help with?"

"I was trying to figure out how many people someone would have to kill to make a sword out of their enemy's blood," said the scriptwriter. "How many pounds of metal per sword?"

"What kind of sword are you talking about? There's kinds."

"...and you know this because?"

"LARPing housemate who is _heavy_ obsessed with mediaeval weaponry."

The writer laughed. "Okay. You're getting bumped up to Consultant."

[AN: Big thanks to CallMeGallifreya who corrected the math on this]

#  Challenge #299: Deathworlder Relaxation Activities

_They had heard humans liked to camp outside from time to time to relax and enjoy themselves. There was no scientific research for it, they had good homes to live in, but humans, as they said to some of their companions, just liked to "rough it" from time to time. So, the havenworlders invited a group of humans to show them how to "rough it" on their world. By human standards, this world was an incredible paradise. To the havenworlders, the night time was a frightening thing due to all the large animals that came out. –_ DaniAndShali

Of course the Humans had built a fire. It was a contained fire, but it was still a large fire for the Havenworlders. Though the taming and use of flame was one of the more important steps into cogniscent civilisation, Havenworlders considered it a mark of advancement to get as far away from using fire as possible.

Meanwhile, Humanity took three centuries to finally abandon making steam to create power, and still had an almost unnatural fascination with flame.

The Humans on this expedition hadn't even bothered to put up tents. They were lounging around on the soft mossy hillocks and looking up at the stars, completely at ease. They seemed to have no idea that the night was dark and full of terrors. Therefore, Uisse attempted to tell them. "You must make shelters and hide. The big beasts will come out."

The Humans laughed. _Laughed!_ One said, "You mean like the cow-things? Or those big ol' rolly-pollies?"

Uisse had no idea what those were. "They are nocturnal megabeasts. We barely know anything about them. They could be savage. Please. For safety, make shelter and hide."

Three Humans at once said, "They're herbivores," in a chorus. Then they said, "Jinx!" and cackled like -well- mad creatures. Some apparently friendly punching was exchanged and the Humans went back to lounging.

The spokesmaniac - a Human by the name of Zee - rearranged themself to face Uisse. "We scanned them when they came out of the woodwork," they said. "They're bothered by the fire, but... they're herbivores anyway. Daz has plans to try and ride them if we can."

Of course Daz did. They were _Humans_ , after all. "And if you can not ride them?"

The Humans looked at each other.

"Pets?"

"Pets."

"Pets are always cool."

It was true! Everything they said about Humans was true. If they couldn't make love to it, they would attempt to ride it. If they couldn't ride it, they would pet it. If they couldn't pet it, that wouldn't stop them trying.

Uisse muttered, "You Humans are crazy," and returned to hiding in their tent.

#  Challenge #300: When the Eternal Fall

A small obscure hamlet, in which lay a small obscure place of worship. No grand temple, no eldritch altar, just a house-shaped spot to contemplate, to speak to the divine, and hope maybe some part of its multifaceted majesty heard. But here we see it as empty, looking as if no mortal foot had trod here in quite a while, or perhaps as if one had yet to do so.

A god came to the chapel one day long ago, or perhaps one night yet to be (gods, like some small and obscure places, have a curious looseness regarding time), name unimportant to this tale, a god older than wonder or joy, and older certainly than sorrow or regret. The god contemplated the chapel, as if both worshiping and being worshipped, then gazed around in a way only gods can do at things only gods can see. "It was a good run then?"

The walls shivered with weariness and the gold fixtures seemed as if they spoke lowly (or perhaps they did indeed speak; gods can perceive many impossible things): "Humans are... difficult."

" _And fragile and selfish and frightened," laughed the god. "But sometimes... sometimes, they can surprise you..." – Anon Guest_

_Here is a church..._ It is old, and made of stones seemingly stacked haphazardly on top of one another. It looks like it is three good sneezes away from complete collapse, but it has looked like that for centuries. The builders seemed to know that unattended buildings fall down, and therefore built the falling down _into_ the overall structure. It is, in fact, staying up by being in a constant state of falling down.

_Here is the steeple..._ Some miracles just can not be wrought by the hands of intelligent beings. This steeple fell in an ancient storm and all the _collapse_ happened at once. It's now a verdant hillock of moss, weeds, tuffets and at least one very determined tree. Whether it was a bell tower or a lookout over the hamlet below is a matter of debate.

_Open the door..._ The door is always open, as all doors to places of worship should be. The metal is old wrought iron and the hinges have rusted into position, leaving enough space between the ancient wood planking for a potential person to make their way inside. _There are no people._

This is a place long abandoned. This is a place only the gods remember. This is a place where even the gods dare not speak above a whisper. This is a place where only the gods can hear, because none are here to speak. The hamlet where people had once lived is now empty. Only the empty husks of the houses remain. The gardens gone to scrub, the animals gone wild where they were able to survive at all. A surviving fireplace has become a nest for the feral cats. Someone's kitchen is a burrow for foxes. The remains of someone's bed that is the core of a rat's nest.

This is a place that _used to be..._

It used to be... prosperous. It used to be fruitful. It used to be a good place to live. It used to be... alive.

It's dead now.

Only the gods would come here.

Here, one is dying. The word and the worshippers are fading from memory. This place is fading from memory. The rats, foxes, cats, and other wild things have no need for the church as anything else but a place to forage... a place to shelter from the storm. They do not have minds to question tomorrow or consider yesterday.

Here, one has come to visit the infirm. To visit the dying.

The old god is just whispers in the shadows now. The younger one can be anything. Right now, it is an errant breeze in the greenery, flicking the leaves and stems around as the whispers grow ever fainter.

One said, _Was it good?_

The other said, _It was wonderful. Every day, songs. Every day, faith. I worked miracles for them... I..._ the whisper in the shadows faded away. _Humans are difficult._

_I have learned,_ said the younger. _You cannot give them everything they want. That way lies... horrors._

They want and want... and want more when they are fulfilled.

_They are fragile and selfish and frightened,_ said the younger. _Yet... I have been surprised by them._

The old god stirred in the shadows. Shifting what could be called its body if gods could possess such things. _They do so much... in Our name... we never called for..._

That was true. From the sublime to the ridiculous. From the subtle to the gross. All glorying the name of their god without once considering whether or not that was what their god truly desired. Cherry-picking from holy writ to back up whatever they had already decided.

_Why did you serve yours?_ asked the young god.

They were lost, and needed guidance.

This worried the young god, since that was the reason _they_ had guided their Humans. _Were you good at it?_

The end of the whisper was, _...I tried..._ and then there was nothing. No more of a whisper, this was no longer the last bastion of a dying god... this was a tomb.

The young god left as peacefully as they could. No questions answered, no guidance given. No hope of being a good god or steering their followers to become better Humans. Just their best hopes and a handful of dreams.

#  Challenge #301: Lich, Please

" _So let me get this straight. We're here to rescue a princess."_

" _That's right."_

" _At the request of a princess."_

" _Right again."_

" _And you, who will be leading the expedition, are also a princess."_

" _You're very perceptive."_

" _How big is your royal family, again?"_

" _We don't have one."_

" _But–"_

" _We overthrew our monarchy centuries ago, but we kept most of the titles around. The rank of 'princess' is held by the directors in charge of various civil service branches."_

" _Huh. And the princess we're rescuing today is in charge of...?"_

" _Public sanitation."_

" _The Lord of Death's Dominion kidnapped your public sanitation director?"_

" _We think he's a little confused." –_ Amberfox

"Confused," echoed Lady Anthe. "I'm still trying to work out how royalty fits in with being the Chief of the Watch..."

"I'm still confused about how the Lord of Death's Dominion fits into this," said Marvin.

"It's all very simple," said Wraithvine, and took a deep breath. "When the local monarchic forces finally dispelled, there was still the problem of what to do with the now-useless and jobless elite. They didn't manage the lands any more, so they took more... civic duties. And since everyone loves a Princess, and women are more naturally suited to long-term planning–"

"Please," begged Steelfoot. "I had a headache with all of that the first time. I can accept that 'Princess' is a civic title in this backwards land and leave it at that. Are we good?"

Marvin made the _I don't know_ noise. Lady Anthe sighed and nodded for expediency's sake. Wraithvine merely rolled hir eyes and mumbled, "Fine."

The Lord of Death's Dominion was something of a Lich who, after being trounced by the last round of adventurers, spent a century building up his power to re-enact the same dumb stunt he did a century prior. In this case, kidnapping a princess with very specific physical attributes to become his undead bride.

"I should mention," said Princess Watch Captain Lena, "The lich we're about to fight can't be killed by any weapon forged by man."

The entire crew laughed. "Oh, that old chestnut," said Wraithvine. "Some old curses just do not cut any mustard, any more."

"I make all the weapons for this team," said Steelfoot, definite woman.

"Yeah, we've had a Princess Blacksmith in the realm for _ages_. He never learns though. Dude's stuck in this loop of rebirth, redeath, and recycling himself."

"Almost sounds pitiful," said Lady Anthe. "Anyone sat this dude down for a good talk about the whys and wherefores of this cycle?"

"Well that's the good news," said Princess Watch Captain Lena. "He's abducted one of the Crown Counsellors, Princess Head Psychiatrist Nenani. She is _definitely_ going to be halfway through unriddling his head by the time we get there."

"Wait," said Marvin, "I thought she was the Princess Minister of Sanitation?"

"She has a lot of spare time," said Princess Watch Captain Lena. "Like I said, forward planning."

#  Challenge #302: The Human Definition

_Trying to help humans better integrate into Galactic Civilization, several individuals, scholars, medics, psychologists, ect, get together and begin to travel to areas where there are lots of humans. Their goal is to write a new manual on human psychology, health - both mental and physical, how to interact with humans, to debunk misconceptions about humans, etc. Amongst the team are, in fact, several humans to help. Their job is to help the Galactics separate fact from assumption and write a comprehensive manual that will increase understanding and better help those who still had trouble working with this seemingly insane race. Including possibly busting the longest running misconception of all, assuming humans were actually insane. –_ DaniAndShali

Of the committee to create the new and improved Manual of Understanding Humans, it was the Humans who were most adamant about rolling back the 'insanity' classification. There was little surprise in that, since being told your entire species is bonkers is definite grounds for annoyance.

Every Human present seemed to be taking it personally, though. "We confess to being Deathworlders," admitted Human Sal. "However, the definition of 'insane'... Insanity is not endemic to the entire species. Many of us, _most_ of us, are perfectly capable of navigating Galactic Society like any other functioning member of that society. We're just like everyone else."

"No other species has a Silly Season," said the Melil Yssa. "No other species has a long and checkered history of chasing material profit in exchange for endangering the potential for life in their own environment. No other species has such a history of enforcing theocratic standards based on very small standards of one holy text. These standards, I might add, fly in the face of other standards, such as that to preserve life."

"Er," said Sal. "Which ones are you thinking of?"

"The fact that you have more than one example of this particular travesty is more than enough to keep the classification in our book."

"Your book is wrong! There's plenty of logical, sane reasons why people would choose those laws!"

"One example: The decision to weigh unborn life more important than the gestating parent. In numerous occasions, the claim to be preserving life has resulted in the death of the gestating parent, and therefore the nonviable foetus. Another case: The decision to weigh animal life to be more important than intelligent life. In creating massive monocultures of vegetable crops for the few who decide to eschew meat, the lives of thousands of fellow Humans are driven to poverty, malnutrition, and the inability to afford their traditional staple due to its status as a 'superfood'. Further, some such crops actually eliminate some endangered animal life in the process of creating said monoculture."

"Don't get us started on the bees," buzzed the Chitanean, Zzrrtzzk. "Your kind created symbiosis with an insect species and then ignored what your chemical compounds did to sicken them... for decades on end."

"It wasn't _all_ of us," protested the Human Kae. "In fact, many were protesting such things at the time."

"Speaking of monocultures," said the Gyiik known as Pim. "I am looking specifically at the Irish potato famine. Humans raised one breed of potatoes that then became vulnerable to a specific spore infestation. Humanity solved this by... using a different monoculture. Then there is the case of the Gros Michel banana. It, too, was grown in mass monoculture and driven to extinction by a _different_ fungal infestation. The solution, again, was to switch to another monoculture." Pim levelled a glare at the Humans. "I'm sure you're all familiar with what happened to Iowa Corn."

Human Dane felt compelled to defend anyway, "Growing several different varieties at once is difficult," they complained. "The growing times, the harvesting apparatus, the watering and fertilisation schedules, the pest control–"

"Are all easily managed with co-operative planting in smaller fields, and biomass management. _We_ managed to automate that," said Pim. "You did not until we helped you... and even then, there were protests. Violating your tradition was the lead complaint, as I recall."

The Humans decided to stop before they brought up 'red' cabbage or ice skating again.

#  Challenge #303: One Doorway to Bonding

A Human, a Kilper and a Drumtun walk into a bar and never leave. The reason why is because they got stuck on the doorframe in the washroom – Anon Guest

Thrikkuk, designated Companion to Human Bob, gasped. "Did they _die_?"

Human Bob sputtered, "What? No. It's a joke. It isn't real. It's supposed to be funny. Kilper and Drumtun exudants together create this kind of natural glue, so..."

"That's very toxic," said Thrikkuk. "You should stay away from that when it happens. I have heard a solvent of citric acid can neutralise the adhesive and dissolve it."

Human Bob seemed to be reassessing her life up to this point. "Okay. I can see we're going to have to start with Baby's First Joke Book here. Your lot aren't ready for more sophisticated humour."

"What would be an example of such?"

"Uuuhhh. Let's go simple. A writer, a director, and camera operator walk into a bar. Clang, clang, clang, but the producer was engrossed in their data-reader." Bob mimed the head-down hunch of someone engrossed in their arm-screen."

"You were correct, I am not ready for that level of humour," confessed Thrikkuk. "I do not even understand it."

"Do you know knock-knock jokes?" Bob was feeling a little desperate about this whole bonding exercise by now. She preferred comedy, but Thrikkuk and his cadre of delicate little Havenworlders were stressing her the flakk out.

"Yes! We are familiar with the knock-knock humour."

"Oh thank the Powers. Okay. Knock-knock."

"Who is there?" chanted Thrikkuk, finally eager to be participating.

"Arch."

"Arch who?"

"I have a tissue for your sniffles."

It still took Thrikkuk a moment to get it. When they did, the result was nearly explosive. That one, simple joke, was a comedy hit on the ship.

Bob could breathe again. The ice was officially broken. Next was acclimating to each other's Funny Little Ways, but that was a far longer process. In the meantime, Bob had potential weeks to get tired of that one joke.

[AN: A variant of this knock-knock joke, with the punchline: "Bless you!" was the first joke my youngest learned, and then told for like a year. It was adorable]

#  Challenge #304: Femme Fatality

I've noticed a trend in your writing, that evil tends to be male. I'd like to see some of the evil women out there, the ones that go out of their way to use and abuse people, the husband beaters, the ladies that don't take "no" for an answer. – Anon Guest

[AN: Yes, that was a bit present-centric of me. I should focus more on making the truly evil ones gender nonspecific so people can project what they whist. However, in the interests of balancing the scales a little...]

_And she will have her way/ Somehow I will still believe her_ – Neil Finn.

Though I am evil, I am also invisible. Why? Because the world dismisses me and laughs at him. Prejudice is a wonderful thing when you can work it in your favour. I have learned all the wonderful ways I can twist this world to my whim. Beauty helps. All the performative ways a woman like me can gain the attraction of men.

Youth was a wonderful bait when I had it. Sure, you could blame my "funny" uncle for the way I am, because of those wandering hands that drifted up my skirt... but I rather favour the fact that nobody looked to a little girl of thirteen when the poison I put in his beer took hold. It wasn't enough to kill him, unfortunately. I had to watch the nurses in the hospital put medicine into his drip, and sneak a load of bleach into the line for him to finally die.

So long as I follow the outward rules, nobody was any the wiser. I learned to smile and be pleasant and put up with roaming hands when I was in view of anyone else but the man or boy drooling over me. When I got them in private? Hah. That was _their_ fault. What were they thinking, going alone into the night like that? How foolish were they to leave their phone at home? Why weren't they prepared for a roofie in their drink and a discrete knife to a place with _so_ many blood vessels? How many drinks had they had? What did they expect, going out dressed like that?

You know, I never heard such things when their bodies were found. It was always such a great tragedy. Such a great loss. Such a waste of _potential_. Nobody calls a young woman's death a waste of potential. If I was stupid enough to get roofied and killed -or violated in the process- mine would not be a wasted life _or_ potential. I would just be another stupid victim who was unprepared for the inevitable harshness of the world. Therefore, I feel it's my duty to spread that harshness around a little more evenly.

I leave my drinks unattended, and it's relatively easy to figure out who doped them after I pretend to drink them. They _swarm_ at me. You can't call it hunting. Not when they're so eager to waltz into the slaughterhouse. I feed them their own poison and take them somewhere quiet and... work my magic.

Of course, when I turned twenty-five, I had to settle down. In the middle of my bait-and-switchblade games, I met a Nice Guy across from my flat. He was a major league stalker type who expected me to be his dream girl. He's my work of art. He's... I guess you could say he's my beard.

He doesn't have many friends, not any more. A calm and logical discussion weaned him off of network games because I needed his love and attention. It's easy to bend a man by claiming you're weak and needy. He hated women for walking away and I simply explained that women needed to know their man loved them more than his controller. It's amazing what a few tears and whimpers can do, especially to a guy like that.

The sex is another way to control him. The right doses of pleasure and pain, and he's putty in my hands. I got him to surrender all but his most obscure game set with _that_. Since they don't make games for it any more, he's got no excuse to socialise at the game and hobby store.

Little by little, I sealed him off from the rest of the world. Little by little, I erased his autonomy. Little by little, I made him my pet. These days? He takes care of the baby while I go out and have fun. He's busy and I am free to do everything I want.

Just a little bit of balance for a cruel, harsh world.

#  Challenge #305: Mr Sunshine's New Friend

His name was Mr. Sunshine. One of the better known, and as properly feared, members of Pax Humanis. He had been working on a station for some time now when he meets a member of a fluffy, bipedal, cat-like species. They were frequent visitors to this station because it was one of the regular trade stops along their delivery route. They delivered medical supplies and mail, mostly. And, occasionally, carried passengers. One young female of the species meets the cat-loving Mr. Sunshine not knowing he's a dangerous man, not knowing much of Pax Humanis, all she knows he is human and she had wanted to learn about a race she'd only heard bits and pieces about from her elders. She was a grown cat, dangit! But she doesn't really understand what she becomes for him, in her own feline ways, until another human, loud and crude, tries to drag her away. – Anon Guest

AN: This story harkens back to two other tales about Mr Sunshine. [ Here and  Here. Offensensitivity warning for references to violence]

Despite being an Uplift, Lil had never seen a Human in the flesh before. She had been taken from the Nufurria creches as a baby and fostered out to a loving family of more... natural felinoids. They'd helped support her extra medical necessities and raised her to be a functioning cogniscent in Galactic Society. Until that moment, she had never met her maker species, and her parents had worried about that.

Lil did some checks on her personal psych-eval app to make sure this wasn't some remnant of genengineered subservience and was relieved when she came up clear. Good. She didn't need an escort, but apparently the Human in the nice, neat sweatervest did. There was warning tape around him that blared, _Caution! Deathworlder!_ in huge letters and rather urgent colours. Silver, black, yellow and red. Lil couldn't see what was so dangerous about a Human at an easel. He looked... perfectly at peace.

According to Lil's data-reader, he was an average Human male. Average height, average build, average colouration. She crept up to look over his shoulder, outside of the caution tape and bollards, of course. He was painting a portrait of a worn and weary Skitty who just happened to be lounging on a mossy pillow in a simulated sunbeam. This Human's picture was comparatively idyllic. The mossy pillow plant had become a grassy meadow dappled with sun and spotted with flowers. The old, battered Skitty was still old and battered, but his wounds and scars were somehow more noble. The coat was glossier in the portrait than it was on the cat.

"You should read my vest," said the Human painter. "Most people leave me alone after they do that." The vest had stitching on his back that said, _Pax Humanis Enforcer_ in large, friendly letters.

Lil, who had a sheltered life, said, "What's Pax Humanis?"

The Human stopped painting to stare at her. There was something about his eyes... something Lil didn't understand, but felt just that tiny bit afraid of. "It's a group of people who help maintain Galactic Laws," he said. "When people think they can ignore the law, and ignore it loudly... people like me step in and make sure that they _aren't_ ignored. It can get very messy." He was calm and factual, and more than a little chilling, but somehow...

Somehow Lil knew he was harmless. "I didn't mean to interrupt your painting," she apologised. "It's beautiful."

"Thank you. You weren't interrupting. I think this one is done." He considered the piece for a moment, tapping a paint-stained finger on his chin. "Yes. Now you, Miss...?"

"Lil. Short for Lilcoon, but my parentals aren't fond of it. They keep suggesting better names."

"An Uplift?"

Sigh. "Yeah, it's kind'a obvious. Nufurria's one of those places you went to. It's full of some real bad sorts. So I heard."

"I was not recruited for Nufurria," he said. "My name is Mr Soon-sheen-eh. People tend to read it incorrectly. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Lilcoon."

Now she saw the plain, everyday suitcase with the name on it. "Oh. I could see how that would happen."

They got to chatting, about Lil's upcoming surgeries to turn her clawed hands into something far more dexterous, about places Mr Sunshine had been and how nice the station cats were, when he had an opportunity to befriend them. "I like cats," he said. "With patience and understanding, they are not nearly aloof as many say they are. You just have to be willing to be still... and have a lot of chicken."

Lil laughed, right up until some drunk grabbed her. They stank horribly of too much booze and slurred, "Hey, pussy, you got some for me? 'Course you got some f'r me." They dragged her backwards, away from Mr Sunshine.

Several things happened at once. Security people started talking into their comms. Mr Sunshine dropped his brush and leaped over the hazard tape. As soon as his feet hit the other side... Mr Sunshine was not very sunshiny any more.

He was something... menacing.

Lil remembered that she had claws and raked at her attacker, hand and foot. She tried to bite. Tried to struggle. The drunk stuck their tongue in her ear, like they were trying to groom her.

Then the world flipped around and Lil landed on hands and peets. Free. Struggling to catch her breath. Trying to regain a sense of where she was. Mr Sunshine was dusting off his hands and telling the swarming Security people that there was no lasting harm. The drunk was on the floor, trying to breathe. They were making panicked 'wheep' noises with every struggle to intake breath.

Someone wrapped her in a warming blanket and carefully escorted her to the nearest Medik junction. Warmth and a soft space and -yes- chicken helped. She still worried over Mr Sunshine.

"Is he safe? Is he okay?"

"Miss... Lil. Mr Sunshine is, possibly, the safest cogniscent on board this station. In fact, he is also the most dangerous."

The meaning of 'psychopath' was explained to her with careful voices and gentle tones. Mr Sunshine wasn't evil, they said, he just had a debilitating disconnection between himself and regular emotion. People with his affliction saw nothing wrong with violence as a solution to people who were... bad. Death being the ultimate solution. It had taken years of therapy and training to get him to accept that _not_ killing people was _also_ a viable solution.

Mr Sunshine was, at that moment, delivering a calm, reasoned, and logical deposition to the Security forces who had failed to spot a drunk, Human Nufurrian as a threat. "I could have broken his nose and driven the bone shards into his brain casing, perforating some important arteries," he said. "I could have brought both hands quickly over their ears, killing them instantly with the concussion. I could have stabbed them through the rib cage with the back of my paintbrush. I chose the more peaceful option of knocking the wind out of them." He took a sip of his beverage. "Please inform Miss Lilcoon that she can press charges against him, and any charges against her are outweighed by their greater offense. She was, after all, only reacting defensively."

The most dangerous cogniscent on the station took another sip. "I understand this is grounds to have me expelled back into Sanctuary space. However, I do hope that someone takes care with my painting. I rather like that one."

#  Challenge #306: Goofy Scary Skeletons

" _Be careful of humans this time of cycle; because this is when they perform a ritual they call 'Halloween.' They place images of human skeletal structures, women with green skin, humans biting into other humans' necks, and other frightening images." – Anon Guest_

Some Humans celebrate mortality. Others celebrate horror and the unknown. In both circumstances, part of the celebration involves dressing up and a certain volume of depictions of Human skeletons. The cultural significance of these have been through more than five hundred years and mashed through the sieve of misunderstanding by the fork of ignorance. It should be no small surprise that such are easily confused by outsiders.

The key difference is that those celebrating Dio de Los Muertes never go door to door demanding sweets and threatening pranks. Mix in overlapping calendars depending entirely on how out of sync a Human colony became over the intervening centuries, and you get passages of time marked as Human Deception Festival on the Galactic Calendar.

Some species just never got the hang of theatrical makeup, or facepaint. It's not their fault that they're easily confused by Humans overdoing that particular aspect of the celebrations. Most of them entirely miss the thing with the pumpkins or turnips because one creature's specific holiday decoration is another's casual decor. The net effect is further exacerbated by attempts to render the various holidays safe for Havenworlders.

In brief, all decorative representations of skeletons, monsters and the like are blatantly cartoonish and very obviously not real. Even then, the more delicate Havenworlders have notifications to help them steer away from such things.

The plus side, for those who adore Halloween beyond reasonable reason, is that they can leave their macabre decorations up inside their domiciles for as long as they like because, as one wit said, "It's Halloween season _somewhere_." It is, to many outside observers, the same philosophy as a pre-Shattering alcoholic stating that it's after eleven AM somewhere in the world. Fortunately, they are considerate enough to keep that sort of thing in their personal space, and _not_ inflict the rest of society with it.

Once a Standard Year, the Assembled Alliance of Havenworlders review Human Halloween and Dio de Los Muertes decorations for potential Offensensitivity. Every year, they publish a list of Harmless and Not-Harmless items for the education and ease of understanding between Havenworlders and Deathworlders.

...every year, without fail, the Humans have a reason to be happy that matches their reason to be upset about said list.

#  Challenge #307: Legend Commence

I may be blind but I can still kick your ass – Anon Guest

"Do not act incautiously when confronting little bald wrinkly smiling men," – Terry Pratchett.

He was old, and balding, and had the kind of life-worn face that could make a raisin look youthful. He was feeling his way along the road with a staff, and seemed to be deliberate about being slow about it. Fortunately for Threnody, she had heard of Rule One.

"Ho there, Uncle," she said. "Are you in need of some help?"

"I'm not your Uncle, and keep your 'ho there'." The little old man tapped onwards. "Trying to get on my good side, eh? I don't have any."

"I've always found it helps to be kind," said Threnody. "If not me, then the person who needs kindness."

"That's a fool's goal," said the blind man, now taking even more time to get on his way. Threnody found a perch on a boulder and waited patiently. "You can't fix the world with kindness."

"Being nasty does no-one any favours," countered Threnody. "The world is mean enough without me adding to it."

"Are you _arguing_ with me, young lady?"

"I thought this was a philosophical debate, but it seems like you're _looking_ for a fight."

"Damn straight," he said. "I may be blind, but I can still kick your ass."

"I've no doubt you can," said Threnody. "That's why I refuse to start a fight. I've no need to have my ass kicked, and if passing each other on this narrow road requires me to wait all day for you to pass, so be it. I'm not in any great hurry."

Those milky white eyes seemed to glare right through her. The grin never faltered. "You really would, wouldn't you? You'd wait all day for me and help me to wherever I need to go... just because it's the better way. The peaceful way."

"It's my way," said Threnody. "The best fight is the one you don't have to have."

"The second best," said the old man, "is the one you win quickly. Do you know how to win a fight quickly?"

Threnody considered this. "Usually I run away. I'm pretty good at running and hiding."

"Some would call you a coward," he said.

"They can call me what they like. It's just a word."

Again, that sightless glare. Finally, it seemed like Threnody had won a prize. "You might do," he said. "I've been looking for the sort of person who doesn't ever want to fight for years. Come. Follow. I'll teach you."

"Teach me?" Threnody followed his much faster and longer steps, "What do you teach?"

"How to _win_. Every time. You will become a legend among legends, if I teach you what I know. Can't have some egotistical braggart learning that stuff. They'd wreck the whole world and call themselves a hero." He stopped in his tracks and faced her. "I need someone who already knows patience and refuses anger. That's you."

#  Challenge #308: Beginning to Look a Lot Like TERROR

A: oh god, oh fuck it's happening again

B: what? What wrong?

A: not again, I'm not strong enough

B: for what?!

A: it's coming, it's coming

B: WHAT THE FUCK IS COMING

A: Christmas – Anon Guest

Some Humans are major league into their holidays. Often to the point that Station Regulations have to intervene in regards to what is on public display. Some are not very excited by their holidays, and some... _despise_ them. Companion Huruk found this out whilst escorting Human Zae through one of the commerce districts.

All had been well. Human Zae seemed happy enough, even singing along with the music on the public system, and then a look of horror began to grow on her face. "Oh god. Oh flakk, it's happening again..."

Companion Huruk was alarmed. If something could disturb a _Human_ , it had to be serious business. Major-alert-level bad news. Ze made sure hir stunner was clear for drawing and fully charged. "What is it? Where is the trouble?"

"Not again, not again, it can't be happening _again_... I'm not ready. I'm not prepared. I'm not... I'm not strong enough."

Huruk flipped on hir livesuit's HUD, scanning on all vectors for approaching trouble, but all the assembled cogniscents were registering as non-combattants. The decorations and plantlife registered as non-toxic and non-harmful. Ze was drawing a lot of blanks. "For what? What is there here to fight?"

"Its coming, I had an excuse before, but now I know... it's _coming._ "

Huruk fought the urge to panic. "Human Zae, I do not understand the threat. Please explain it to me?"

"It's _Christmas_ ," said Human Zae in the same dreadful tones that one might announce a feared disease or disastrous pathogen in the air circulation systems. "I'm not ready..."

Companion Huruk took a deep breath and restored hir default HUD settings. "This is a sit-and-talk situation," ze said. "There is a tea house nearby." Human Zae was fond of tea. "We can get a bloom brew and we can become calm. Then you can start at the beginning."

Prescription accepted, Human Zae got a booth and a glass pot with an interesting blooming tea to watch. As soon as she felt secure, she started to talk. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have a demanding family _with_ a mental disorder that dissociates you with time?"

Companion Huruk was familiar with Human Zae's maladapted temporal sense, but not the other half. "I'm not familiar with 'demanding family'?"

"Lucky you. I have a big family. Everyone else can easily keep track of who's related, their birthdays, important holidays, likes and dislikes... I... can't. So every year, I'm on everyone's shit list for not remembering Christmas. Like... not _just_ that it's Christmas, but to give an individualised message to every single person in the family. Like... I can be forgiven for being late on birthdays because I travel, but _Christmas_? It's the cardinal sin. I'm not strong enough to handle this again..."

Fortunately, Companion Huruk knew how to handle this. "I have checked the Human Calendars versus your home annual calendar," ze soothed. "This is months in advance of your home region. You have four entire months to prepare, and I will help you every step of the way."

"Huruk, I could kiss you if we weren't completely toxic to each other."

#  Challenge #309: Sleepless With Sialith

_They knew humans could last a long time without sleep, but most had regular sleep intervals. When choosing a new man, they heard he was very reliable, fiercely protective of whatever crew he served, and anyone who'd worked with him were more than a little disappointed when he would be reassigned. Things seemed to be working out fine, until they noticed he was sleeping a lot less than most humans, but when he did, he crashed hard! So much so it was almost impossible to wake him, short of emergencies. When asked how he was able to be awake for so long, only to collapse like that, he sighed and said one word. "Insomnia." –_ DaniAndShali

_Compared with the rest of the animal kingdom, Humans just don't stop._ – pre-Shattering thesis on the nature of Human Endurance.

Humans are unstoppable. Many a Havenworlder has marvelled after a three-hour work session that the Ship's Human thinks nothing of doing twice, or even thrice that before going to rest. Some Humans could go for longer in emergencies. Everyone seems to have that one story of how their Human stayed awake for impossible lengths of time. Even their own histories have records of Humans staying awake for frankly phenomenal lengths of time.

Then there's the tale of Human Kat. Even for a Human, he was an odd one. He definitely lead solidity to the rumours abounding about Human Unstoppability. It seemed like he never slept. So much so that his shipmates decided to consult the Human Manual about sleep habits, what was healthy, and what was not. You can definitely imagine their shock and surprise when they discovered that working for forty-eight hours straight and sleeping for twelve was not a healthy sleep cycle. So they held an intervention.

"Human Kat, are you aware that we appreciate your presence and value your continued existence?"

Human Kat said, "Aaaaww... you fluffy little borbs are worried about me. Let me guess. It's the sleep thing, right?"

The assembled Sialith looked to each other. "Er," said the spokesavian, "yes. We are very concerned."

"The manual states that eight hours of total sleep per Standard Day is the healthy norm. You are averaging six or less," said Companion T'shyurup. "We apologise for missing this clear indicator of declining health."

Human Kat sighed, sat, and mumbled, "Aaw, hell..." Then seemed resigned to his fate. "If you want to pass me on to another crew because of all this..."

"No. No!" The Sialith chorussed. "We want you to stay."

The spokesavian, Wirrit, coughed. "We also wish to assist in your health. According to the manual, lack of sleep can be dangerous for your kind."

"You work very hard," said T'shyurup. "It's only fair that you rest well."

"Yeah. Guys.... it's... I was about to say it's fine, but that'd be a lie. I have insomnia."

Murmured chirps amongst the Sialith. A few were consulting the manual. They were getting _increasingly_ concerned. "This is not a good condition," said Wirrit.

"No, it isn't," Human Kat agreed. "There's medication I could be taking, things I could be doing, but... once I'm out of it, I'm out of it. I don't want to leave you all without help if things go turvy on you when I'm... unwakeable."

The Sialith conferred. Human Kat waited for the inevitable conclusion, that Human Kat was a danger to himself and may endanger others, leading to a fond yet definite farewell.

This was not the conclusion they reached. "We shall find a spare Human," T'shyurup said. "Compatible with your habits and needs."

"Oh great..." Human Kat muttered something about shipping and two Standard months. Then again, Humans are wont to leap to some of the _silliest_ conclusions, sometimes.

#  Challenge #310: A Different Key

I have a highly adaptive tendency to assume that the people around me know better than I do. – Anon Guest

Anthe had spotted the weakest link. It was hard to avoid, really. A beefy boy not nearly yet a man, perhaps twice the size he should be and clumsy with it. His tasks were always the ones with heavy lifting. Take things in, take things out. Take things up, take things down... and always, always, take the blame. They called him Marvin when they weren't calling him curses or disparaging his intelligence. Anthe watched all of it with her own past acting like a knife in her heart. This is what the world had done to her before Wraithvine turned up and helped her prove she was worth more than spit in her face.

All this, she absorbed whilst playing Stupid Kobold. They had her crammed into a bird cage and hung perilously high from the ceiling. High enough to make her concerned about jumping down. Worse - they had taken her lock-picking tools before they shoved her in. She had heard Marvin the apparently incapable muttering about saving damsels in distress several times. If he just knew she was a lady, he might yet get his wish. But first, she had to gently divorce him from the idea that this gang were his friends.

Marvin had a new black eye, still swelling and darkening. One member of the gang had evidently objected to something in Marvin's orbit. He was mumbling to himself again and fencing shadows. "...guard the kobold," he mumbled, "Anyone can guard the kobold. They're stupid creatures, stupid boy..."

Anthe had to remember to keep playing the fool. "Humanman gets ouches?"

"Aw shoot, I forgot it talks," he murmured. "Uh. Hi. Yeah. I got an ouch."

"Pack no fixing?"

"No... uhm. Pack giving."

Anthe tilted her head. "Pack is bad pack. Pack no hurts pack. Pack _helps_ pack. Is good way, pack way."

"You don't understand," he began, and out came the excuses. It was always his fault, of course. They said so. He was wrong even when he did what he was told, and stupid when he asked if they were sure they wanted him to do that. He was constantly afraid of getting into trouble.

"Needing new pack, Humanman," announced Anthe. "Anthe knowing. Anthe getting wizard pack. Best pack. No more hurtings. No more bad times. Wizard good. Old pack bad. Making Anthe hungry, saying, lady no worth foods. Bad lady Anthe. You nothing. Much-bad." She watched him. Hoped for the message to reach. "Is much better now."

"You're a _lady_ Kobold?"

"Humanman not seeing? No head-spikes. Is lady Anthe."

"Lady Anthe," he breathed. "Ladies get chained up in dungeons, or... or sealed in towers guarded by dragons..."

"Lady is dragon," said Anthe. "Rules not same, maybe?"

Marvin didn't repeat the common slur for Kobolds, _trash dragon_. "I dunno. They said I should watch you. They said you're clever..."

"What Humanman think?"

"Uh... I think..." he frowned. "I think I just assume everyone around me knows better. I don't check or anything and -no offense? You don't sound clever."

"True, true!" cheered Anthe. "Clever Humanman. See what being there." And speaking of what was there... "Humanman looking in Anthe backpack. Anthe having salve. Make good eye from bad."

He did as he was told, because that was his default, and might have used a little too much of her Salve of Healing and Restoration because it not only healed his black eye, but also repaired his broken nose to its original state. "That's some good stuff," he said, and noticed that he sounded different. "Uh... what?"

"Much good salve," said Anthe. "Much good for pack. Humanman? Humanman take salve and giving to wizard Wraithvine? Anthe worrying. Small pack. No wanting alone again."

Marvin had found a mirror, and was marvelling at his reflection. He looked up at her birdcage, down at the salve, and at his reflection before checking the door. "Um." Birdcage, salve, reflection, door. "They said to make sure you don't get out of that cage..." Birdcage, salve, reflection, door. "They didn't say anything about taking you _in_ your cage to see your friend. I mean... you fixed my nose. One good deed deserves another. That's what _everyone_ says."

Anthe clung with sheer determination to her role as Stupid Kobold. This young man had just handed her the keys to his mind. Keep doing good deeds for him, and he would soon be her friend. No magic spells required. Besides, what good she couldn't do for Marvin, Wraithvine would certainly be able to contribute.

#  Challenge #311: Bear's Big Story

Human Ryan came highly recommended by other Galactic Alliance Scientists and Explorers who had worked with him. As a 'gun for hire' he had survived more than a few wars, notably against other humans and the Vorax Fleets (notes that also had me reaching for my calming medicine). On the flip-side he was highly protective of the lives put in his charge. Braving hostile Flora, Fauna and even the very planets themselves to keep his promise of "no one is left behind." Even his chosen name of "*Bear" seemed to fit him more that his birth name. His Resume seemed too good to be true...But it was.

Still wary of the Deathworlder I elected to set up a video interview, hoping the apprehension on my part was not taken as an offence. True to reports, Human Ryan dismissed the apology with a wave of his large hand and a larger smile (being careful not to show his teeth) after a lengthy interview, the offer was made and accepted. Curiously he ask for he ships Dock-port number and said he would meet us there.

So here I am the Ships Captain, standing in the Observation Area scanning the Stars for our final crew mate. What Slipped into view was nothing I had ever seen before, parts of this craft I recognized as being manufactured by completely different Galactic races. But it all seemed to work flawlessly...somehow. I was not the only being on the ship that was awestruck by the craft. By the time it connected with the ship it seemed like half the Engineering team was clustered by the window looking at it.

Human Ryan stepped out of the craft and greeted me with a tooth-less smile and a "Captain Suk? Crewmate Bear, Reporting for Duty." I returned the greeting, and commented that the Ship had human sized quarters available he needed them. He Respectfully declined stating that he preferred his sleeping arrangements. Seeing this as his opportunity the Chief Engineer began quickly and excitedly asking Bear about his ship. With the same Big Smile he sated "That is a long story, little one. It involves being shot down over a Junk Planet, the details of which I will share in the mess hall next off-duty cycle." The Captain was pleased that this Human Bear was already attempting to pack-bond with the crew. Maybe this Voyage would be a Quiet and Uneventful one.

*After researching Human Databases the name Bear was given to a large Apex predator on Ancient Terra. Famous for its Gentle but also Violent Nature. – Anon Guest

The 'campfire' had grown in the drydock bay, where Human Ryan's kludge vessel was the background for what could be a show if there was a show. Engineers less interested in the story were stripping its plating off so they could get a better look at the inner workings, as well as the inner don't-workings. There was no actual fire, just some random, colour-shifting displays because Humans enjoy something to zone out with when storytelling.

"I can tell you honestly, I thought I was a goner. I'd said the Last Lie and all. I thought I was going to beef it," he began. "There I was, the last bulwark against twenty Vorax raiders, with just my stunner and a mop." The Afro'ads in a circle around the holographic display were already entranced. "So I figured I'd go out with a _real_ big bang. You can jury-rig a Stunner to explode, did you know that? One swissarmyknife, a bit of foil, and a lot of jiggery-pokery. I threw it a little early and blew up most of them. Big shock, I was still alive. So I twirled the mop like a bo staff and roared, _Who's next, asswipes?_ You know, full Deathworlder don't-give-a-flakk mode."

"Did you die?" asked one of the astounded Afro'ads. They were ahead of the bell curve when it came to anticipating Humanity's tall tales.

"No, they turned and ran. Trufax." Human Ryan drew a cross on his muscular chest. A Human gesture of honesty. "The bad news was that the wreckage of the ship was headed for a maybe-soft landing on a trash planet, and that maybe depended entirely on me being able to get some functionality back into nav and comms. I had my swissarmyknife, about half a roll of ductape, and my best guesses about what the feedback meant. That was a fun hour. I was able to land - left turns only - near enough to a beach that I could swim and body-surf my way to shore. After that... well... I didn't waste time finding out if my distress call got out. I had plenty of salvage to work with and an _amazing_ amount of biota to render edible. Thank the Powers for inbuilt scanners in livesuits, eh?"

Someone was doing math on Human Ryan's vectors. Someone was looking up trash planets and Vorax-contested territories. Someone was doing their calming breathing routine. This was a _good_ story.

"It took me almost a Terran Year to get the _Bodge Job_ up and running to the point where she was space-worthy. By then, I'd acquired a taste for Kentucky-fried trash rat. Not something you wanna share with your fellow crewmates. I farm them on board the _Bodge_ , and keep them there. You're welcome."

"Kentucky-fried...?"

"It's a special technique, helped by the fact that coconut oil is favoured by _so_ many cogniscent species as a lubricant for servos and stuff. There were _tanks_ of the stuff. Now... making flour out of the local plant life was an education. I got my best results out of this weird purple grain akin to rye..."

The story wound on, and the stunned audience was very much surprised to learn that approximately ninety-eight percent of it was true.

#  Challenge #312: Special Skill

I have the unique ability to become very flexible after cracking every joint in my body – Anon Guest

On a kludge station like Amalgam, you get repair junctions like these. They were spaces where cables, pipes, and the occasional load-bearing strut ran through because they were convenient, and then access was added as an afterthought because it was all becoming _inconvenient_. Time and entropy had made it even moreso.

" _Can_ you get up in there?" asked Engineer Laisse. They were quite done having their breakdown by now, thankyou, and had hired the most flexible JOAT on the roster. The hope was that 'flexible' meant 'physically flexible' and not 'mentally' or 'emotionally'.

"I _could_ but you might not like it. Full offensensitivity warning for disturbing body sounds."

Okay... That was a strange one. "What _kind_ of disturbing body sounds?"

"I have the ability to become very flexible after cracking every joint in my body."

"Ah. Yes. I shall turn off my audio input until you are done." Engineer Laisse watched in fascination as JOAT Dar bent themselves around in unlikely positions. They finished with a thumb's up. Engineer Laisse turned the audio input back on. "Are you good?"

"Now. Yes." JOAT Dar picked their way into the cluster junction and bent in even more unusual ways to get to the centre of contention. They were as flexible as advertised. Thank the Powers that be.

Unfortunately, what they were _not_ flexible about was the how to repair the problem.

"Just add the insulator like I asked..."

"But ductape is cheaper and more flexible."

"Ductape is what _caused_ this problem."

#  Challenge #313: In a Minute

A: not exactly "capture" more like take a moment and put it on a pixelated screen. Here

B: is something supposed to be on this slate?

A: what? It's right here can't you see?

B: see?

A: when light passes through ya eyeball

B: light? – Anon Guest

There were moments like this all over Galactic Space. One participant in a conversation would realise that the other they had been communicating with freely until this moment did not possess the same sense-set as the first participant. They are the speed humps in Galactic Alliance life. Or, in this case, an unexpected brick wall across the highway of life.

Human Pim seemed to freeze in space as if some cosmic entity had hit their personal 'pause' button. They remained like that for enough seconds to give their companion, a Pterop named Thaang, a small period of concern. Then, like pressing another button, Human Pim returned to motion with, "Sorry, I completely forgot you don't use sight. Where's your data-reader?"

Pterop Thaang gestured with hir tactile display unit. "Er. Are you well, Human Pim?"

"Yeah, I just need to be sure you have AllShare. It's a bit of a pain in the butt to transfer files all the time, but it does mean nobody misses out on anything." Bip bip beep. "Okay, we're cool."

Pterop Thaang had to remind hirself that this was not an indicator of temperature, but rather a state of 'okayness'. There was a new file from Human Pim.

Light-to-depth technology had taken more than a little time to wrangle, especially for species who understood colours and kept their assorted media as colourful files. Simply desaturating the hues didn't work because darkness could easily be a state of hue, and not of depth. Needless to say, the translation algorithms were almost needlessly complicated.

Yet, because Humans would pack-bond with anything, because Humans seemed pathologically incapable of not sharing a treat, because Humans were -to put it roughly- crazy... functional experience-sharing apps could exist.

The moment became a simulation that Pterop Thaang could perceive. A passage of a minute or less, yet packed with more story than many four-hour epics.

"Amazing," Pterop Thaang cooed. "What do you call these again?"

"Vines."

#  Challenge #314: Life Echoes Art

Sometimes reality is indeed Stranger than Fiction... As far as finding strange space-faring beings, humans had a knack of seemingly finding those that somehow matched almost exactly the "creatures" of their wide and varied mythologies. From the Thumruth (whom bare an astounding resemblance to Qu-tze Bears) to the Karmorp'se, Humans had learned that pretty much anything was possible! That's when humans came upon a society that developed on the outer regions of their stars habitable zone(thus darker and colder than an Earth like environment) who's "plant life" relied more on Chemo-synthesis than on Photosynthesis.. and who's main source of sustenance was a naturally occurring Haemoglobin produced by their Flora. – Adam in Darwin

Humans have some wide-spread imagination spaces. They have imagined technologies, civilisations, entire universes of content and they show no signs of stopping any time soon. When technology renders one such space impossible, Humans carry on imagining it anyway. They _like_ thinking about six impossible things before breakfast.

They also have the unfortunate habit of referring to new, theoretically impossible lifeforms by the names of their imagined counterparts. The Karmorp'se got called 'zombies', the Thumruthi were called 'qu-tze' by absent-minded Humans or their minors. It could be construed as a slur if the reactions weren't generally benevolent.

Therefore, when intelligent life was discovered on a world that should have been too dim and too cold for such things, it was only a matter of time until the inevitable comparisons burst forth from rubbery Human lips. The plant life did not photosynthesise, but instead underwent a process of chemosynthesis. A system by which vast amounts of haemoglobin-like fluid worked like sap. The species that consumed those plants derived much nourishment from said haemoglobin-like fluids. They did not -and this is the important bit- devour those substances by piercing or sucking it out. They ate like any other organic being. This completely failed to prevent any Humans from making the leap.

Given that the haemivorous, cognsiscent life called themselves Drakka, lived lives in perpetual gloom and reacted adversely to strong light, ate what amounted to blood and were very pale indeed... Humans were almost _destined_ to come to a certain conclusion. The pointy teeth were just -excuse the expression- the final nail in the coffin.

The Drakka were quickly renamed 'Vamps' by the Humans, their nicknames were commonly 'Drac', 'Vlad', or 'Ed' for reasons known only to the Humans. It should have been no surprise that the Humans themselves resembled mythological monsters from the Drakka's own stories and legends. Burning monsters of light and devourers of often-living flesh, their mythical name was Hreshaa.

Interestingly, the Humans _loved_ it.

There's just no accounting for taste.

#  Challenge #315: Who Waits Forever Anyway?

This Prompt harkens back to the lich who talked to an adventurer explaining how he made sure the corrupt got the karma they deserved. https://steemit.com/fiction/@internutter/challenge-02264-f074-health-spa-and-karma-services.

It had been a few hundred years since the talk with adventurer, the "spa service" was going well and a few innocents would wander in from time to time hoping to be healed from illnesses no others seem to be able, or willing, to help them cure. Surprising how many clerics are not as altruistic as they claim to be!

_One young woman comes into the place and sees the lich's true appearance and, unlike so many, isn't alarmed by his looks, or afraid. She asks to work for him. It's obvious she's very sick, but she doesn't ask to be treated. Instead, she wants what's left of her life to mean something and help others like he's helping them. And, near the end of her life, when she's too weak to do any work and has become bedridden, she holds his hand and tells him, that she loves him and is very proud of him. What's a lich to do? –_ DaniAndShali

[AN: One thousand blessings upon you for providing that link and sparing me twenty or more minutes' of archive trawling. May you have green lights when you need them and may you always win more money than you invested in the scratch-offs]

Every now and again, as an immortal, one gets to meet the remarkable. She called herself Whisper when she came to me. Her voice was weakening, even then. I could bleed life from the tumour that was bleeding her dry, but I could not re-instate that vigor to herself. She would rally, that was true, when I drained it, but it inevitably came back. It inevitably took more. Physics had cut it, but it came again in other places. Some where no physic could hope to cut it out and have their patient live.

There were potions to help her stay alive. Potions to give her some vitality and vigor back. I knew them well. I offered them freely. She refused. She wasn't there to take, she said. She was there to give. The fact that I helped her rally was a boon, and my own choice, but the potions... those were hers.

She was dying, and she knew it. I could ease her pain and I did, but she would much rather spend her twilit hours in helping others before she went to the _undiscovered country_. She had her gods' blessings and they worked for all. Even the wicked.

Her eyes saw me and were unafraid. She knew what I was doing as well as any of the many adventurers who come and find the truth. I only hide my true nature to ease the fears of the fearful, after all. I introduce myself as Koschei the Undying to the many who come and those curious enough can see the truth for themselves... Whisper found it of her own volition. Looked without fear. Saw _everything_... and accepted.

That doesn't happen every day, you know. It doesn't happen once a century. I can hope, perhaps, for once a millennium. Whisper was... extraordinary. She was wonderful... she was... and that's the sticking point. Past tense. She was all of those things. She chose, of her own free will, to die without pain. The tumour that killed her stole her life and I, a fool, could not kill it for her.

I did not take her blood and flesh. I did not steal any of her essence. I let the Reaper take her to her well-deserved rest. I buried her body with respect and reverence in ground I can no longer walk because it is sacred. Some visitors like to meditate in the Folly that holds her remains. Other people tend it. People. Not thralls and certainly not I, because the undead cannot walk on hallowed ground.

Whisper once more... that's all I ask. But she will not. Not in that form. She believed her soul would be born again and I can certainly hope to meet her in a new body. Yet she will have a new heart to match her revived soul and I dare not tangle with that. She has her own fate. One I cannot force.

Ah, but I can hope. In a hundred years. In a thousand. Perhaps we will see each other again. Perhaps she will find me, and see everything, and be unafraid because she recognises me.

My heart is nothing but dust, now. Rotted away in this husk I call my body... it's amazing, for all of that, that it can still feel heartache.

#  Challenge #316: Useful in a Pinch

A: how pure should the acid be?

B: doesn't matter as long it be acidic

A: kk

then I proceeded to watch the human put their finger down their throat – Anon Guest

[AN: Content warning for vomiting]

Humans are _great_ at improvising. Provided, of course, that you don't mind the kind of improvisation that Humans are capable of. For example, do not lock them in an empty room with nothing but a screwdriver and a hammer. Don't even _think_ of locking them in a room with _nothing_. That's even worse.

Zhyruk knew this, and was sure to look for any interesting playthings for the Ship's Human, Zan. Today, though, that was not the problem. The problem was being stuck in a partially-collapsed old hulk left on a Trashworld. The main article blocking the way could, fortunately, be dissolved by acid.

"Can it be any acid, and does it matter how pure it is?" asked Human Zan. So far, they were doing the heavy lifting, and had picked up a number of objects that ze had said _could be useful_. Since ze had also figured out various means of carrying them, Zhyruk was not yet ready to complain.

"It shouldn't matter. It just has to be acidic."

"Gotcha," said Human Zan. Ze spent a minute untangling their burden until they got to a suitable container.

Zhyurik watched in stunned amazement as the Human Zan poked a finger into their mouth and spat out some truly horrifying-smelling liquid.

"Acid," announced Human Zan, handing over the container. "Handle with care."

Humans are _great_ at improvising. Provided that you don't mind how that improvisation happens.

#  Challenge #317: Put a Saddle On

Havenworlders, depending on where they're from, are generally small, fairly lightweight, and fragile. On their own homeworlds, they have little to fear. But outside their own homeworlds, there is a vast array of things that can harm them even when just trying to get around. However, one group of Havenworlders find an interesting way to go around the space station without risking getting stepped on, or harmed. They ride on the back of their new, well loved, and very well trained animal they call "Horse." Humans have to correct them, it's a Great Dane. Which, some humans admit, is as big as a small horse. – BridgetK

Firrit had a pet. If you could call it a pet. It was also a mount and, in lieu of a friendly Deathworlder escort, a bodyguard and helpmeet for interstellar travel. The animal - and it was definitely an animal - was named _Horse_. That was, after all, her primary function - to act like a horse for Firrit to ride whenever he went into spaces shared by non-Havenworld species.

As far as names went, it was very serviceable. Horse was well-trained by a different animal handler and had learned some basic GalStand commands and would respond to handling via reins. The extra bulk of Horse's presence helped other, larger species recognise that -yes- Firrit was _there_. Or, for some Deathworlders, that Horse was there.

The Human currently paying attention to Horse had lapsed into some primitive mode of communication not easily translated into GalStand _or_ GalSimple by Firrit's HUD. "Aaaww wookit da cute ol' puppy... hoozagoopuppyden? Hoozagoopupper? Yoosagoopupper! Yessooiz! Yessooiz!"

Humans were wont to react towards animals that way, Firrit knew. He had two options. Wait until the Human got it out of their system, or interrupt. Since he had things to do that day, Firrit interrupted. "Salutations, fellow cogniscent." And watched in _slight_ schadenfreude as the Human realised that the animal had an owner attached.

"Oh. Shit. Sorry. Are they a service dog? I didn't mean to distract them."

"Horse is helper, yes," said Firrit in GalSimple. "Safety helper, movement helper, guard helper. Good helper."

The Human spent a portion of a minute processing this and said, "That is not a horse. That is a dog."

"Yes," said Firrit. "The dog is naming Horse. She is being good girl."

"Ooooh... right. Yes. I can see... the resemblance." The Human smiled as they tried and failed to stop themselves from petting Horse, who wriggled with joy. "Do you get a lot of people telling you she's a dog?"

"Not before today," confessed Firrit.

The Human seemed pleased. "Oh wow. I'm someone's First. Say. Hey. Would you like a Deathworlder's help as well, today?"

#  Challenge #318: The Jewels of the Tour

_A feathery flash of ruby red, then several bright flashes of green. These tiny birds flit amongst the gardens on the space station as the havenworlders watch them in wonder. They came from a 4.5 deathworld. These beautiful, flying gems. They are more delicate than the most delicate of havenworlders, some humans brought them here to the garden to act as pollinators and to make the place, "more like home,' she'd said. Little nectar-filled feeders can be seen swarming with these sweet little birds that make the softest of sounds as they flit from feeder to flowers past all who watch them. When asked what they were, one human whispered uncharacteristically as they were normally quite boisterous,"Hummingbirds." –_ DaniAndShali

They call it Bejewel Station, and it is an otherwise out-of-the-way whistlestop with the standardized everything that a traveller could need. Standardized food vendors, standardized hot-bunks, standardized medik bays, standardized living spaces, standardized repairs, standardized shops... standardized boredom... Yet people are willing to endure longer trips across Hyperspace and true space alike just to get there and stay for a day. Why?

They _call_ it Bejewel Station, but that's a mispronounciation of its original moniker. _Bee Jewel Station_. Someone in this stations forgotten past could not import Terran bees because of the venom and the inherent danger, but they needed pollinators... so they went for the next-best, and most harmless replacement. Tiny, delicate, beautiful, and iridescent Deathworlder birds.

Many visitors to Bejewel Station do not believe the birds come from a Deathworld. They are tiny, they are fragile, and they subsist on simple sugars like many, _many_ Havenworlders do. There is even a helpful poem on a stelae by Big Flower Park entitled _When a Bird Be a Bee_ that explains the evolutionary path on a lies-to-children basis. So many pictures are taken of people feeding the birds next to the stelae, it's almost mandatory to have one. Yet, _despite_ this, they cannot believe the birds belong on the same planet as _bears_ or _wolves_ or _snakes_.

Some are almost the size of the insects they mimic. Resplendent in all their colours, they even buzz as their wings flap faster than most eyes can follow. They dart about like the savage Terran _dragonflies_ and make nests smaller than a teacup. Bejewel Station is home to a hundred species, one of which may have evolved on station. Even the resident Humans aren't sure.

Which is why there are tour guides who, for a Minute or two, will explain in detail how the birds' ancestors were carefully caught, carefully packaged, carefully kept in Stasis for a trip across thousands of light years, and then carefully released to pollinate the plant life... and show how to mix a specific nectar feeder solution for the birds so that they can have food wherever they happen to roam.

People native to Bejewel station have feeders outside _and_ inside their homes. It's one of the few stations that won't allow Oshits and police their Skitty populations because they love the little birds so much.

Of course, some have tried to smuggle the Terran _hummingbirds_ off Bejewel Station, either as pets or to introduce to their own colony worlds. None have succeeded because Terrans are _used_ to "these levels of horseshit" and protect the population accordingly.

[AN: if there is a poem about Hummingbirds with the title, _When a Bird Be a Bee_ , I hope it is like this. If there is no such poem, there should be. Please do inform me of the existence thereof]

#  Challenge #319: An Asynchronous Encounter in Ships' Night

You ever fall asleep on the couch only to wake up in your own bed? Ever fall asleep in your bed and wake up realizing you're standing in your living room? Sleepwalking can be from stress, it can be from night-terrors, it can be from many things. When they hired their young warrior / linguist, they didn't realize he sleepwalks. It wasn't in the file, after all, and this was the youth's first assignment. Though they would find him asleep in the oddest places. His kitchen, standing up as if looking out the window, sometimes wandering down the hall, until someone turned him back toward his quarters. When awake, though often tired, his skills were very much the high quality they'd hoped for, patient, soft-spoken, and yet strong. But these poor havenworlders had to deal with a sleepwalker, what in Power's name were they to do? – Anon Guest

"Human Wyn... these are your scheduled rest hours, are you having a problem?" Shrui asked. Ze had never seen Human Wyn so unprepared for duty, in fact the Human was dressed only in hir Skins, and barefoot with it.

"I've come seeking the crystal of enclave," said Human Wyn. There was something strange about the way ze said it. "I have been through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered. I have fought untold foes... I have endured decades of pain. It is my right."

Shrui attempted to process this information from what ze knew of Human Wyn's file. "You have given your age as seventeen. You can't have endured _decades_ , and your health profile was High Green with no problems..."

Human Wyn said, "Time is relative in the fortieth dimension."

"Wait. What?"

Human Wyn snorted, blinked, stumbled in hir place and said, " _What_? Aw shiiit... Have I done it again?"

Shrui was more than confused. "I do not understand how this conversation has proceeded," ze said, getting hir facts straight from this new beginning. "You were speaking of a crystal, and a fortieth dimension?"

"Yeah, that was a weird dream." Human Wyn scrubbed hir eyes. "Bad news for you little fluffies, I get Night Terrors. That means I can move around and talk even when I shouldn't be. The good news is that my shipment of an adult-size sleep sack will be arriving at our next port in a couple of days."

Ah. This must be a crazed Human thing. One of the many, many misfires that seemed to go along with everything else about them. "And how often do these 'Night Terrors' occur for you?"

"That's... the bad news..."

#  Challenge #320: Berry Small Problem

_It's inevitable that one person's treat is another person's hallucinogen, especially when it comes to dealing with various species in the Galactic Alliance. There is a plant that, for most Galactics, it's no worse for them than a human having some chocolate. In fact, it's sweet fruit is quite popular. However, if a human eats some, it's inevitable the human will sit for hours completely blitzed. So while it's a treat for some, for humans, it's a potential medicine to help those with damaged minds. –_ DaniAndShali

For every world, there is something that is harmless to the dominant lifeform, that can be considered toxic, dangerous, or hallucinogenic to other species. Sometimes, this happens for multiple species per world. Some species, though they can ingest theobromine, find the variant in terran Coffee to be hallucinogenic.

The same is true for Faraxian Dreamjuice and Humans. It's the _Humans_ who call it Dreamjuice, despite the fact that it is available as a fruit in most ports of call. Blame _First Encounter Syndrome_ [86] for the resultant grammatical landmines. The fruit, and anything imitating the fruit, is tightly controlled in Human spaces.

This, of course, has lead to a healthy black market, smuggling rings, and illegal trade in certain Faraxian saplings. Because if there's one thing in the universe anyone should _not_ do, it's tell a group of Humans what they can't have. When something is valued and forbidden, crime becomes rife. Which is supremely ironic because, as drugs of choice go, Dreamjuice is fairly harmless.

One peach-sized fruit is considered an average dose, regardless of the form it's presented in. Once a Human has taken a standard dose, all voluntary motor function slows to a halt and the Human apparently 'spaces out' for an hour or two. Those who experience it describe a very vivid and harmless dream state and the taker inevitably surfaces from their stupor feeling refreshed and, very often, inspired.

As to why other Humans forbid their fellows from partaking, a number of reasons have been put forth. From a loss of productivity to moral high ground to the crime inspired by its illegality and beyond. The true reason, held by aficionados of Dreamjuice, is that the CEO's never want the employees enjoying themselves in affordable ways. Further, they definitely don't like the idea of the enjoyable thing being something that can be grown in a closet with a bucket of soil substitute, an overhead lamp, and the right mix of nutrients and water.

All this philosophy had done nothing to convince Ax'and'l that what they were doing was _right_. "These plantlings are illegal in this sector. Do you have any idea what the local laws are like?"

"Laws only count for those stupid enough to get caught." Hwell closed up the Paladin brand biotainment case the seedlings were growing within. Its exterior marked the contents as hazardous material, organic contaminants, and sundry other warnings that, though they looked impressive... weren't.

All it meant was that Hwell was transporting seedlings in natural soil with all the biota that implied. Including fungal mesh, microbiota, and sundry other contaminants. There was even a banana in each case to justify the radioactive materials sticker.

"If they inspect even _one_ of these..."

Hwell snorted. "Yeah. These are _Dereggers_ , my friend. Half of 'em can't even read. They're goin' tae take one look at this lot and tell us to go through quick. Promise."

"Volatile chemicals?" Ax'and'l read.

"Matchstick. And a sealed vial each of glycerine and calcium nitrate. Well taped-down, mind. Well taped-down."

As far as Hwell's idiot plans went, this one was close to genius. Those were precautions that would make _any_ inspector keep clear. "Make sure all those canisters are secure anyway." They did not need a canister falling down and breaking the illusion, after all. Also... "Are you certain these are _Dreamjuice_ seedlings?"

"Uuuuuhhhh..."

[86] First Encounter Syndrome is what happens when a thing is presented for the first time and word about it rapidly outpaces the actual thing. Thusly, the Faraxian berry loaded with natural lysergic acid diethylamide, amongst other Human hallucinogens has since become known Alliance-wide as 'Dreamjuice Berry' despite all efforts to make the Humans stop doing that.

#  Challenge #321: Fractal Flaws

it just basically just captured lighting _– Anon Guest_

_Humans can freeze lightning._ That was the original claim. On the edge territories, blocks of acrylic plastic or panes of glass were sold with 'frozen lightning' patterns etched impossibly into the inside of the structure. Some carry them in their vehicles as protection against plasma storms in Hyperspace. Nobody's certain if they work, but belief in sympathetic magic is a powerful thing.

The actual trick of it got out eventually. Of course it did. One can't have a technology as cool as one that can 'freeze lightning' and _not_ have it get out into the greater collection of knowledge in the known universe. It involved electrostatic charges and an igniting incident to induce a destabilising cascade in the crystalline structure of the medium.

Watching it happen was fairly awesome, too. It really _did_ look like the person making them was capturing lightning in a solid medium. So instead of the phenomenon dying out as the knowledge spread, the Frozen Lightning Stall became a semi-scientific mainstay in stations and stops all over Galactic space.

"Made ye some lightning," grinned Shayde, handing over a rather large cylinder of 'frozen lightning'. It had a ribbon around its middle that was tied in a bow. "Generated the electric charge meself an' all."

This meant that, not only had she found a Frozen Lightning Stall, but she had found one with DIY generators. Which meant that she had expended precious calories for what amounted to an elaborate paperweight. He couldn't really tell her that he had no use for useless things. He didn't value tchotchkes and keepsakes like most cogniscent species did. He couldn't say that, but he did say, "I don't know what to do with this."

"Ye can put a light under it and use it like a lamp. Like a decorative lamp. Ee, get one o' those colour-changin' ones an' have yerself a bit o' rainbow lightning. That's what I'm doin' wi' mine." She lifted an elbow, where a string bag dangled with the weight of one rather large cylinder. "Or if ye like storms, ye can get a flickering light and make a sense box wi' it. I can help wi' that."

Sense box... sounded almost exactly like a hippie-raised Human would make. No doubt, she had ideas for a storm-cloud tank and white noise speakers to fit inside it, all to make a miniature storm-scape. Which, though it sounded kind of interesting to construct as an intellectual exercise, would only result in a larger object of uselessness in his living space.

"I'll investigate all possibilities," he allowed, diplomatically.

"Or ye could turn it upside-down an' it looks a wee bit like a tree," she said. "Ye could do sommat wi' that fer sure."

Rael had little enough interest in owning a piece of 'frozen lightning', he had none in turning one into a tree for whatever sense-scape Shayde had had in mind. He managed a vague thanks and wondered if there was an acceptable time window for turning an unwanted gift into mass/chemical credit at the nearest recycling centre.

He took it to his home and absently placed it in the artificial window, where the 'lightning' caught the blue-tinted lights of the frame. Frozen lightning. Every electron generated by a living being, with the goal of gifting it to him. Every one was unique because no stream of electrons chose the same path through the medium it created flaws within. He tried turning it upside-down to create a 'ghost tree' out of it. He liked it better as lightning.

Three days later, he was investigating how to turn it into a Storm Box. Interestingly, the instructional video was made by Shayde.

#  Challenge #322: A Pound of Cure

I told you not to come here during New Years but nooooooo "I want to experience the culture there" and now we're running low on stress relief medication – Anon Guest

"In my defence, the cultural displays looked very pretty and relatively harmless," said Prrit. Ze was currently huddled under a big, soft blanket and had mufflers over hir tympanum. "They looked so pretty and the music was so nice."

"Mus–" Human Dee tutted and tisked. "You had the offensensitivity filters on. I keep telling you to read the descriptors. _Why_ didn't you read the descriptors?"

Now Prrit's voice was less than an inch tall. "...they were censored for my protection."

"Of course they were," sighed Human Dee. They were in the middle of fixing Prrit's livesuit, which had suffered a critical malfunction during the evening. So far, parts were everywhere and a soldering iron was smoking gently on a coffee table. One of the Human's devices peeped. "Oh good. Your extra meds are here."

Human Dee untangled themself from their work in progress, and singsonged, "On my wa-ay. Freaked out Havenworlder insi-i-ide. Let's all stay quiet, m'kay?"

The delivery came with a Medik, who took in the wreckage of Prrit's livesuit with no more than a raised eyebrow. "Okay," she carolled in the same singsong tone that Human Dee had used. "We have ourselves a silly little fluffling who went to Terran New Years underprepared, yes?"

"Yes," whimpered Prrit, in between deep, shuddering, allegedly calming breaths. "I made mistakes... I learn things."

"Yes, I have just the thing. How long until the repairs are done?" Her nametag declared her to be Medik Baasch.

"If it's simple, one hour. If it's complicated, three. So, let's give hir four hours to be safe."

"An extra hour is always good," nodded Medik Baasch. "I'll stay ready in case that's not enough."

"If it's not enough by Hour Three, I'm calling in a techie."

Medik Baasch extracted two bottles, and checked something on her eyescreen. "Yes. Good. I have a slow-acting one and a fast-acting one. The fast-acting one will hold Cogniscent Prrit out of it until the slow-acting one kicks in."

"Fair," said Human Dee.

"Now," said Medik Baasch. "I'll be staying to monitor your vitals and make sure your rest is comfortable. I'll give you the slow-acting sedative first so that you have time to take the fast-acting one. Things will be a little bit strange as you slip into unconsciousness, but you'll be _super_ calm about it. Okay?"

"...m'kay," mumbled Prrit.

The slow-acting one was a dull, khaki green and just on the cusp of too large for Prrit to swallow comfortably. Ze could feel it all the way down to her sternum.

"Good, good," soothed Medik Baasch. "Now the fast-acting one." This was a much smaller, little white pill. It hardly made any impact at all on Prrit's physiognomy.

Human Dee was already working on the livesuit, but the exposed calbles, tubing, and smoke were all wriggling like tasty worms...

Prrit remembered saying something about Dreamjuice sauce... and then she woke up to Human Dee and Medik Baasch fitting hir into hir livesuit.

"...did I miss th' party?" ze slurred.

"Oh no. Human parties go on for a _long_ time," said Medik Baasch. "There's still three hours before dawn."

"And five more before the final revellers pass out," added Human Dee. "Just... don't try to walk for the first hour or so. I can piggy-back you no problems."

"Whee," cheered Prrit. "I wanna try the fried dough things..."

#  Challenge #323: One Complex Thought Experiment in the Void

An empath and a sociopath trying to help each other interact with people. – Anon Guest

Here are two humans. Call them Abe and Bee. Abe cares _too_ much about others and other's feelings, to the point of neglecting their own. Bee doesn't care about anyone but themself. They are both abnormal Humans. They are both trying to get back to civilisation as they know it with a group of strangers for a crew on their kludged vessel. They're a rag-tag bunch of misfits in a bucket that was held together with spit and hope.

"Okay," said Bee. "I acknowledge we need the rest of these people, but... do I really need to care about their emotional wellbeing?"

"For the thousandth time, yes," said Abe. "Caring about them means that they will care about you. You want someone who's got your back, right?"

Sigh. "Right..."

"So you want them to care about you," explained Abe. "That means you have to care about them. Show it. Try to feel what they feel."

"But... I... can't. I'm not them."

Abe took a deep breath. "Of course not," they were fighting clear frustration and Bee was making it worse because they clearly could not care. "You can figure out how they might feel, though, right? You can think yourself into their situation. Like... if _you_ were trying to explain how to feel sympathetic to... a rock? How would it effect you?"

"I'm the rock, aren't I?" said Bee.

"From my perspective, yes. I have to get the rock to care, or we all die out here in the void."

Bee thought about this. "I would be mad enough to kill... but you just said everyone needs everyone so..." light dawned behind Bee's eyes. "Oh. _Oh_. I must be a massive pain in your ass..."

"Well, yes, but I'm willing to work with this because - as previously stated - we all need each other on this rustbucket."

"So... I should say that I'm sorry, right?"

"That would be a step," allowed Abe. "As would amending your behaviour to be accommodating."

"Like... shoulder rubs? I can see you're carrying a lot of stress."

"Thank you."

"Y'know... maybe I can teach you to chill a little more about things that aren't in your control. Like... I'm pretty sure most of us are trying our best? And if we fail? Nobody will ever know."

"Not as reassuring as you think it is, Bee..."

#  Challenge #324: Sensible Steps

_The two ships had collided as one had a severe navigational error and the other had been stolen by a youth who wanted to go out for a joyride. They crashed together on a planet that, for both of them, was just barely habitable. The surviving humans called out to the other ship and found it to be filled with Nox who were even younger than the human youths who were barely into their teens. Despite a rocky start, the two groups begin to work together to survive the ordeal. By the time rescue comes to take the kids back to their homes, the teens, once barely getting along, were good friends. After all, it's hard to avoid becoming friends when putting aside differences and working together was the only way to survive. –_ DaniAndShali

Given the Human book called _Lord of the Flies_ , the rescue crews didn't expect to find the surviving Human teens nor any surviving Nox younglings in any kind of good condition. In fact, given Human Media on the topic, they expected to only find sad remains.

They never expected to find a fully-functioning proto-society with a kind of improvised daycare for the Nox built in the remains of the ship, with passable structures for the rest and shelter of the young Humans. Together, the young Humans had created work-arounds for everything they needed given everything they already had. This, despite the fact that the logs in the wreckage indicated that half the young Humans were at the throats of the other half.

Yet, there they were, working together to farm, raise animals, and create tools, clothing, and shelter for all. Certainly, there _was_ an invisible line of demarcation where one alliance was a definite distance from the other, but all Humans and some Nox were crossing that line in a calm and relaxed manner by the time the rescuers came. There were no lingering signs of violence, though there may have been _some_ signs of pranking. All in all, the village was incredibly well-thought out.

The Nox were seen to first. Developmentally, they were more vulnerable and less capable than the Human Teens, who were packing up "the important stuff" as the Mediks swarmed. Of all the developments that had occurred during the months that they were marooned, the most surprising one was that _all_ the Humans had pack-bonded during their ordeal. Even the reckless one who had caused the crash in the first place had become something of a responsible Human being.

_None_ of that broke down after they left their settlement behind. The animals had been freed, the crops left to go to seed and any fences broken down so it could all return to nature. There was a plaque, at the assembled kids' insistence, that detailed the key points of the crash and subsequent survival to anyone who might find it later.

Those who had _not_ survived the crash were discreetly repatriated to their families.

Now that they were once again in civilised surroundings, the old rivalries were only the source of in-pack in-jokes. They were now seen as petty disputes. They remained as a pack. They remained friends.

It's strange, but the Humans have an expression for it: _Nothing makes friends quicker than a struggle for survival._

#  Challenge #325: Roll For Initiative

Ever wonder what it would be like to disappear into your fantasy and not have to return? Video games are like that, online role play games even more. It can be more powerful than any drug, and far more seductive. But what happens when the power goes out and the person is forced to face reality? – Anon Guest

This is a box. This is a window. Turn it on and view another reality. There were other boxes like it, in days of yore. They were called _book_. They were called _television_. This box is called _computer_. The window is called _game_. The world? Could be anything.

Some dig. Some build. Some battle. Some are lost in peaceful worlds they have created on their own. All prefer these other worlds to reality. Why? Because reality is not in their control. Because in these other worlds, there is reward for toil. Because they can show what they have accomplished. Because they can take out their frustrations with the real world. Because they don't have to deal with the real world.

The achievements, in-game or in-mind, are measurable. Not like the ones you get in a cubicle or by restocking shelves. In reality, the reward for a job done is another job. It doesn't matter if it is done well or done half-assed. There are no rewards for caring in the real world. There's only the threat of unemployment and ruin. Is it any wonder, when faced with an atmosphere of pain and misery, that people retreat through a window into places where things like that do not exist. Those in charge of _distributing_ the misery resent any kind of escape. They want them gone.

The conflict, of course, is with those making enormous amounts of money from selling the balm. So with shares in both misery and thin medicine, they appear to limit escape whilst pretending to care about things the common folk do. In the name of environmentalism, the power to these windows is shut down. They think it will spread more misery. The common throng will be hungry. The common throng will be desperate. The common throng will be _afraid_ , which is the important part. They were not prepared for what the people truly were.

They were _nerds_. They knew things. Some had power for those who literally needed electricity to live. Some had survival tips from the days before the modern era. Some had improvisations that would work with extant materials.

Most important, for those whiling away the hours until the power returned, they had another window.

This is a box. This is a window. Open it and turn it into another reality with the power of words. Enter a world where anyone can be a hero, regardless of their origins. _This_ window does not depend on much more technology than literacy, numeracy, and imagination. _This_ window is called _Roleplaying Games_.

The funny thing about such games. They teach a very dangerous lesson - that the powers of evil can be defeated by teamwork.

This new escape will be called... _revolution_...

#  Challenge #326: Pig Hero

I knew it was futile to ask, it's nearly impossible for someone like me. But I needed to know, to clear the doubt in my mind, so I can push forward. With a shaken voice I asked, "I can be a hero too, right?" – Anon Guest

The Great Golden Leader looked down at me, cloak and hair flowing in the wind. She was a vision of muscular perfection and might. Her magnificent dark skin marred slightly by a few battle-scars. Her armour gleamed. "You?" She said. "You are not only small, but you are a _farmer_. You are destined for no more than turnips and pigs."

Those around me laughed. Many pointed. Some of the meaner ones chanted "Swineherd! Swineherd!" to accompany the laughter. I cringed in my place, blush burning my skin. I knew then that pigs and turnips were all that would ever be expected of me. Pigs and turnips were all I would ever be worth.

Certainly, they had their worth. The armies of heroes needed their food. They needed their rations of ham and bacon and pork. They needed their turnips and flour and oats. They needed farmers to feed the heroes and keep the realm safe. That was the way things were, and the way they would always remain. They all believed they were right in this belief and, in my defence, I believed it too. Then the pox hit.

Unlike most plagues, it hit the strong and healthy the hardest. It laid waste to entire regiments of Heroes. It left vast tracts of farmland vulnerable to the attacking forces, though they were sick with the pox, too. Many farms were razed. And mine, too.

I still don't know what made me do it. What caused me to grab the axe from the wood-heap and swing it at an invader, but I did. I remember being shocked that a common axe could split a warrior's head as easily as it split the logs I used for cooking my dinner. Then there was another invader and I swung again.

Again and again, I was shocked that an axe could be as good as a sword. Another farmer was using their pitchfork. A goodwife was laying waste to the invading enemy with a stone rolling pin. She had her baby in one arm and was swinging wildly. In the next instant, the invaders were dead, and so were a great many farmers. I had blood on me from head to toe. A grip on the axe handle so tight that my hand had cramped on the handle.

Then we did what we had always done. Buried our dead and fed the enemies to the pigs... but this time we took any unbroken armour for ourselves. There were no heroes left to take it or use it, and we were the only ones left.

What amazed me over the next few weeks was how easy it was for us to subsequently defend ourselves after we had the stolen weapons and armour. Now that we were no longer feeding so many Heroes, we could have full bellies in the evening. We grew stronger. We started defending _other_ villages.

We became heroes... and taught others how to become heroes.

I still raise pigs and grow turnips. The only difference now is that I also protect them and everything I love. Teaching all the other farmers how to protect themselves.

We can all be heroes.

#  Challenge #327: Once a Sword

Better to be a warrior in a garden than a gardener in a war.

Humans, while striving for peace, prepared for war. – Anon Guest

_Let's go in the garden, you'll find something waiting..._ – Terran children's song.

This is a gardening planet. Call it Agraria. It has been specifically engineered for farming food crops for Terrans by Terrans. The people who choose to live there are called Vegans and they are, by and large, peaceful. They do not eat animal sourced nutrients and cultivate many plants that substitute for nutrients only found in animals. All in all, they've been very clever with their moral choices. They're also possibly the most sanctimonious of peoples in the Galactic Alliance and are at near-zealot levels of trying to convert others into their lifestyle choices.

One would think that -apart from an obvious social impairment- they would be the least likely to fight any living creature about anything. At least physically. The Vegans of Agraria _will_ debate any other life form to death about healthier food choices, but that's not the point. This is about Humanity in all its forms, and how Humans revert to type in extremis.

Humans may _say_ that they've turned their swords into ploughshares, but what many forget is that ploughshares can be turned back into swords the instant someone gets ticked off enough to do it.

Which was pretty much exactly what happened when the Vorax raiders came to help themselves to about half of Agraria's crops. Even _with_ a specifically terraformed world, even _with_ the densest and most intensive farming techniques in the known universe, even _with_ everything that science could create to make their lives possible, Agraria and her people could not support such a raid. Therefore it went to war.

Though they were usually peaceful and anti-violence, the Vegans of Agraria turned to viciousness on the head of a pin. some of them didn't even bother turning their gardening tools into weapons, they just used them as they were. The Vegans headed out and committed more bloodshed in the name of peace and harmlessness than had ever been committed in the name of survival.

In brief, they put their beliefs where the sun didn't frequently shine on Vorax anatomy.

The Vorax never raided Agraria again.

Agraria, on the other hand, stepped up its defensive networks to levels of paranoia never before seen in Terrans anywhere. Which lead to a revival and rephrasing of an ancient Human saying:

Better to meet a warrior in a garden than a gardener in a war.

#  Challenge #328: Kintsugi Badass

The person was a bodyguard, and damn good at their job. However, others did not realize this when they saw the person. Sure the legs could have been replaced long ago with what they made from their work, but it was rather amusing when an enemy saw the bracings and the skin suit covered stumps, and assumed the lack of legs meant being helpless. – Anon Guest

Sometimes, when the Human was in a good mood, they called themselves Brad the Broken. Certainly, this Ships' Human had been through more than their share of the wars. That was a metaphor. Human Brad has never seen combat, but they are certainly injured as if they had done so. One leg was gone below the knee. The other was just a stump below the hip. They had, perhaps, half of a hand left on one arm. The other arm was artificial below the elbow.

Human Brad had broken every bone in their body. Their synthetic replacement parts potentially outweighed the mass of their original ones, so to speak. They had had most of their internal organs replaced, including one eye and a delicate, artificial tympanum inside one ear. Sometimes, they would joke that they were more scar than skin. In just their Skins, it was easy to believe that they were almost entirely helpless.

That was what the Pirates of Zendrassi thought, too. They managed to hack Human Brad's livesuit and, while they were incapacitated, the pirates stripped Human Brad of every replacement technology that could be easily removed. Surely, they reasoned, a Human with one eye, half a hand, and possibly seventy percent of one leg could not be much of a problem. They didn't know about Human determination very well.

The crew clustered around Human Brad, half in an attempt to be protective, and half out of a bewildered quest for ideas on what to do. Their Human was down, and as vulnerable as the rest of them. Perhaps moreso. They were locked in the repair bay, with anything resembling a useful tool already removed by people who _had_ seen some Terran Transmissions and decided to pre-emptively prevent any inventiveness on the part of the captives. Which only left the tools that they didn't think were very useful at all.

_Give a Human a tool... and they are_ going _to use it._

Human Brad could move around with one arm and most of a leg, though it was disturbing for their crewmates to watch in the beginning. They were used to Human Brad with all their artificial appendages attached. They had covered their eye socket with a temporary bandage, but that was the only concession to their current state of... disassembly.

"All right," Brad cheered. "We got a mini dolly." They immediately sat on it, using their stump of a leg and remaining arm to scoot around the repair bay. "Give me a lever and an air vent and I can flakk these people to _smithereens_!"

On one hand, the crew of the _Rock Blaster_ was glad their Human was happy. On the other hand, their Human was happy about getting some revenge on the pirates, which was a scary thing on multiple levels.

"Human Brad... these pirates bested you before. Are you not concerned for... the rest of you?"

Brad chuckled at this one. They were proud their lizards were getting in on the jokes. "They only got to me because they hacked my tech. They can't hack a flakkin' _prybar_..." more laughter that made the reptilian crew of the _Rock Blaster_ nervous. " _Nobody_ expects an air duct human..."

Human Brad levered off an air duct panel and, laying on the dolly, wheeled themselves into the air system.

Time passed with anxious seconds dripping into the water-torture chamber of their lives at that moment. Every breath, every heartbeat wrought in worry, rendered from concern, and wringing fear from the tense minutes that gathered up around them.

When the door to the repair bay opened, they were pleasantly surprised to see their Human Brad back in one piece. A little bruised and battered, but nevertheless they had regained their replacement peripheries _and_ a new remote.

"Guess what, my lovely little skinks? Their hacks can be _reverse engineered_! I got them all in the cargo bay with their livesuits locked tight. The looks on their faces..." Still laughing, Human Brad marched over to Captain Thrag and handed the remote over. "We'll want to figure out what this is doing and make more firewalls."

The entire crew felt like they could breathe again. Their Human was safe, their Human was well, and their Human had _won_. This time, without gaining any new scars!

#  Challenge #329: Specific Listing Please

Traveling with Humans was, or rather is, a dangerous prospect. Freelance Freighter captains quickly learn that it is usually best to keep your human away from anything that can, could be made to, or might explode.

Hauling volatile chemicals? Heck no!

Mining equipment? That's just ASKING for trouble!

Precious metals? Why not just let the pirates know you're coming and save some time?

Logging equipment? Like, to record data? Seems harmless enough. Even fledgling colonies need some way to keep track of goings on.

Havenworlders quickly learn that there are two very different types of logging and when the pirates come, the significance of the most intimidating tool/weapon ever created by humans.

_The Chainsaw_ _– Paladin_

Just as Humans have many words for the same thing, they also have one word for many things. Sometimes, the same-sounding word may have a different way of spelling in their _own_ language that makes everything perfectly clear. Alas, such fine details don't make it to GalSimple manifests. Always pay attention to the units. It might save your life.

For instance, the Human soft dessert _or_ the hair treatment comes in volumetric units. The wide-horned cold-climate ungulate comes in 'heads'. Unfortunately for Hox, units of measurements do not always help when there is a difference between creating journals and cutting down trees. Not even when such items come in shipping containers.

The Humans escorting the cargo didn't bother him, they kept to themselves and didn't try to pack-bond with him and that was the way he liked it. So when the pirates attempted to attack, Hox warned them about the Humans, told them about what he assumed to be journaling materials, and let nature take its course from there. He expected a brief tousle between pirates and Humans, followed by some minor property damage that could easily be paid for by the bounty on the pirates' capture.

He did _not_ anticipate hearing the revving of engines and the mad cackling of Humans over the comms systems. Safe in his survival pod, Hox prepared for emergency ejection and dared not ask what the Humans were doing.

He did find out, though, after it was all over.

The Humans were not carrying journaling supplies. They were carrying _tree-felling equipment_. More correctly, they were carrying _live chainsaws_.

The pirates didn't know what hit them.

"We're sorry about the wreckage," said the spokesHuman. "And the riot. And the fuss." That was a nervous grin. "At least we're sure those pirates won't be quick forgetting us."

This was not the salve Hox had expected. Hopefully the bounty and credit from the captured pirate ship might actually help him break even.

#  Challenge #330: For the Greater Good

Several Enforcers of Pax Humanis teamed up and took down a pirate's ship. They were tearing the ship apart from the inside-out when one hears crying in one of the cargo holds. Tearing the hold's doors off, they find dozens of children, human and haven-worlder, locked in cages with price tags already printed on the tops of them. Now they have children to care for, and the potential buyers? Were about to get a lesson in what it meant to mess with the innocent on Pax Humanis's watch!

_Before anyone gets any really bad ideas, this harkens back to a disgraceful era in human history when children were sold off to become zoo attractions. Or, if they had odd deformities, sold to circuses to be part of the freak shows. –_ DaniAndShali

[AN: Actual shitty things Humanity has done to other(ed) Humans. You can google this yourself. Actual children - usually children of colour - were exhibited in zoos like animals. Though the freak shows used to contain the crown stars of circuses, it wasn't that great to know your own parents sold you for profit. Nowadays, the deformed have to fight tooth and nail for any assistive devices/living helpers they need _and_ get stared at when out in society. Hooray for progress? /end rant]

They had been sent to deal with space pirates. They knew what to do with those. Though the Faadraxi had thrown up their hands and pleaded incapability when the Alliance attempted to get them to enforce Galactic Law... they were quick to attempt amelioration when Pax Humanis was put into play. Too little, too late, by far.

Now, a suspiciously military-esque Faadraxi vessel was dead in the water, so to speak, with a team of five nasty brutes making certain there was nobody left to pull any stunts by methodically pulling the ship to pieces. Bulkhead by bulkhead, they searched the vessel. They found drugs, porn, secret stashes of pastries and treats, photos of home that also included suspiciously military backgrounds. Those were good evidence.

What they also found was the very interesting violation of Cogniscent Rights in the hold. It was full of cages, and every cage was full of children. Children of every Alliance race bar the Faadraxi themselves. If the pirates weren't already eliminated with prejudice... let's just say that many of this Pax Humanis crew wanted to violate the remains; or somehow revivify the deceased to kill them again, only much, _much_ slower this time. It took them every effort to record the scene before they began to fix the damage.

There were, of course, teams of Mediks and Therapists on board every Pax Humanis vessel. They often live in stately luxury with every creature comfort they could want or need to ameliorate the stress of the mission. Of course, the actual Pax Humanis agents have their _own_ ways to de-stress, and they very frequently get them, especially on the job. They would be needing all available amenities for _this_.

PH Agent Thom fought the desire for blood. Now was not the time. "Gentelthem," they said. "We must all remember that these are not targets. Summon the helpers and get these helpless out of here. _Gently_."

There were many of the Pax Humanis who understood the difference between deserving prey and undeserving innocents. There were others who were simply... allowed off leash in a targeted area. There were one or two amongst this pack who gleaned joy off of others' fear and Thom kept a sharp eye on PH Agents Erl and Jaz. The others used all their practice on soft voices as they undid the locks or cut hinges off the doors.

There would be a _lot_ of transference violence against the empty cages at a later date, but that wasn't important. What was important was getting the undeserving innocent to a place of safety, comfort, and respite.

The Mediks and Therapists thronged, ushering children beyond the bad place full of menacing people and into much cleaner, much nicer areas where they could wash, get a check-up, and some comfort food. What Havenworlders were present were Level Two or lower[87], so they could withstand some implied carnage in their passage from pirate ship to Pax Humanis vessel.

They would be okay, Thom knew this. At least, they knew this on an intellectual level. What gave Thom problems was... a surprise parenting instinct. Sure, Thom kept hunting dogs at home on one of the Pax Humanis Reserve Planets, raised them from pups and so forth, but... these were _people_. Thom didn't 'do' people.

Not before today.

Some of them were so _small_. They should feel sorrier for the large ones, folded up and incapable of much movement inside the standard cages, but the littlest ones... The ones who trembled in the exact middle of their wire cubes, whimpering as the big tough Humans worked to get them out... Those were the ones who flashed through Thom's mind every time they closed their eyes.

Thom was... _worried_. That was a big deal for them.

They weren't puppies, to hold and bathe and bottle-feed and keep warm close to their chest so they could hear Thom's heartbeat and think their scent was 'home'. These were _children_ who had homes and families and plans for their lives. Thom couldn't just... _take_ one and treat them like another pup. Children needed more than a pup needed.

Thom kept telling themself that for a week. Then they finally snapped and waited for a non-appointment Therapist to see them on the exact border between Agent-space and Non-agent space aboard the _Swift Retribution_. Nervously playing with their own fingers. Anxious about something for, perhaps, the first time in their life.

Therapist Jan opened the door. "Thank you for respecting our safe space. Lounge three is empty for a discussion."

They must all be assuming this was some crisis that Thom needed to solve. Thom let them assume, since it kind of qualified. This particular cluster of feelings had certainly never happened to them before.

There was tea, and soothing white noise, and an image of a vast expanse of nature in the window-screen. All things to help Thom feel at ease so they could get to the part that had them _uneasy_.

"The little ones," Thom began, "and I mean the really little ones... what's their... overall condition?"

Therapists like Jan were used to Agents speaking in technical terms for things they weren't used to expressing. He smiled warmly and said, "All the children's needs are being seen to. We have a complete -if printed- nutritional profile for each of them, they're hydrated and cleaned, of course. We have to regulate their rest cycles, and -yes- they are receiving therapy."

"What about... the haptic side. I remember little babies need... haptic feedback."

This earned Thom a very analytical look from Therapist Jan. "You're feeling... concern... about the smallest of the rescued children?"

"I know... usually I don't sweat the little things, but these are... these are _so_ little. They're not puppies you can just leave with a surrogate, they need... things. Haptic feedback. Sociable interaction. Educations. Softness. I want to make sure they have those, but... I'm... I've got..." Thom gestured at themself. "Problems."

Therapist Jan was looking up things on his data-reader. "You have nurtured small life-forms before... It's good that you recognise the difference between a pup and a child in respect to needs. It's the punishment aspect of your personal boundaries that has us concerned, even though some of the children have been asking about you."

"Just me? Or... many of the Agents?"

"Surprisingly, many of the agents. You aren't alone in feeling concerned about the children. Agent Erl has expressed a concern that some of the Human children might grow up to be like her."

_Erl_? Worried about _anyone_ other than herself? That was just wrong on a cosmic scale. It boggled Thom's mind.

"She's also one of the many who have expressed interest in... visiting."

Visiting? "That's... possible? We're allowed? Wait. We're dangerous. We should never be allowed."

"We can arrange supervised visits in the Soft Lounge, provided–"

"Tell me all the rules," Thom demanded, then realised Therapist Jan was just about to do that. "Sorry."

Agent Thom was in their Long Skins, with soft socks and special gloves that kept his skin bacteria to themself. They sat on the soft floor and waited. The door opened, and there was one of the tiny little lizard people. Thom remembered them as a curled up creature too sluggish and too scared to move. They had been concerned enough to bring the Mediks right to that cage, rather than improvising something like carrying the cage or its lining to the Mediks.

It was an unfamiliar relief to see this little one upright, bright-eyed, and gleefully active. They were barely as tall as a Human toddler.

"Hello," cooed Thom, carefully staying still.

"Big scary hoo-mans!" The little lizard yawped, and ran right into Thom's chest, skinny arms wide. "Thank you, big scary . hoo-mans."

Kids were the same everywhere. They could _tell_ when someone was safe. This little one, named Dyr, helped Thom learn how to hug her, and all was well with the universe once more.

[87] The levelling of Havenworlds and Deathworlds both depend on how extreme the conditions are in either direction, with level 5 being the most amenable or most hostile respectively.

#  Challenge #331: Teach to Learn

You know the one student that's always alone? The one student that, for some reason, just seems unable to make any friends? Often they're bullied while everyone else turns a blind eye even when they ask for help. A student can turn one of many ways in this kind of situation. They can turn into a killer, they can harm themselves, they can bottle it up and explode later, or, for the unusual few, it can make them even gentler even when their heart's broken. School.. they graduated almost 20 earth years ago. But still, some nights, they woke up crying. The cruelty they endured in their youth had left a long, harsh, scar upon their heart, matching the many physical scars, like the burn marks that caused permanent stripes along the arms. The alarm went off, it was time to get to work, they had a mixed class of haven worlders and humans to teach. A gentle smile on the kind face, while the broken soul hid within the heart. – Anon Guest

[AN: I get the feeling that this is very important to OP, so - Nonny, wherever you are, take heart. Those scars stop hurting so much, after a while. That, and we can all take steps to be certain more children don't gain the same scars.]

There's a certain feeling that comes from growing up in an era that introduces all the things you need _after_ you're done needing them. Whilst you are clambering at the cracks you fell through, struggling to create coping mechanisms and falling afoul of every single unforeseen pit-trap... others who follow you walk calmly along on paving-stones laid by someone who never saw you there. It is, very loosely, frustrating.

Imagine fighting for a lifetime. Imagine struggling along a rocky and weed-strewn path, only to find that someone behind you has been making a _better_ path. Yet you can never turn around, go back, and use the path that's been made because that way lies even worse ruin. Imagine the exhaustion. Imagine the frustration. Imagine the tears one could shed. Now imagine becoming a guide for all those who need that path, and would benefit from that guidance.

Some people suffer and insist that others take their turn in the same suffering. Some people suffer and lash out at the world around them. Some people suffer and retreat from all causes of further pain. Lynn... suffered and chose to help others prevent any further suffering. Which was why she was among the first to learn Galactic teaching methods. There were so many changes that should have been done so long ago, and Lynn frankly wished they had.

Mindful meditation worked to cut down on bullying in all its forms, if the bullies themselves were encouraged to use it. Likewise therapy and encouraging all students to accept differences and variety in life. It was a breath of fresh air in the very same way that it was an uphill battle. Home life for that first generation of kids was so very different from school life and the struggle was very clear.

Parents were up in arms for varied reasons, screaming about how the new schooling system made their kids soft, lazy, stupid, or generally opposed to their parents' views about life in general. They complained, even when it became clear that the new ways were better ways, and that teaching things like empathy, consent, and caring alongside the traditional skills of literacy and numeracy was important.

The Galactics and Havenworlders who came to Earth had their children integrate into Galactic-style schools, and suddenly the narrative changed to solid victim-blaming. _What did they have to fear? Why were they going to school in livesuits?_ Followed closely by, _What did they expect to happen when they went to school without their livesuits?_ Which neatly encapsulates the philosophy of the chronically xenophobic in two easy breaths.

Lynn remained determined, and determined to remain unperturbed. She had copies of information sheets on hand, concerning which Galactic Citizens needed what class of Livesuit, and why those children were even _in_ a Deathworlder school to begin with. Mostly, it was because people like them had already successfully campaigned against species specific segregation. Fortunately, Lynn was way too polite to include the phrase, "You're the one who kicked yourself in the rear, dumbass."

That generation would take almost a century to dwindle away. Their attitudes would linger for up to two of them. Lynn knew exactly what it felt like to dig and dig and _dig_ away at prejudice and ignorance and feel like she was getting nowhere. She knew _intensely_ what it was like to throw herself at obstacles again and again. She was but one wave wearing down the cliffs of obstinacy. There were others.

Sooner or later, they would all learn to be better. In the meantime, she would fight. Like she had fought all her life.

In that, her experience made her perfect for the job.

#  Challenge #332: Fear Us

Gone are the days of monsters holding a village in fear, secure in their lairs, the biggest worry the occasional angry peasant mob rising up to pester them with torches and cries of being "abominations to God's creation".

The industrial revolution and electricity made humans far more dangerous and less fearful than they'd ever been. Inept mobs were replaced with trained police. Investigating detectives passed knowledge of weaknesses on to new generations of monster hunters...

There are not many monsters left in the world. Most people don't even believe in us at all! They think Hollywood just made us up to sell horror schlock films or... ugh... gaudy teen romance in some cases. Pitiful. – Anon Guest

Once upon a time, we were monsters. We were the shadows in the night, we were the dark places where few feared to tread. We had names like werewolf, or vampyr, or troll. We were the reason why children went missing in the woods. You called us Fae, you called us will o'the wisp, you called us huldre. We were the creaking of old houses, the inexplicable rapping in the night. You called us ghosts, spirits, or poltergeist.

We call ourselves... _fearlings_. We live on the fears you create. We become that which you are afraid of. In more recent days, we have been cryptids, and slender men, and the poisoners of sweets for children. We have been the long-legged beasties crawling between the unobserved spaces. We have been the errant shadows in the corner of your eye late at night.

We do no harm. We wish to make that clear. We fearlings only feed on fear. There is no need to hurt or harm. You humans are very well versed in doing such things to and for yourselves. We have been unidentified flying objects, men in black, and yet the best yield we have ever had is from rustling in corn fields. We have _never_ been the rapists at the bar, the stalkers in the night, nor the terrorists in the shadows. Humans are far too good at doing those things already. After all, we are the things that do not truly exist.

Yet we are... dwindling.

You know more of the world, and have less fears. There is little to feed us and less to be. The more you know, the less we are. Do not feel pity, that will make us less. Instead... fear those who choose not to learn.

Those who believe in lizard people, in global conspiracies to ruin their fun. Those who honestly believe that big government is destroying their livelihood and big pharma wants to make every child autistic. We _love_ those people. They are afraid of _so_ much that doesn't exist.

Fear them. For they give us new forms. They give us new food. They sink deeper and deeper into their fears without once looking up towards knowledge.

Fear them... for they might _become_ us.

#  Challenge #333: One Way to See

What if humans sight was akin to fantasy elves sensitivities to mana, "I may not have electro receptors like you but I'm able to to detect light with my eyes within the general vicinity" and they were so coy and vague describing light. Also if aliens have electro receptors imagine if they detect our nervous system. – Anon Guest

The semi-amphibious Anatins didn't need to see light as they were evolving. They could sense the electrical discharges of predators and prey alike when they were close enough. That was enough of a sensory system to keep the species alive until they made it to the stars. After _that_ things got interesting.

The first species they met outside of their own were Humans. Two exploratory crews more or less bumped into each other whilst attempting to get themselves out of a pickle and managed to successfully unpickle each other. It never takes much to get Humans to bond with you, but this one is a practically guaranteed method.

The Anatins were great at sensing creatures in the night, and therefore defending the impromptu camp from the beasts hidden in the foliage whilst the Humans kept away anything bold enough to get close. It was when the sun rose that the party discovered some key differences in sensory makeup.

"Why is Human Dan up that tree?" asked Anatin Dre.

"Scouting," said Human Rew. They were employing the typical Human cooking method of spearing portions on a stick and waving them over a fire with it.

Human Dan came down. "I found the ridge we landed near, it's actually that way–" she pointed, "–instead of that way. Typical Jude, always getting our asses turned around."

"Why _are_ you our navigator?"

"I can do astro-math in my head and turn that barge we call our ship around on a pinhead."

Human Dan started drawing in the dirt. "Looks like we should have no problem following the river upstream until we get to the foothills, then we should definitely be in short-range comms with the shoreboat. It's a five-day walk if we push it, ten if we don't."

Human Rew shrugged. "There's plenty edible on this rock. We can take our time."

The Humans chorussed, "Sweeet..."

Anatin Dre had only seen the map happen. "I am not understanding," she said. "How are you able to perceive the shapes you made on the ground without touching them?"

Human Jude yawped, "You guys can't see _anything_?"

"We see," said Anatin Yugh. "We sense all creatures' presence with our electroreceptors. Do you sense the world differently?"

"Yeah we sense electromagnetic radiation in a specific range we call the visible spectrum," intoned Human Dan in the measured tones of someone who's had an argument about this before. "It means we perceive the world at relatively large distances."

Anatin Lell said, "So this is why you could sense fruiting bodies when the heat-orb rose to warm this area."

"Sun," corrected Jude. "It gives off light that we can see."

"Ah," said Anatin Dre. "That explains so much."

"So we're good?" asked Human Dan. "No arguments about how light is mystical claptrap? Fab. Let's have breakfast and get hiking. We can give you guys a lift to your vessel if you like. That night-vision... perception... you have is way useful and we obviously need it."

"That," said Anatin Lell, "sounds like a good trade."

#  Challenge #334: Joy in the Season of Dying

He promised his avian friends a sight on Earth of breathtaking beauty. All they'd ever heard of, when it came to his home planet, was the horrible animals, the diseases, the terrors of trying to exist there. Of course, he knew those things were on Earth, but he loved his home planet even if his job kept him away for long periods of time. He got them dressed in warm clothing and took them to the northern hemisphere where autumn was in full swing. He took them to the parks where he loved to explore when he was just a young boy, and the beautiful trails, the summer's green gone, now colored with breathtaking glow of red, yellows, orange, and gold in the soft, dappled afternoon sunlight. – Anon Guest

They were the highest rated livesuits on the open market - there were higher, but they were strictly for the military or people who mined gas giants for their volatiles or precipitation. These were more than sufficient for keeping a bunch of avian Havenworlders alive during their field trip to Terra. Moreso, since Human Sal had been fine-tuning their filters.

Nevertheless, the Passerid were nervous. "This is a deathworld," fretted Sprag, "We have read of many dangerous things on the surface and under the water."

Human Sal couldn't deny that those things existed. "Yes, there are dangerous things on my homeworld, but the place I'm taking you has the least you should worry about, especially during this time of the year. I've got your suits calibrated to repel any hostile creatures inside of one klik[88] so you're going to be fine. This does not mean that your repellants will drive away _everything_ inside a klik, it'll detect all the dangerous stuff and then make your livesuit smell bad so they want to stay away. Minimum harm all around."

It often perplexed Havenworlders that Humanity shared their terrain with dangerous species and even worked to protect them. These Passerid had been around Human Sal long enough to accept this without further explanation.

"We will not be 'camping'?" worried Flot.

"Not in those livesuits. We're landing close to the viewing platforms and taking a circuit of small hikes. Nothing you aren't used to. Nothing you can't handle."

They were still not certain, but Human Sal was one of those people who were pathologically incapable of not sharing a treat. Since this _was_ part of Human Sal's pack-bonding process, they prepared as best they could and went down with their Human.

What they hadn't expected was the colours. Their suits' HUDs declared the local temperature was in the process of dropping, and all the trees were turning colours. The green leaves were turning red, yellow, and orange. Human Sal explained that this was a natural process and a survival tactic for the trees. They essentially 'died' in the winter then sprang back to life once the cold season was over.

Only a Deathworld would have life on it for which dying was a survival tactic.

"This is my favourite time of year," explained Human Sal, in a cathedral of overhanging branches where the sun shone through the amber leaves. "It's not just the randomness of the leaves, it's the knowledge that, though some things are dying, the whole of life goes on. I used to hike for hours on the hillsides in winter. Watching squirrels, waving the birds good-bye as they flew south for the winter... And when I came back, there was always a hot beverage and getting warm in the comfort of home... Just snuggled up and cosy and everything was wonderful..."

The Passerids would not be partaking of Human Sal's favourite imbibements. They could not handle theobromine like a Human could. However, they could enjoy a 'cozy snuggle' with their alien packmate.

It was all part of the pack-bonding process. One which went both ways, and was highly effective.

[88] Galactic measurements meet Human slang. One Standard Distance Unit is an SDU or "Sidu," pronounced: sid-oo. One _thousand_ SDU is referred to as a 'klik' for reasons known only to long-deceased Humans. It caught on strictly because nobody wants to say "thousands of SDU" over and over again.

#  Challenge #335: An Appeal

" _On this show we talk about humans, and for the most part it's scary stuff. But not today. Because there is one thing you can't say to a human,"you can't"_

Today we will tell the story of a human who was told, "You can't save everyone. You will just die trying" " – Hyorky

_Go hard or go home,_ – Terran saying.

The two most fate-inducing words to say to a Human are, _you can't_. Humans will defy logic, reason, and the laws of physics to prove that they can. Even when given reasons why not, they will simply endure that and emerge at the other end, bloody and victorious. Sometimes... they pay for those victories with more than blood.

Human pack-bonding flows both ways. They _want_ you to be friends with them. They _want_ you to like them. And despite this, they know that it will hurt us more when they pay for our lives with theirs. Humans have a culture steeped in self-sacrifice for the greater good, and we must all remember that. At Cestus Two, we forgot, and it almost cost our Human Lar her life.

We were outgunned, backed into a corner, and Lar had a plan to get us out... but not herself. She would distract them, she said, and give us a head start. She almost said the Last Lie[89] before we realised. Two words saved all of us.

"Please don't?"

It was such a simple phrase, but it has as much leverage as "you can't". A Human who cares enough about their pack bonds will listen to those two words. They will bluff their way around words like, "You can't die for us," but they will stop cold at, "please don't die for us."

We will never forget the look on Human Lar's face as they realised we knew what they were planning to do. Human Lar took a deep breath, and muttered, "Aw flakk... Okay. I got a different idea, but it's gonna break a few laws and make one shit of a mess. You down?"

Compared to letting Human Lar die, we definitely preferred the alternative.

Therefore we are now raising the Time to help fund Lar's release from punitive rehabilitation for redirecting asteroids without a licence. They have successfully recovered from their injuries in the passage of saving their ship and our lives. They did a good thing. They ended a band of sargasso-style pirates that were a danger to shipping lanes. They should not have to pay a penitence for property damage.

Please donate generously on your way out. Thank you.

[89] "You go ahead, I'll catch up."

#  Challenge #336: Useful Obsession

_Almost everyone has a collection of some sort. Some collect books, some do baseball cards, and others like stamps. Me? I love seeds. Every planet I've been to, and every ship I've been assigned to, one of the things I've always insisted upon as part of my contract as a bodyguard, or whatever, is this. In addition to my pay, I get ten packages of seeds. And they must be diverse packages, no duplicates. To ensure this, I give them a list of my collection so they know what not to give me. I started doing this when I was 18, and now, as I hit my late 30's? I'm finding there's a lot of interest by some botanical scientists who want to know more about my collection, it's gotten really big now. I don't mind sharing a few here and here, but they can't take all of any one type of seed. It's my favorite hobby after all. –_ DaniAndShali

They call me Svalbard when they don't want to call me Human Liam. I don't know - nicknames are weird. They call me that longer nickname because I collect seeds. I usually have five of each, ten at the most; each set in little baggies inside a stasis box for storage. When I started, it was a suitcase. Now? Well... there's a reason I have my own ship, and why it's called _The Iceberg_.

If you need me to explain it... my living quarters are like ten percent of the total mass. The rest of it? Cabinets and closets and drawers of stasis containers full-to-nearly-overflowing with seeds. For every planet I visit, for every culture I do a favour for... I get myself a seed sampler to add to the collection. No doubles, it must be unique to my collection, it must be self-sustaining -no 'self-terminating' seeds- and it must be something from either where I visited or where they're from. As a Human Companion to many, _many_ Havenworlders, you might guess that I've got quite the interesting collection.

What shouldn't be shocking is how many civilisations I've saved with these things. Which leads to my corollary: You must replace that which you take by growing the seeds to fruition. No, you are not allowed to tweak my seeds 'just a little' before you grow them. I insist that my seeds genes are unadulterated by interference when they're replaced. No gmods, only g-variance.

Yes, I test the seeds that come back to me, yes, I _have_ sued people over this for breach of contract. Yes, it's been shockingly profitable.

So what am I going to do with all these genetic archives? I'm already doing it. Because some borrowers _are_ those arseholes, I've got quite a few secure terrariums on assorted rocks I've stitched together. I grow my own backups, in careful ecologies best suited to all. There's teams of volunteers who look after them when I'm away. In fact, there's been some stitching of the ecologies and rocks into something of a little station, out there.

They call it Rushes-o Station, and I have the honour of holding the record for the largest ecological archive in Galactic Space. Which also means I'm the go-to when someone's gmod fails and they have to go back to heritage seeds.

When _will_ they ever learn?

#  Challenge #337: Every Good Boy Deserves Fondness

_Hard to explain: basically_  this post _. – Anon Guest_

[AN: I see the Terry Pratchett quote in that post. GNU.]

"So. You know about werewolves, right? Terrible curse, full moon, murder and devastation and all that shit?"

"I... think so. Um. Why are you leading me into your basement?" Gria grew increasingly alarmed as Thom lead her downstairs. "Why is your basement door made out of metal?" And from there to inside, " _Why_ are there chains on the wall?"

"Babe... I'm a werewolf, okay? Aaanndd... every full moon I turn into like four hundred pounds of bloodthirsty destruction." Thom did not get the reaction he expected to this confession.

"Well no fucking shit you do. Criminy, Thom... Does your wolfy self have anything to eat? Look at this place! There's no toys, no enrichment, nothing to do. At. All. I rescue dogs from places like this on the daily. You gotta be nicer to yourself, babe."

"Wait. What?"

"Okay. First things first - you're only bloodthirsty because wolfy you has just altered _your entire body_. Hair, bones, nails, organs. That's gotta drop your reserves to rock bottom. Second - any canid left alone in a bare room with literally nothing is going to destroy shit. That's because there's literally nothing else to _do_. Cripes." Gria took a deep, steadying breath. "Come on. You, me, and the credit card are going on a shopping spree. You need some decent frikkin stuff."

"But–"

"Don't 'but' me, mister. I've rehabilitated wolf-dogs." Gria seized Thom's wrist and dragged him back upstairs. "I've got bulk discounts at the Monster Pet Warehouse. We gotta go there. I know shortcuts." She ran though a list as she bullied him into the van. "You're gonna want a heat pad, one of those ravage-proof bed mats, some kongs for sure, pull-ropes, shake toys, a fountain for water, enough protein to sink a barge... Honey, you are going to _love_ blue steaks in peanut sauce. I know a guy who does sweetner-free nut butters, they're all amazing."

"Why would I–?" Thom sputtered. He had to hang on because Gria always drove like a maniac.

"Xylitol, darling. It's poisonous to canids. Don't want to take the risk, you know."

Oh. _Oh_... "Okay. Uh. Can you _not_ drive like you're trying to kill us?"

"Sorry, hon. I gotta get to the warehouse for a major shopping trip, though. _Why_ did you wait until ten AM to tell me this? We might not have enough time."

"So this is going to be one of your _epic_ shopping trips. Gotcha. Okay. I'll help with the heavy lifting."

"Babe, you're picking _out_ this stuff. Including the meat."

"...gross..." Thom whined. "I'm vegetarian for the rest of the month, though..."

Gria quoted their favourite author. "I know, babe. It's becoming humanitarian for three nights that's the problem." She grinned as she pulled in close to the loading bay. "Don't worry, Thom-sweetie. You're going to have so much more than random street meat tonight."

#  Challenge #338: Expression Day

They had a thought. All this time the gravity drives seemed to have their own thoughts, their own personalities. But they never before had been given their own voice. It seemed a shame, really. They couldn't tell when they were upset, hurt, or needed to be fixed, these vital parts of any ship. The parts that most people treated as mere objects and often had lonely existences despite going through the expanses of space. So why not give them a voice? Give them that chance to express themselves? Maybe it should be recommended that all ships with gravity drives get this modification, but would it work? So three ships were given that modification to test it out. Their gravity drives given speakers to speak through, for the first time since their creation they could truly communicate. And one lovely voice began to sing. – Anon Guest

People only _think_ the Nae'hyn keep the gravity drives voiceless. They have been at this a very long time, both subjectively and by the accepted Standard Calendar[90]. They know when it's advisable to give a machine a voice. The hostile ones, the ones doomed to exist alone and like it that way - those are never given a voice. It is the kind ones who prefer company, the ones who trust new faces to care for them as they care for others.

There are reasons why the voice is not given before the engine has reached a certain age and level of maturity. Attach a voice to a drive that's too young and the entire ship cries. Or it becomes an absolute brat. A crew needs some _intense_ parenting licenses in order to deal with an immature gravy drive if it gets a voice too early. The Nae'hyn have _been_ through all possible journeys. Trust them. They know what they're doing.

Other machines have gained personalities and voices. The Deuteronomy for example. Some other members of the AI alliance have achieved cogniscence care of a Nae'hyn's hand[91], but the thing most people forget is... Gravy Drives are cusp-cogniscent.

It's an important ceremony when a gravy drive gets a voice. The local Nae'hyn community gathers for a celebration as a voice is fitted. The crew and citizens surrounding it are invited. There is cake, and an astoundingly large volume of multicultural treats, and a rip-roaring party involving only the safest inebriants for all participants.

By the time a gravy drive is ready for a voice, it has to be made specifically _for_ it. Gravity Drives are equal parts magical thinking, cargo cult, and a certain amount of Human Insanity altering reality itself. No gravy drive becomes one in the same way as any others. Therefore every voice for every gravy drive is unique. What people might think of as traditional speakers don't cut it. For instance, one of them has a Consortium of Steam clockwork voicebox and mouth assembly.

This one involved a swozzle[92] and a number of other unlikely parts.

There was a cheer and a song as it activated according to the gravy drive's inherent will. What was a very good omen was that the gravy drive started singing along.

It had a beautiful voice. Though it didn't sing words, nor speak anything resembling a language. A gravy drive could, after some significant experience with interaction, produce some authentic gibberish that sounded enough like its surrounding language to be understood by those with enough interpretive skills.

What came out of the speech assembly was not words. More a string of random vowels that fit the lyrics the rest were singing. Nevertheless, it was harmonic and glorious, and more than a few leaked some liquid pride.

"Welcome," said the attending Nae'hyn engineer/priest.

The engine spoke gibberish, of course, but the jumble of syllables that emerged could easily be interpreted as "Happy to be welcomed," to those who loved it.

[90] One-way wormholes can _really_ mess with a history timeline, considering that the colony arrives at a distant soil before the technology to detect them _or_ the technology to launch them exists on the origin planet.

[91] Most often prior to more strict regulations regarding who gets to create a new life form.

[92] Essential equipment in performing a _Punch and Judy_ show. Google it.

#  Challenge #339: Meeting Bip and Bop

_A human is always highly protective of a large front pocket of his shirt. He makes sure, when he puts on his skins, always clear ones never opaque, or his armor, that there's a space there, rather inefficient, but it's when a tiny head pokes out that people realize, he has a pet there. A sweet little sugar-glider that is his constant companion. Sure they're almost as fragile as a level 4 Havenworlder, but he loves his little pet very much. He has been raising these sweet earth-creatures since he was a child, and has never travelled without one in his pocket. –_ DaniAndShali

Humans are strange. Most Galactics know this, but every now and again, they find the statistical outlier on the normal curve that just serves to remind them of the very strong stereotype. Such as Human Li. When not on duty, when 'just bumming about' the station secure zone, they wore a shirt with a pocket that they guarded with their lives. They were careful of it and nearly ferociously protective of it.

Worn over Ships' Skins, the garment was almost superfluous, and some wondered if the Human Li was somehow uncomfortable in Standard Mean Temperature[93]. As observations continued, Human Li's co-workers started to wonder if their Human had something toxic or dangerous in their pocket. So a small committee of concerned peoples gathered to figure out who would get to ask the Human a dangerous question.

The eventual loser of the competition carefully approached as the Human was gently manipulating an eyedropper to the mouth of their shirt pocket. "Human Li... we are all growing concerned with–" Grix paused as the pocket in question moved on its own. "–the pocket of the shirt you wear. You have been... alarmingly protective of it and we need to know... are you carrying toxic matter and if so, why?"

Human Li laughed, showing too many hard teeth for many beings' comforts. "No, nothing toxic. I got my babies in there."

Grix had just enough knowledge about Humans to say, "These are not Human babies, yes?"

The eye dropper was placed carefully in its receptacle and Human Li scooped the contents of the controversial pocket out into the open. "Their mum didn't want them, so I'm keeping them warm and fed," they said.

There, cradled gently in the Human's massive palms, was what appeared to be a lump of striped fur that sprouted two small heads and three even smaller feet. "They're baby sugar-gliders," Human Li whispered. "I've got a colony of the little bitties in my quarters' livepod, but these two need a little bit more love than the rest." One meaty thumb moved to stroke the tiny bodies. One of them responded by licking and then attempting to bite.

Knowing Humans as Grix did... "Are they venomous, poisonous, or otherwise hazardous?"

"Nah, just hungry," the sugar-gliders went back into Human Li's pocket and Human Li resumed messing about with the eyedropper. "They're one of the few critters who can win against space-armoured roaches, so be glad I've got them."

"And the downside?" Grix prompted. There was _always_ a downside with Terran fauna.

"They pee all over everything, but that's generally it."

As far as Deathworld life was concerned, that was 'almost completely harmless'.

[AN: Skins are literally skin-tight and most often used like underwear. Only those new to Galactic life wear their more _habitual_ underwear underneath their Skins. Either way, it's not nice for any living creature between human skin and worn Skins. Also - sugar-gliders are not best suited for solitary life. They need nestmates like we all need air. (insert The More You Know gif)]

[93] The mean temperature at which most lifeforms are comfortable. For those who prefer much hotter or much colder environments, there are livesuits for those extremes, as well as personal quarters with the appropriate warning labels.

#  Challenge #340: The Truest Heroes

Human librarians, or "not every human is visually, vocally, or physically intimidating...or needs to be to be fearsome." – Anon Guest

[AN: Have you _met_ any librarians, Nonny? They only _appear_ soft and weak. They lift tomes on the daily, have a vast knowledge of nearly everything, and a supernatural ability to put up with seventeen different kinds of horseshit at once. They are therefore minor gods.]

In a world of ignorance, a knowledgeable person is either king or crazy. In a world of disasters, a knowledgeable person can rise from the latter to become close to the former. Sometimes, both can happen at once.

Never mind what apocalypse occurred to lay this particular world - or part thereof - to waste. There are plenty to go around. Famine, disease, war, all of the above and the environment striking back against the slings and arrows of outrageously overblown industry... Or your generic judgment from an otherwise uninvolved deity. Take your pick. What's important is that the central structures have collapsed, and all the might-is-right, survival-of-the-fittest numbskulls have come out in force to attempt to predate upon the weak.

Like so many wannabe barbarians angry at institutions for ruling them and science for confusing them with facts, they sought out the edifices of both. The former seats of law and government quickly fell, but the libraries... The _libraries_ were _defended_.

They might have been a handful. They might have been a collection of weak-bodied nerds. They might have been the usual victims of the wannabe barbarians _just now_ learning that ammunition is not an infinite resource. What mattered was that while the might-is-right set were asserting their authority and shooting up everything they objected to, _these_ people were preparing. They had cached the more important books with detailed instructions on how to farm, how to make things, and how to turn things into useful things. They had cached those important tomes well away from anything the alleged mighty might try to shoot. They had laid in supplies, true, but the most important part was that they had laid _traps_.

Pop-out spikes on the streets for the road warriors. Pits with more spikes in them for those prone to charging in without thinking. Walls with narrow slits so that those defending the temples of knowledge could take careful, sighted aim and gain one kill per missile. Those with more preparation time built massive fortifications, replete with other death traps like murder holes and moats.

Sooner or later, the knowledgeable had figured out, the warriors would realise that they needed knowledge. They could not plunder and pillage their way into the future of their dreams. In fact, the future of their dreams had very little future in it at all. Especially once they ran out of bullets to shoot, fuel to burn, and stores to raid. They could not hunt nor gather what they needed, and a vast majority of the alleged mighty poisoned themselves by accident during their first weeks of gathering and hunting. The majority of the survivors soon realised that hunting was harder than it looked, and 'spray and pray' was no tactic when one was down to one's last magazine and using all of it was doomed to render a potential meal into a fine, inedible mist.

Those who hoarded found things out like: fuel has an expiration date, machines break down, and clothing doesn't last forever.

It took them a few years, but they realised that they _needed_ libraries.

This time, when they came, they came barefoot and scarred, barely clothed if they were clothed at all. Ragged and near to starving. They came unarmed, with their hands open in surrender. They came asking instead of demanding.

"What have you to offer in trade?" challenged the librarians and keepers of knowledge, armed with arrows and hot cauldrons.

The mighty conferred. Their knowhow with guns was limited and their ammunition gone. Their vehicles were rendered useless. The rations and hoardings of commercial goods had gone bad, if they had survived each others' predations. Vermin thrived on both them and in their compounds. They had nothing left that they valued, and then wondered what a _librarian_ may value.

A spokesperson emerged. "We have nothing material," they said. "We have spent all our resources in useless fighting, but we have learned that this is wrong. We have hands to carry and help, we have legs to move things, and we have minds that are open to what you wish to teach us."

This caused many librarians to ease their drawstrings or tilt their cauldrons away from the edge. There was a series of signs and whispers.

"You will be watched," announced the head librarian. "If you slip back to your old ways, you will be marked and cast out to fend for yourself. You will pay the respect due to us as a student respects a teacher. You will not lay a hand on anyone without their permission. Do you accept these terms?"

It was accept, or die in the snow. They accepted.

They were lead past the fortifications, down through the empty library's shell, through the cellars and through some tunnels, to an underground rail that let them out into a new city made entirely by people who had thought things through. It was powered by the sun and the wind. Most buildings were made to work with the environment instead of fighting against it. Most buildings were covered in plants. The animals they raised roamed in large pastures and bicycles were the preferred mode of transit.

"Welcome to the liberal dystopia, people," said one of the librarians. "First up - everyone is getting a bath and a health check. It's routine to shave anyone who's got lice. If anyone has egg allergies, you're going to have to be tested for horse serum allergies. Those are currently our only options for vaccines. You'll have to be quarantined for two months anyway, just to be sure."

Another spoke up, "We mint our own money here for the sake of convenience, but everyone gets a standard base payment from Public Works. It's enough to pay for food and lodging with just a smidge left over for indulgences."

"Who pays for the medicine?" asked one of the mighty-brought-low.

"Oh, that's free," said a librarian. "Making people pay just to live is counter to human nature, counterintuitive to a healthy society, and just plain evil. We don't do that."

"Why?" asked the confused former mighty.

"Build the world you want to live in," said a librarian, gently leading them onwards. "This is ours. You've already seen what happens in yours."

_If you have been truly wicked,_ they say, _they let you tour Heaven before they send you to Hell._ If you are willing to be redeemed, they let you stew in Hell before Heaven very kindly takes you in.

#  Challenge #341: Love for All Creatures

Humankind will happily share/shelter tiny pets with/from the universe. Hamsters, flying squirrels, cats, parrots, sugar gliders, lizards and snakes, even dogs. As an unsocial person, I will socialize the heck out off my girl despite my discomfort. As a nonviolent person, I will murder anyone who lays a hand on my baby. How much would I love someone who protected my pet for me? – Anon Guest

This wasn't the first time Human An had woken up in a medbay. It was the smells that clued him in that this was not his ship. This didn't smell like the _Fortune's Favour_. An instantly knew that he had failed. The ship had died. The fact that he somehow survived meant that the Tralnith had rescued him from whatever he had decided to do to try and save them all.

Such a pity that traumatic injury wiped out short-term memories formed during said trauma. The last thing he remembered was insisting to his crewmates that he had an excellent idea, even though that was a lie. Therefore it was probably some winging-it thing that almost got him killed.

Tears stung his eyes as he remembered Fluffy. He hadn't got Fluffy out. He had been thinking of all the cogniscent creatures on the _Fortune's Favour_ and not his dear little companion. _Oh Powers, no..._ The others wouldn't have thought of Fluffy either. The Medik came rushing in, a lizard, but not like the Tralnith. Different features and nose spikes. "All is safe," they said in GalSimple. "All crew well. Wish seeing?"

An managed a strangled, "...'es," as he couldn't talk and weep at the same time. The crew were okay. That was good news. Focus on the good news. He could mourn Fluffy later. Celebrate the victory now.

Companion Kriku was the first to enter, bearing a suspiciously familiar net mesh carrying case with a pull-cord luring fan and feeder airlock system. The sight of it alone was enough to spike An's heartrate.

"...'d yo–?"

"Staying down, cogniscent," cautioned the Medik, adjusting the bed to raise An into a semi-seated position. "You allowing seeing pet. No allowing touching. Many wounds, being infection, if touching."

Translated - don't touch the pet, you could get an infection. Got it.

There, inside the mesh cube, was Fluffy. A dwarf Oshit bred specifically to be harmless to cogniscent life because Humanity _will_ tame and then mess with the genes of anything it encountered. Human An let vent a happy little noise of no particular language and the reason to weep changed entirely. His voice came back with a definite wobble. "You saved Fluffy..."

"It took five of us," said Companion Kriku. "We understand how deep your pack-bonding is with this... creature."

Yeah, considering that this was An's fifth clone of the homicidal little decapod. "You _hate_ Fluffy..." Now that the carry-cage was on his lap, he brushed the mesh and laughed as Fluffy 'hunted' his fingers. "Hey, baby. It's gonna be okay, sweetheart. Papa's coming back for fun times." To Kriku, he said, "I know what that took for you. I have got _the_ best shipmates."

Kriku submitted to a hug, careful where he put his claws. Since there were more bandages than hospital gown, An could guess it was a rough one. "You said you had a plan, but we knew you were lying. We also knew that you would not leave without your... beast... so I arranged a detail to capture it."

"Best. Lizards. Ever!" An gave Kriku an affectionate noogie, which his lizards assured was a close bonding gesture and pleasurable for them to experience. "I'd die for you all. For realsies."

"Please don't?" begged Kriku. "That would mean we would have to care for your little monster."

#  Challenge #342: Conflict of Interests

Don't worry we're completely safe

explosion

Relatively safe

laughter in the distance

As long we don't move from here, we're safe

door flies open

I think it's best if we leave – Anon Guest

[AN: Nonny, you have hit one of my favourite tropes - the chain of circumstantial self-correction. I confess to laughing out loud]

There used to be two absolute certainties in the universe - death and taxes. However, after the Humans entered the Galactic awareness, three things were certain. Death, taxes, and unbelievable amounts of destruction when a Human was around. It didn't seem to matter whether or not the Human was on their side, there was just... devastation in their wake.

It took quite some time for the Galactic Alliance to collectively learn that not all Humans were like that, but their fearsome reputation had cemented itself by then. Of course, in the initial stages of introducing themselves to the Alliance, the kind of Humans who went out into strange new worlds and new civilisations were _exactly_ the sorts of people for whom half a stick of dynamite was an ideal solution to most of life's problems.

This was merely a fine point of order to Grax, currently huddled in a Human Guide's arms in the middle of what sounded like a war zone. Neither of them had intended to be in a war zone, they had just happened to be performing archaeology in a continent that also had valuable limited mineral resources... that two other factions decided to have a battle over. Human Jess had been quick about finding a place of shelter, and insisted on shielding Grax with their body.

"Don't worry," said Jess. "We're completely safe."

In the distance -well- not very distant distance, someone detonated some ordinance.

"Relatively safe," Jess amended.

Not that far off, someone laughed. A very manic, very foreboding, _Human_ laugh. Oh dear. Whoever they were, they had Humans too. The more... stereotypical kind of Humans. Grax shared a frightened look with Jess.

"As long as we don't give away our position, we should be safe."

"Some," sang a Human voice as they kicked open the door, "BODY once tole me..."

Human Jess swore, physically picking up Grax. "Oh, we've gotta _go_!"

Grax didn't remember most of their flight from the battle zone, since their anti-stress medication was the _really_ good stuff, but the livesuit recordings told the tale of the true power of a Human's fight-or-flight instincts. Human Jess ran all the way back to the lander and lifted off into the lower stratosphere before they remembered to close the hatch.

Grax checked on them after the autodock had run its cycle. Human Jess was on the ground and panting.

"Sorry," they said. "I underestimated the situation. I forgot there's all kinds of contracts for all kinds of people _by_ all kinds of people."

Grax checked to be certain Human Jess was approaching more normal health indicators. "Your job was to keep us safe. In that, you have succeeded. I thank you."

"Pity they're blowing up the archeology, though."

"That is a pity. However, we are alive to report it."

#  Challenge #343: Soul's Music

The devil sit down on his throne moaning of what he lost, his own pride fell apart think of the cost. Whenever or not to rise again but came walking in a old man; scratching a itch, he pulled out a golden fiddle and said "remember me bitch" – Anon Guest

_Fire on the mountain, run boys run/ Devil's in the house of the rising sun_ – Human Folk Song.

Humans love to tell stories about immortals. People who made a deal with evil in order to live forever. People who can rewrite their entire bodies in a flash of pyrotechnics. People who, in a rare spate of Human insight, were cursed to live forever.

Those Humans who do manage to gain such an alleged boon have either committed a great act of heroism or a great act of evil. There are few in-between. Then there's Johnny. He's an old man, now. If you cross his path, you wouldn't bother looking at him. The only thing to make him stand out is the fact that he holds two violins. One is always in its case. That's because his second violin is pure gold.

He's had it for two centuries or more by now, going back to when the forces of evil would routinely pop up to cause trouble amongst the mortals. The forces both celestial and infernal don't interfere with mortals any more. Not since the Devil went to Georgia. There's even a song about it.

By defeating the Devil at his own game, the Devil would not take Johnny into Hell. By using both Hubris and Pride to do so, Heaven doesn't want him. So, on Earth, Johnny remains. Well... on the mortal plane, at any rate. He's had two hundred years to hone his already great playing, but he's still Human.

What does a Human do, with infinite time? What does a Human do with one excellent skill and a body that stopped ageing at the octogenarian stage? What _could_ a Human do with the time to do anything they wanted to do?

For your education, witness a crowded transport station in the middle of essentially nowhere. It's one of those places that exist only so the working forces have somewhere to eat, sleep, and do whatever small things that relieve the monotony of their work. Young and old, the masses wait for their mass transit. Planning to make it through another day, with nothing more in their minds.

An old man sits on a bench. Looking at him, you would think he's an old man with nothing better to do. Then he raises his violin to his chin, and _Plays_. He doesn't play to the mood of the station, he plays to _alleviate_ it. Johnny knows his stuff. He's had two hundred years to learn it. He knows every way to pluck at heartstrings. He knows every local song. He knows every melody by heart.

Those nearby stop talking so they can listen. Some start to sing along. Those around them notice, and follow suit. Soon, the entire station has voices lift in song. Some dance. Some weep. Many laugh. Then the transport comes and the mood breaks like glass, and the people at the station file through doors and go on with another day.

Except...

_This_ is a day that the entire workforce is not worn down by the grinding gears of commercialism. This is a day that people smile without forcing it. This is a day when hearts are light. On this day, the world is made just a little better. Their hearts hold a little spark. A little rebellion. An inspiration...

They pay the mood forward, practicing random acts of kindness. Committing senseless acts of beauty. Someone sings an aria in a tunnel, and the echoing melody lifts so many souls closer to the gates of heaven.

On this day, another immortal lingers. They size each other up like true villains, and stare each other down like cats.

Johnny smiled. "Longinus. Been a while."

"What are you doing. What _are_ you doing? It's pointless. You can't gain their favour. You can't earn their condemnation. _Why_?"

"Because beauty deserves to exist," said Johnny. "Because the Devil won't take me, and Heaven don't want me. Because that sunovabitch downstairs don't need more souls. Because I believe in the good of the world. Because it needs a way to make it happen. Because I _can_."

Longinus scoffed. "Fine then. If you think you can... play something for me. Play me something that makes me believe what you believe."

Johnny smirked like the evil little bastard he'd once been when he out-played the Devil. "I've had time to learn a few tricks, old man." He unpacked the golden violin, licked his lips and raised his bow... and played a song that hadn't been heard for almost two thousand years. A simple lullabye. A song made to give peace to a crying child.

A song used by Roman mothers to calm their babies.

For the first time in two thousand years, Longinus wept. For the first time in five hundred years, he mourned. He fell to his knees, holding himself and crying out for his loss. His trembling lips formed words that had not been uttered in centuries.

The last note faded with only two immortals to hear it. Johnny's eyes weren't exactly dry, either.

"Well, old man?" said Johnny.

"...te vincere," rasped Longinus. "Teach. I will learn."

Johnny smirked. "Devil ain't the only one who collects souls."

#  Challenge #344: In the Eye of the Storm

Humans don't all celebrate Silly Seasons. Some find it disorienting, some have been damaged, some protest aspects of the culture/celebration in question, some just don't care, and occasionally they're not 'in the mood.' For those who've resigned themselves to the boisterous Silly Season, a human who doesn't conform to the human 'norm' is actually more alarming than everything else they've prepared to tolerate. – Anon Guest

Silly Season is not a set festival, as many new to the Galactic Alliance are wont to assume. It is, more or less, mass hysteria in order to vent tensions. Many have tried to predict how and where a Silly Season will strike, but Humans are unpredictable. It's part of both their terror and their charm.

That said, there are those who just never feel the need to vent. Those who rarely, if ever vent, and those who find other safety valves in their day-to-day occupations. They, like other Humans, are gently herded into the festival in progress. However, they do not catch the infectious mood.

Human Zaf is one such, thrust gently and kindly into the writhing mass of partying Humans that had essentially taken over the commercial district. They stood, just off to the side of the barrier, blinking in confusion at the instantaneous party going on. Zaf was temporarily distracted by another Human running past in just their Skins, trailing what looked to be a cloth banner behind them in their upraised hands.

Silly Season is like a spreading wildfire. The best strategy is to cut fire-breaks and let it burn out. Silly Season is like a contagion. The best strategy is to isolate all potential vectors until such time as it passes. Silly Season is... impossible to stop. Therefore the best strategy is to contain it.

Zaf understood all this, and sidled out of the way of the revellers, seeking a place of relative quiet in the madness. On the way, like most dysfunctional partygoers, they snagged themself a series of snacks and beverages before finally retiring to the equivalent of a neglected kitchen at a rowdy party.

In this case, it was a Soft Room. A place of quiet meditation with soft and fluffy furnishings. A place of dim lighting, soundproofing, and relative calm. A place where, Zaf had to note, twenty Skitties and three other Humans had also gathered for some peace and quiet. The humans had series of snacks and beverages, and the Skitties were attempting to look like starving, forlorn kittens in an attempt to get their share.

The toughest, rugged, beaten-up, absolute unit of a feline attempted to convince Zaf that it was, in fact, a poor starving kitten who had lost its mama and needed love and affection in the form of very cheap sausages. The act included swiftly transferring from vertical to horizontal in a combined leg-rub and fall-at-your-feet manoeuvre, followed up by exposing a belly and piteous mewling.

The cat's look of betrayal as Zaf stepped past it to settle on a bean bag was priceless. Zaf laughed and handed the cat half of a small and very cheap sausage. "None of you celebrating?"

"Nah. I had my partying worn out last week. Festival of Hootnani in Nappelaitch."

"I'm just flakkin' tired," said a Human in a different beanbag. They had been still enough for long enough that they were covered in a blanket of slumbering Skitties.

"I hate loud noises," said another.

"I just don't get it," said Human Zaf. "I've never needed it."

Some of the other Humans stared at them. "Never? What do you do for fun?"

"Oh, I work demolitions."

#  Challenge #345: Designed For Disaster

There are reasons why humans coined the term "idiot proofing", many MANY reasons – Anon Guest

_Make it idiot proof and the world will invent a better idiot_ – Human engineering axiom.

It was a Human who came up with Murphy's Law, and further Humans who came up with all the associated corollaries. Humans investigated them all, invented science to prove them, and then invented science that provided vital _analysis_ into the reasons why it was so.

All devices made by Humans are over-engineered to cope with stresses both outside and inside. They print instructional plaques and then make certain that the device _cannot possibly be used in any other way_. They have a language of use, of codifying function into design, that other species have to work at to even parallel.

Human engineers are prized employees, they are valued when it comes to designing all kinds of emergency devices. Lifepods, livesuits, escape vehicles... the famed Hungry Caterpillar, the Alliance-wide impact interception and prevention device, was made by Humans. It is famously idiot proof and has saved uncountable lives. Including the ones who were standing too close when they decided to blow up the airlocks.

It has gone so far that other Alliance races are flocking to attend engineering and design classes taught by Humans. What, they wonder, is the secret?

The answer - or at least the beginning of one - comes in the form of an edutainment video in the first class. It contains, in its entirety, footage of Humans and other species attempting to misuse everyday objects. No inebriation necessary. At the end of the thirty-minutes of video, the lecturer waits for the laughter to die down, and introduces the First Principal of making anything:

"Always assume that the end-users are illiterate idiots who are barely past cusp-cogniscence. It saves a _flakkload_ of time."

#  Challenge #346: One... Giant Leap

_A human has fallen very much in love with another deathworlder. These deathworlders are only similar to humans in that they walk bipedal and have a human-ish shape to their faces, but that's about it. The human had been working aboard ship with the being for almost a year, the contract stated the human would be there for another four years, and they were trying to find out how to get the being to become interested in more than just.... well... friendship. –_ DaniAndShali

The relationship had been a source of amusement amongst the crew of the _Seek and Find_. Even the second-densest member of the crew caught on to the idea that Human Dar found Grumesh cute within the first month of awkward flirting.

The _densest_ member of _Seek and Find_ 's crew was, of course, Grumesh. Overtures small and large were interpreted as being such a good friend. It certainly didn't help that Dar was one of those Humans who were easily embarrassed and therefore fumbled every opportunity for closeness.

Watching Human Dar defeated regularly in the lists of love was, unfortunately, also kind of sad. Case in point, it was lunchtime. The crew watched with a mixture of morbid fascination and amused pity as Dar loaded up their food tray and got some extras of Grumesh's favourite treats. Again. Deathworlders always appreciated others who brought them nice food. As Dar approached Grumesh, they began turning the characteristic ruddier hues of extreme mortification.

Grumesh barely looked up from her rare meats. "Hey, Dar."

"I sneaked you some extra fatworms," offered Dar. "Extra glossy, just like you like 'em. With cheese sauce." The offering was already in a separate bowl. The fact that it was a shiny, pretty bowl flew right past Grumesh. The fact that the decorations were in Grumesh's favourite colours completely passed her by.

"Thank you," Grumesh cooed. "You're always so kind to me. I'm so glad we're friends. Look. I got you your favourite, too."

It was in a separate bowl, and featured some of Dar's favourite things as decorative painting. Dar turned a little redder and squirmed. "Aaawww..." they cooed. And, because they were a fool, they added, "I like you too."

Five onlookers were whispering, "Say the _right_ words, damnit..."

"We are such good friends," said Grumesh, unaware of the anguish this caused in both her companion and those watching them. "We should go kill something together."

Dar kept grasping for straws. "Camping together on a hunt for fresh meat? That'd be nice. We could sit around a campfire and watch the stars... chew the fat..."

One of the observers, stressed out by the non-committal nature of the ongoing will-they-won't-they situation, stood up from their perch and shouted, "JUST KISS!" Thus causing Dar to cringe into a ball of flaming-hot mortification, and those surrounding the heckler to drag that heckler out of the room. Possibly for some frustration-venting attacks or yelling.

"It might do all some good for us to go away," speculated Grumesh as she enjoyed her fatworms. "Though I am certain we've all pack-bonded, I can't help but notice that tensions are higher the longer we are both on board."

"A little holiday would do everyone some good. I can bring my guitar. Sing you that song I've been practicing."

"I like you too," said Grumesh.

Dar... snapped. "I know, you keep saying, but do you like-like like me?"

Grumesh stared. So did the rest of the breathless crew remaining in the mess hall. This could very well be a historic moment. "I have not heard the term... like like like. Is this the Human use of duplicate emphasis?"

"For the Powers' sake, YES," shouted another heckler, who was also dragged from the room.

By now, Dar could double as an incendiary device. "What ze said. Yes. It is duplicate emphasis. Because... because... _I like-like like you!_ A lot."

"This is... beyond very good friends?"

"Beyond... all of it." Dar lunged, planting an unauthorised kiss on Grumesh's face. Mouth to mouth. Historically the most intimate of Human contact that was still allowable in public.

"Oh," said Grumesh. " _Oh_..." a smile spread across that saurian face, displaying possibly too many sharp, pointy teeth. "Oh, okay..."

They held hands for the rest of the lunch break. Both of them were smiling like fools.

#  Challenge #347: Deadly Technology

A: interesting with the tech here I might be able to research the Gimpy Gimpy plant

B: that sound relatively harmless

A: it is also known as the suicide plant

B: sigh there it is – Anon Guest

"Wow," said the Human, looking at all the protective technology on offer. "This is such awesome protective tech. Micrometeor-resistant.... hey, you guys managed to miniaturise the Hungry Caterpillar. That's awesome. What's your particulate capture limit?"

The proud merchant said, "The particulate capture system can find and neutralise particles as small as half a nanometre."

This impressed the Human. "That small, huh? Sweet. With that kind'a tech, I might be able to research the Gimpy Gimpy plant."

Trader Korx said, "That sounds so sweet," before their brain caught up with their mouth and remembered that this was, indeed, a Deathworlder and associated biota they were talking to.

"It's... also known as the _Suicide Plant_ ," said the Human.

"I should have known earlier," sighed Korx. "You Deathworlders never have anything that's safe."

"Sort of. Mostly. Okay, we got a lot of dangerous stuff, but... _we_ survive it?"

"That is not," sighed Korx, "adequate proof."

#  Challenge #348: Many Ways to Pack Bond

The havenworlders hire a human who docks their ship to the havenworlder's own larger research vessel and uses that for their quarters rather than what the havenworlders have provided. When asked why, the human simply responds "It's better this way." But does not care to elaborate. The reason behind the why becomes clear when a havenworlder goes in to bring a gift to the human that has become such a kind friend and asset, when the havenworlder hears horrific screaming coming from the human's sleeping chamber. Hurrying over, they see the human sitting up, bare in bed, covered in sweat with eyes wide in fear. Once the human has calmed down, they explain to their havenworlder companion about night-terrors, and how some who've seen far too much in their life, can suffer from it. – Anon Guest

At first, the crew of the _Little Blue Bird_ thought that Human Pri valued their personal space. The alternate speculation was that Pri was one of those Humans who thrived in their own mess, or their own sense of order, and therefore had to keep everyone else segregated from it. They weren't expecting a rare mental disorder.

Somnambulism is not a survival trait in environments that require everyone present to leave the airlocks alone. That said, there are similar disorders that can be worse than disturbing for outside viewers. As Byarin found out when they ventured into the docked Human vessel.

Any unfamiliar ground is automatically liminal, especially when it was quiet. Everything is a shell of something unfamiliar. A shape of something that could be, but currently was not. It was a place where Byarin felt compelled to tread carefully, to mind hir step whilst seeking out Human Pri.

Then the screaming began. There weren't any words, but it was frightening enough to automatically activate Byarin's offensensitivity filters, muting the alarming noises and translating them to emotionless text and a pointer indicating the source. There were other infographics, including vocal stress analysis and a thorough scan of the area. The former indicated that Human Pri was going through some extreme terrors. The latter insisted that there was nothing to be terrified of.

Further automated systems were running through the extensive Human Manual looking for potential solutions. When it had a definite diagnosis, Byarin would have a plan of action. Until that moment arrived, Byarin had to use hir livesuit's sensors to run diagnosis.

Visual confirmation that nothing to scream at was present... that was enough to ascertain that Human Pri was having Night Terrors. Now ze had a plan of action. First. Stay well clear of the Human in case of flailing limbs or accidental reaction. Already done. That, and the Human Pri appeared to be already restrained in some kind of fitted sack. Second, gain the Human's attention and identify oneself.

"Human Pri. This is Adrassi Byarin. Can you hear me?" It took a couple of trials, but Human Pri responded.

Second, assure safety and make a peculiar request. "You are safe, Human Pri. Please name out loud for me five things you can see..." It went down the five standard senses. Four things to feel, three things to hear, two things to smell, and one thing to taste... for which Human Pri smacked their mouth and winced.

"Guh, I gotta brush my teeth... Sorry about that, Byarin. Are you okay?"

The offensensitivity filters graduated down to their standby state. "Yes. I am well and fine. Are _you_ well?"

"A little bit of PTSD, a little bit of Night Terrors... a lot of horrible and vivid subconscious. I'm nominally okay."

"We were concerned you were feeling unwelcome," said Byarin. "Now I see your segregation is imposed for _our_ safety and wellbeing."

"Wait..." Pri said a code-phrase and the fitted sack released its hold. "You guys got me something to help me feel welcome? What is it?"

Byarin offered it. "We acquired for you... a _shiny rock_!"

Human Pri was incredibly impressed.

#  Challenge #349: Goodnight Everybody

A: Ok look I only have a sawed shotty and a 9mm and I don't want to fight anything that is bigger than a baby moose. Also if you see a bear follow this rhyme "brown lay down, black fight back, white good night"

B: but can't you fight back with your weapons?

A: Yes and no. First off the bears in these regions are bulletproof, hell most bears are. More than anything firing this will piss them off

B: well can you tell me is that bear bulletproof?

A: Welp based off the rhyme, good night – Anon Guest

Well. This was a situation. It was not a good situation. It was not even a bad situation. It was a _terrible_ situation. Armin ran through everything he knew about bears. "Don't make eye contact," he said. "Keep a calm, level tone when you speak. We're going to back slowly away..."

"I am starting to regret the decision to document some wildlife on a Deathworld," said Grox in calm, level tones. "Does this creature eat baby moose?"

"No, your polar bear usually likes fish or seals. Problem is, seals are human-sized and some of these critters have learned that humans are tasty prey. The good news for you is your livesuit will protect you." For every good news a Human delivered, there had to be an associated bad news. They just worked that way.

"And the bad news?"

Armin looked like he really didn't want to deliver it anyway. "The bad news is I don't have a livesuit. Not even a safety bag. I thought I was safe in this territory and didn't want to look like an idiot wearing the harness."

They continued backing carefully away, though Grox was thinking about things Armin had taught him. "Human Armin... are you not always stating that it is better to look a fool than be one?"

Armin sighed. "Yeah, I do say that. I give myself some very good advice, but I very rarely listen... as Alice said." The white bear was almost out of sight for Grox, but judging by Armin's careful movements, not for the taller Human. "The best news is that this one doesn't seem interested in us."

"Is there an additional worst news?"

"Only that we should keep up the careful, quiet stroll for another mile before we haul ass out of here," singsonged Armin. "Lord be my witness, if we get outta this alive, I am never going to fret about looking like an idiot ever again."

Humans were strange. Some needed a painful experience just to listen to good advice. A rare and special few needed such a thing to listen to their _own_ good advice.

#  Challenge #350: Death Came Knocking

It seemed to him, he was born under a curse. He could always tell, with just a touch, how and when someone was going to die. Out of fear, his mother and step-father had sent him to live with a relative, the relative sent him to an orphanage, and the orphanage, as soon as he was big enough, sent him to live alone in one of the out-buildings, though they at least made sure he didn't starve. He had no friends, and, it seemed to him, no future. Then, as midnight rolled around on his 16th year, a stranger entered the small shack outside the orphanage and settled on the bed. He wore a dark , hooded, cloak which hid the face, and a scythe was held in a gloved hand. The hood was thrown back to show a skeletal head. The scythe was set aside and the stranger reached into his robes to draw out a carefully wrapped gift. A surprisingly deep, and unusually kind voice then spoke to him. "Happy Birthday my son, I've missed you." – Anon Guest

Once Upon A Time... A child was born like no other known. His differences didn't make themselves known until he was about four, when he started talking in ways that others could understand. Whenever he touched someone, he would say what he knew, and what he knew was a passage of time.

"Fifty years," the boy would say. Or, "Three days." It was when the child said, "One hour," and the person in question dropped dead that hysteria spread like a plague. Some blamed the boy for the deaths. Some feared his touch from that day onwards. His mother wanted to keep him away from the world, and keep him safe... but on the night of that decision, her son announced, "Two days," when she kissed her cheek.

That night, she and her husband packed him up for a distant orphanage. When she kissed him goodbye, he said, "Seventy years," and she wept. The orphanage didn't take long to discover his gift, either. For a time, they used him in the hospice, to find out which children would thrive and which would perish, but that was the year that he learned what a self-fulfilling prophecy was. There were infants they had already chosen to neglect, and he just re-enforced their bias.

Once _he_ started choosing all to live, they sequestered him away in a separate cabin. He had few who would talk to him and fewer he wanted to talk to. Nobody wanted to take him into their family and he understood why. He was fed, cleaned, and cared for, but with the cautious form of care that one might look after a deadly weapon. Care with precision, care with a watchful eye on that which may harm.

As he grew towards adulthood, he did more and more for himself. Less and less with others. He knew something was coming. He had seen it in his mirror. He had known, for the longest time, that Death would come for him on his sixteenth birthday. He had no inheritance. He had no friends. He had no family who could keep him. He was renowned, true, but the people who came to see him only wanted to know how to avoid death. The people who came for that knowledge never wanted to accept, "Be as kind to as many others as you can."

On the eve of the day itself, he took a day of rest, so he could be awake when the Reaper came. He did not wish to sleep through it.

On the stroke of midnight, there was a knock on the door. He expected an assassin. He expected another angry rich man with armed men. He did not expect an otherwise ordinary-looking fellow in a long black robe and cloak. He carried no pack. He had no pouch. There was little at all special about him.

He said, "My son..."

The boy made tea, and a meal, and welcomed Death into what had become his home. Things were explained, like the boy's origins and how all life is linked to death in one way or another. And, eventually, how the boy now had a choice. Death was always busy, of course, because life always ends. Should the boy chose to become an apprentice and leave the mortal world, he could help ease the burden of his father.

He would not likely meet another person again, would not know them longer than a handful of minutes.

The other choice was to stay, and live a mortal life. Enduring the life he was always familiar with. Alone, unloved, visited only by people who would be angry at what he had to say and refuse any advice he gave. Cared for in a specific and meticulous way so as not to attract anger...

Death came for the boy, and the boy left with him. Willingly; as an apprentice.

#  Challenge #351: Wandering Minds

_On earth in various places, there are buskers. People who will put down a hat, box, bowl, or other container and then will play music, sing, or otherwise entertain in the hope of donations. Then there are the flash mobs. Large groups of individuals who will coordinate a time where they will come together. They will mill about in a crowd and then, at a predesignated time, one individual will throw off their jacket or other covering and, in costume, begin to dance after turning on a music device with large, loud, speakers. Then others who are part of this flash mob will quickly converge and join in. The dance routine can last as long as 20 minutes or more before they will take their bow and go back to shopping or whatever they were going to do that day. And so it is that humans bring these things to space. Not only to entertain other humans, but possibly other species as well. But what of non-humans that decide to join in on the fun? –_ DaniAndShali

Some thought Humans were naturally storytellers, and to a degree, that is true. Nothing makes a Human happier than a good tale to relay. Others were convinced that Humans essentially existed to create music. They sang, they hummed, they whistled, they took up a musical instrument and made music. More others insisted that Humans were made to move. Rhythmic gyrations in time to a beat or a melody or whatever their mood happened to be at the time.

The truth was not revealed to the Alliance until a group of Humans got together for some non-damaging fun as part of an experimental socialisation program... and something _wonderful_ happened. Those that played instruments came to a consensus of rhythm and melody. Those who sang conferred with those who told stories, and came up with lyrics. And those who danced... did that.

The Alliance watchers, observing from a safe distance, stared in awe as Humans who had never met before that day collected their shared knowledge of language, music, and movement together... and made something that had never been witnessed before. That was when a different consensus came to pass. The agreement that Humans seemed determined to _entertain_.

The revelation spread from there, all over the Alliance at speeds that seemed to break the laws of physics[94]. Humans seemed to have a collective purpose... besides being potential weapons of mass destruction walking around and otherwise acting like a cogniscent being[95]. Now, as well as pack-bonding with the Ships' Human, the crews would expectantly wait with bated breath to see what kind of entertainment their Human would be creating in their otherwise idle moments.

As always, it was the otherwise quiet ones who had the most devastating impact. The ones who seemed content to curl up in a corner, gathering Skitties, working in notebooks or with software in relative silence. The occasional muttering or giggling might disturb many, but the crew waited. Whatever their Human was doing, it was going to be _interesting_.

It always was.

Art or words, there is more than one way to tell a story. Music or melody. Song or dance. And, in the case of the quiet ones, art that the observer could absorb in their own time.

[94] Gossip, of course, travels faster than anything else known to intelligent life. Physicists attempting to analyse this have gone insane in any attempt to isolate the theoretical particle responsible for such a thing, the Rumuon.

[95] Very convincingly, in many cases.

#  Challenge #352: Labels and Assumptions

Several humans were starting to get more than just a little annoyed at constantly being called insane. Even at school, when their kids would goof off during breaks or if the kids were in the park playing, others treated them as though they were mind-damaged. When they joined the Galactic Alliance, they thought they would be treated like equals, but instead, they find that they tend to be treated like savages even by other Deathworlders. Sometimes the view that, simply because they were human that they were automatically deranged and dangerous, was hindering them finding good jobs or having the lives they'd hoped for when they left the harsh, pollution-choked, worlds they'd come from. But would anyone listen to their complaints? And, more important, would anyone even try to help? Or, as one man put it as he angrily spoke with another who, like so many, told him he was nuts, "Humans are NOT insane! We're just different!" – Anon Guest

AN: Actually, there's nothing preventing Humans from finding the jobs that fit them best in my pet universe, and being a little bit off the wall isn't necessarily a bad thing. I say as much [ over here More on that philosophy here, I should think.]

There's two ways to go when the world around you keeps telling you that you're bad. You can be everything they expect you to be, playing into every trope, or you can fight your whole life against it, breaking your heart and soul in the process. Plenty of Humans had tried both. Sometimes, it's easier to surrender and agree with everything they say about you until you believe it yourself. On this day, Human Sal had just... had enough of it.

"We're not insane," he protested, apropos of nothing in the middle of the _Valiant Star_ 's mess hall. "We're different. Why does everyone think we're going to just fly off the handle and hurt everyone and everything around us?"

The rest of the crew stopped what they were doing. Some put potentially dangerous tools down or at least rendered them safe for the interim. Companion Ulla gently put hir hand on Sal's and said, "Why do you think we think that?"

He said, "You keep _saying_ it..."

Which lead to an impromptu group therapy with snacks, because it _was_ the mess hall. Sal sat with all the crew as they explained that the Human cultural association with insanity wasn't the same as the Galactic one. Humans did have their moments when they were scary, it was true. Anyone who ran afoul of the 'mama bear' archetype could testify as much.

The same with the ones who loved battle, or daredevil flying stunts. Even the moments when a Human laughed at something blowing up were frightening to some. It didn't mean that _every_ Human was going to be that frightening at every minute. They never expected that.

As Deathworlders, Humans could withstand -and deal- much more damage than the average Galactic Citizen. That did not mean that they -or anyone, in fact- expected such violence at any given second. The insanity and resilience of the Human race was renowned, but that didn't make them less. It never had. It made them _valued_.

A sane pack of Deathworlders, for instance, would naturally expect any other species to be as resilient as they were. If they were not, it made sense to treat weaker species with the same care and dumbing-down of concepts as one of their own infants. Only Humans, in their complete illogic, would take the time to learn how each species could withstand certain things and then _use that knowledge_ , even to the point of studying beforehand. Only Humans had anxieties that made them prepare to a ludicrous extent. Only Humans were ready to learn, accept, and adjust to other species' differences, because they could love literally everything that crossed their path.

Only Humans would tell the Last Lie so that others could be safe. Only Humans would sacrifice themselves for a _chance_ , not a guarantee, that their allies would escape a predicament. Only Humans would gladly march into Hell because a small fluffy creature asked nicely.

Only Humans could create the fantastic conglomeration of technology and cargo cult that was the Gravity Generator and have it _work_. Only Humans were capable of such enormous strides of illogic that they could -if temporarily- warp reality around them for better circumstances.

Only Humans could come up with the concept of bravery being as scared as hell and _doing the thing anyway_.

"Deranged is not dangerous," repeated Companion Ulla. "Dangerous is not deadly. Deadly is not always detriment. Association with Humans has progressed many Havenworlders to becoming more resilient themselves."

"Epigenetics," said Crewmember Yote. "The presence of -to use a Human oxymoron- safe danger... helps toughen up Havenworlder genes. Only Humans are the safest danger in the known Universe."

"But... you keep saying we're horrible people."

"Er," said Yote. "I think you keep _hearing_ that you're horrible. You are valued and treasured. All Humans are sought out for your valued insanity."

"Valued... But... why am I cut out of certain occupations?"

The crew looked to each other. "Which occupations were you told you were unsuited for?"

Sal took a breath and stopped. The sudden clarity was dizzying. He had not actually been rejected from those jobs. He had laboured under the assumption that he couldn't have them because he thought others thought he was untrustworthy. "Oh," he said, and, "Oh crap."

Crewmember Zhoot looked worried. "Are you planning to leave us for a... dreamier job, now?"

A week ago, he might have said 'yes'. "Naw. I'm going to stay and re-set my assumptions, at least."

Of course they were all going to help. Sal was, after all, their dangerous, insane, but not necessarily _dangerously insane_ Human. They would do anything to help him.

#  Challenge #353: A Mark in History

Let me show you "hero" the leader of the demonic army, the one you swore to kill, the demon king Drakornia Manafesto. Or you can call him by his formal title "Country of Gloria FIRST HERO" – Anon Guest

They say every hero is someone's villain. Perhaps every villain is someone's hero. It's hard to imagine some of History's villains in that light. Perhaps Vlad the Impaler was kind to children and loved playing with kittens. Perhaps Jack the Ripper doted on a daughter. Perhaps the man who threw uncounted thousands out of their homes to build an enormous park for the public also was a god-fearing gentleman who went to his place of faith every week, regular as clockwork. Those who look into History rarely find those details.

Drakornia Manafesto, Gloria's First Hero, had not thought of things that way. He had simply loved his country. He had wanted it to be great. He looked into legends and lore and the long swathes of History and found an era in which his tiny plot of land, with cities huddled together for protection, had been great. In that any Historian might call any era great because it was full of _interesting events_. Historians seem to love wars, invasions, plagues, and suchlike[96]. He could imagine that his little country of Gloria could fight back against the bigger kingdoms.

He found a way to be nastier, meaner, more violent, and more destructive than anyone else around them. He did so by allying with what could be conceived as the biggest of evils he could lay his hands on. _Some_ history books paint it as an act of desperation. Some say it was seeking the strength he needed to give his people living space. Some say he only meant to make his country great again. Either way, he became host to a strong demonic spirit, used its magic and strength for his own.

The corruption was a natural consequence, some said, a noble sacrifice he was willing to make to ensure Gloria rose to take a proper place in the world. A worthy and noble thing to do to make sure the other nations didn't bully theirs any more. Day by day, bit by bit, the demon inside of him made itself known in his flesh. His fingernails became claws, and the skin there turned blacker than the darkest night. Horns sprouted on his head, and his eyes slowly turned yellow as his pupils turned into slits. The skin that didn't blacken turned blood red, and all the hair on his body slowly exchanged themselves for sharp scales. The hair on his head became bladed quills, his teeth grew back pointed and sharp. He craved rare meat, raw meat, the blood of the living...

It all happened so slowly that the citizens of Gloria didn't notice. They told themselves that his habit of drinking the blood of Gloria's enemies was something to invoke respect in other nations. They told themselves that he _only_ drank the blood of Gloria's enemies. When he called for others to make the same sacrifice, the citizens of Gloria volunteered in droves out of a manic fervour.

There are no Humans left in Gloria any more. After the volunteers, Drakornia asked for patriots. When he ran out of patriots, he used the prisoners. Now... nobody in Gloria has a will of their own any more. Not even the children. No living soul there has come from nature. Their sacrifice was one he was willing to make.

In one way, Drakornia Manafesto has achieved his goal. He once claimed to unite all nations in peace, and help Gloria to be central to that aim. He once said that he would end war. He has done so. No nation neighbouring Gloria fights each other any more. They are united against the demon hordes of Gloria... An army like no other, pitted against odds no-one has ever seen before.

Unfortunately for Gloria, only one army has gods on their side. Unfortunately for Gloria, demonic forces are weak against anything sanctified. Unfortunately for Gloria, the gods prefer people to have free will.

Drakornia Manafesto chose his path. He chose his fate. In a way, he chose his end. He promised an unending peace for Gloria... and he got it. There _is_ unending peace in Gloria. The kind of unending peace you always find in barren, cursed land where nothing can live and nothing can grow anymore.

[96] Mostly because it helps date the strata in which other little curiosities are found. The _wrong_ kind of historian likes war because they want to pretend they could have done it _better_. True historians like discovering little details of everyday life which have been lost to time because of the wrong kinds of historian.

#  Challenge #354: Good Kitty

A nonhuman deathworlder learning about major depressive disorder and suicidal ideation from a human so used to suffering from those that they treat the loss of their medication as an inconvenience, and apologize to the poor sap they got stranded with while they ask them to keep an eye out for self destructive behaviors.

" _So, I've only got a few days worth of my meds, and it'll be at least a couple of weeks before we get rescued. Mind keeping an eye on me so I don't off myself?" – Anon Guest_

Human brains can be sensitive organs prone to disorder. Thraak knew this on an intellectual level. Humans had all sorts of things that could go wrong with their ever-profitable, yet squishy brains. Ze had not known until Human Gar told hir that he had some troubles with his own vulnerable organ.

They were in the middle of jury-rigging a life-boat to get off the planet they had accidentally become stranded on through a series of bad mishaps and accidents. They were both determined to prevent anything further, but Human Gar had re-sorted their inventory and muttered, "Aw, flakk."

There was a problem. Of course. Humans tended to downplay those things for the ease of their companions. Nevertheless, ze had to know what the problem was in order to defeat it. "If it's something I need to worry about, I need to start now. Please."

The magic word worked. "It's just I only have a few days' worth of my meds left. Without 'em the depression starts to win and I start thinking of bringing the end closer, so to speak." This news was immediately followed by a reassuring smile. "I can maybe stretch the supply out to a Standard Week, but... I'm gonna need your help after that. Maybe even during."

"Help in which form?"

"Keep me outta my head until we get back to civilisation. Give me something that needs me. Something that'd fail if I wasn't there, y'know." Gar sighed. "Any reason to keep going. Even if it's small and dumb."

Thraak raised a brow-ridge. "My own existence is not enough?"

"You're big enough and ugly enough to help yourself. Something small, helpless, and alive for preference. Cute helps. I can care for other things before I care for myself when I'm down."

Thraak knew that ze wasn't cute. Human Gar's nickname for hir was 'Fugly', which just showed how close they were as friends. Humans were strange like that. "I shall find you something small and vulnerable and preferably not very deadly."

"You are _such_ a great pal. I'll keep going with the jiggery pokery while you're doing that." That was, after all, Human Gar's job.

The rescue came in the form of a small fluffy creature that, though venomous, was not _that_ venomous for the pair of Deathworlders. It was cute enough for Gar's needs and kept Gar abreast of self-maintenance regimes that might have been difficult for him to motivate himself to do on his own. Having a dependent organism made Gar aware of his own needs when an argument from Thraak or the absence of medication would not help.

Even though it was clearly not a cat, and closer in physiognomy to one of Terra's mythical Dragons than a cat. Nevertheless, Gar named it Kitty more for its general attitude than its appearance. The creature was more a force for chaos than the Human who bonded with it. So of course they just _had_ to take it with them when it was time to leave.

After all of it, building a ship, leaving the planet, finding civilisation, and finally getting Gar back to neurochemical stability, Gar had bonded with Kitty to such an extent that it was now a lifelong companion. When in a safe area, Gar often wore the animal like a scarf. The creature apparently refused to settle down, continuing to be an agent of chaos wherever they went.

Should anyone try to stop Gar from bringing Kitty along? "This is my emotional support dragon. I need her."

#  Challenge #355: High Offensensitivity Rating

There was a cosplay event, the hotel didn't 'bother' catering for food or drink separately. Lunch Break! – Anon Guest

Among the many mistakes the organisers made was to hold a high-nerditry event in an extremely non-nerdy city. On the other hand, the place _was_ usefully central to all available modes of transport. The conservative citizens were busy holding protests near the main convention entrance and the hotel complex wished to deny to everyone else that they were holding host to _weirdos_.

There were people dressed up as animals. There were people dressed up as monsters. There were people dressed up as _demons_ , and that was way too much for the conservative general populace to face in -say- the Hotel's free buffet. The hotel really should have thought about that before indulging the staff's reluctance to bring an entire convention the fruits of a proper dining hall. Food and beverages laid out before the weirdos arrived en masse... quickly ran out as hungry hordes of cosplayers descended on the limited offerings.

Then someone said, "There's a free buffet downstairs off the lobby," and the hungry multitude charged downstairs. Vampires, robots, demons, elves, heroes, villains, and fur-suited creatures in all hues achievable by makeup and mankind. Everything strange, unfamiliar, and foreign to conservative minds came swarming down to the more public buffet zone.

The honest, church-going citizenry there to shop, gamble, or drink or all three; were automatically incensed. They didn't understand why so many people had to be _publicly weird_ where they could see them doing it. Since it _is_ easier to be angry at things they didn't understand, they quickly blamed the hotel and its staff. Those that didn't blame the hotel quickly turned against the source of their anger... the weirdos helping themselves to the free buffet.

They got righteous. They got loud. They got _destructive_. Though the weirdos weren't the cause of the mess, they were certainly blamed for it as a sparking event. It was the so-called normal people who made the devastation, but they all blamed the strange and unusual strangers who had dared to come into their midst.

In brief, the ordinary, respectable citizens began a riot.

Interestingly, it was the weirdos in full costume, just planning to enjoy themselves, who were the first responders for the wounded, for the terrified, and for those just too confused to participate in the inherent anger. They got small children out of the danger zones, they assisted the injured and comforted the forlorn.

It would be nice to say that, afterwards, the ordinary and respectable citizens were ashamed of their behaviour but... like conservatives everywhere, their first and only instinct was to blame the victims. The weirdos deserved it, they insisted, for daring to be weird.

#  Challenge #356: Up to Interpretation

" _A blade forged of the blood of my prey" does not necessarily mean humans!_

_the Chosen One runs off to a become a butcher while the apparition sputters angrily –_ Gallifreya

Prophecies are funny things. When a child is born, they are lucky to get a prophecy that _seems_ straightforward enough, until the inevitable twist at the end. A son prophesied to see the end of his father may only be there to witness those final moments, but if the father attempts to kill the son first, they set off a chain of vengeance that results in the same thing.

Therefore, when Bon was prophesied to forge a blade made of the blood of his prey, people around him naturally thought that he was going to become some conquering destroyer. So when the phantom came to tell _him_ the prophecy, Bon came to a similar conclusion for all of five seconds.

Then he remembered that wording was important with prophecies. "Can I have that again, please? The exact words?"

The phantom sighed and said, "You are destined to forge a blade from the blood of your prey."

"That's it? All of it?"

"Er," said the phantom, "yes. That is all of it." It contrived to look awkward for all that it was a vaguely humanoid shape made of smoke. "I don't know what else to tell you."

"It's okay. I've got it now. Thanks."

The vaguely humanoid shape made of smoke looked utterly perplexed before it dissolved completely, but Bron was pleased with himself. He'd figured it out.

The next day, he signed up for an apprenticeship in an abattoir, under the condition that he was allowed to save and dry the blood of every beast he killed there. Since the wording was 'blade' and not 'sword', he didn't need as much blood to create a small, yet incredibly useful pen-knife.

One that kept an amazing edge and lasted him the rest of his very long life, it might be noted.

#  Challenge #357: The Piracy Solution

The incidents of piracy were dropping dramatically since humans came on the scene. It wasn't that noticeable, at first, but it soon became ever more apparent. The fighting prowess, and sheer terrifying ferociousness, of humans in battle was considered a part of the issue, but the odd thing was, many pirates were now giving up piracy for more honest, and often more profitable, trades. And almost always it was after tangling with humans. A study now was being conducted. Were humans, with their combat skills, to blame for this? Or was it their ability to pack-bond with all other species? Or was something else at work here? – Anon Guest

_But many a king on a first-class throne, If he wants to call his crown his own, Must manage somehow to get through More dirty work than ever I do_ – Ancient Human Opera concerning piracy AN: Thanks to [ elyrics.net ]

The Galactic Alliance is not an empire. Not exactly. The problem with empires is that they have to keep expanding their borders until they become too big for one centralised organisational structure to manage, and therefore fail and fall as all empires must. It is, however, a loose conglomeration of interstellar polities who have decided to put aside the various means of combat in favour of swapping cool things with each other in a system of mutually assured assistance.

It's amazing how many Human polities have trouble with this concept. They're Deathworlders. They can't help thinking of things in terms of who has the biggest and most fearsome means of destruction ready to hand. Fortunately, there are plenty of instances of self-sacrifice being the ultimate noble act in Human lore to gently remove any fingers from any associated triggers.

Humans are, interestingly, both the most fearsome warriors and the _friendliest_ species to ever cross the path of the Alliance. They will pack-bond with literally anything. Cogniscent, non-cogniscent... _inanimate_... Anything. Don't ask, they will. Anything you can think of. Yes, even _that_. Far too many species have attempted kidnapping Humans to find out their secrets and emerged at the other end of the experience wondering what the flakk happened whilst their new Human friend shows them a shiny thing they found. It just happens that way.

The Alliance had, before it welcomed Humans into its midst, had a piracy problem. Those on the Edge favoured having a minimum of a Human on every ship as a form of protection, and the practice spread into a majority of trade shipping lanes. Interestingly, it was those who had a Human on board who never had a problem with pirates. It was almost as if some allies were sneakily attempting to get trade articles for free. Once Humans were in the mix, with their pack-bonding capabilities and interesting knowledge of ordinary household chemicals, piracy became too complicated to carry out regularly.

Incidents of space piracy didn't vanish overnight, but they did drop off sharply over a period between five and nine Standard Years. It declined sharply again when the Alliance allowed the Humans to join on an official basis.

Now that the only pirates are the ones who are truly desperate, the return greeting to an announcement of impending piracy is, "Are your people in trouble? How can we help?"

The most amazing part is... the Humans _mean_ it.

#  Challenge #358: Now There Be Dragons

_Waking up in the forest with a splitting headache, they realized something hit the car at tremendous speed. They awakened to finding in their lap a large, greenish-blue, egg. They had no idea where it came from but they carefully held it while scrambling out of the car and fleeing into the forest. They'd smashed the cell phone they'd been forced to carry, stolen the car, and fled from their very abusive foster-parents knowing that the foster-mother had probably called the cops by now. Hiding in a cave, a place that was very hard to get to so no one else knew it was here, they sat to catch their breath. Tears flowing down stained cheeks from eyes blackened from the most recent beating dripped onto the warm egg and, suddenly, there was a strange popping noise. The shell shattered and into their lap a young dragon rolled out. The pain lasted only a moment as an almost tribal pattern formed on the upper arm and the dragon looked up at their chosen friend and gently nuzzled the tear-stained cheek. In their mind they heard the dragon's soft voice whisper "It's alright, you're not alone anymore, it's been a long, long time, but we're coming back." –_ DaniAndShalli

_This is yours and it ain't got no credit. You answer in three rings no matter when I ring or I'll kill whoever you're with when I find you._ Those had been Uncle's words. Lee didn't doubt it. She kept it in a special pocket next to her skin so she could feel it even when it was too noisy to hear anything. Uncle would kill anything Lee got close to. A dog, a cat, a little bird that came for table scraps. If he caught her talking to it, it was dead.

She hadn't been allowed to speak to anyone for anything else than business or school and school was a dangerous grey area. Only Uncle was allowed to know her phone number. It was an old-model push-button thing with barely an LED screen and she caught hell from the Popular Girls for owning it. She had had plans to make Uncle actually kill Maisy Hanbury by not answering when they were hanging out together, but Uncle had only threatened them with death if he caught them trying to "lesbo her up" again.

Nothing ever worked in Lee's favour, so she had run. Not to a boy, not to any girls. She just packed what she knew wouldn't be missed and waited until Uncle got good and drunk before she stole his third-best car. The one he usually used as a marker for his games. She could drive it until the gas ran out and then just leave it wherever and run. Lee had no plan, no money, and no clue what to do next. She had the clothes on her back, the stuff she'd crammed into a garbage bag, and the phone strapped to her arm. Oh shit! The PHONE!

She stopped at the next bridge and smashed it to pieces with a rock. Scraped every last piece up and threw it into the water in the pocket of her hoodie. The one he told her he could track her by. Lee got twenty more miles before something hit the car. Lee couldn't remember what it was, but she woke up in a ditch with something heavy and warm in her lap. She thought it was Uncle and, scooping up the warm thing, ran heedless into the darkness.

The cave she found was shallow and stank, but at least it was out of the sleet. Her eyes got used to the darkness and her fingers explored the warmth. It wasn't alive, but it was warm. It wasn't a rock. It was rounded, but it wasn't smooth. Lee ran her hands over it as she huddled in the shelter, listening to the night. The soft patter of sleet on leaf litter was almost relaxing. There was no hiss of other cars. No howls in the night. No rage-filled bellows of Uncle trying to track her down. Tears she didn't know she was shedding fell from her face. Some smacked into her bare arms. Some splattered on her hands. One sweep of her hands confirmed that they had hit the egg, too.

It had to be an egg, because it was _hatching_. As the shell cracked, some motes of blue light swirled out. Around her. They lit where her tears had fallen and... it stung, but the pain was over almost before it started. The light swirled out from the stings in celtic knots and spirals, joining up to form the figure of a dragon. Just like the one that the first, watery light of dawn was showing her was in her lap.

It was long and sinuous, much like a Chinese dragon, but it was also scaly and had wings. It was wet with egg stuff and licked at her arms, then her face. She smelled... she smelled like all the best things she knew. Baking cinnamon or the bakery down the road or the quiet corner in the library. She smelled of a coming storm and purred like a cat and wriggled like an excitable little puppy in her arms.

She spoke without speaking. _It will be all right from this day on,_ said the voice in Lee's head. She knew with that voice that the dragon in her arms was indeed female, and her name was Elation. _You are not alone, any more. It has been a long time, but we are coming back._

There was a vision, too. Other kids like her who had nobody to love them. Kids who were punished just for being alive. Kids who were doomed to a sad end and a "How could this happen?" piece on the news. Kids who had been previously assigned to a lonely grave and maybe having their remains discovered by hikers at a much later date. Each and every one of them had an egg hatched by their tears. Each and every one of them got a mark when their egg hatched.

The dragons were little, like they were little, but they would grow. They would fight. They would fly. They would end tyranny in all its forms because they knew -intimately- what it looked like.

In another world, a little girl named Lee would have died of exposure in a cave that wouldn't be found for years. In _this_ world, Lee stepped out into the dawn's thin light and collected her things before setting out in a new direction. She had seen a safe place in Elation's vision. A place she and the other Chosen would build together. A place that would never allow tyranny to settle.

Her name was Lee. She knew no other name. She had all her things in a garbage bag that she carried over one shoulder. She had a place to go, she had hope, and she had a _dragon_.

#  Challenge #359: Expect Them

Disasters happen and they turn up, usually in a camper-van/workshop. Mechanics, Electricians, Plumbers, the good ones keep their rates reasonable and do the insurance stuff for bread and butter and a bit of jam. The money is good, they leave behind grateful people, and good work. Their bonus is they have contacts everywhere for the next disaster. – Anon Guest

_No good deed goes unpunished,_ – Ancient and confusing Human saying.

Disaster is inevitable. They divide a little patch of the world in which they happen into three camps. Those who suffer from it, those who attempt to profit from it, and those who come to do whatever they can to help those in the first camp. Fortunately for many, the profit instinct is the rarer of the three. Once divorced from the need for plenty, Humans are generally empathetic and compassionate beings.

When disaster strikes, the Humans swarm. They bring tools, they bring solutions, they bring themselves and whatever skills lie in their knowledge and recall. They bring all their tricks, from the seemingly daft to the ridiculous. Sometimes, they come when they sense an impending disaster, which is even more ominous than it sounds.

There are many kinds of disaster, and Humans have been through all of them. Natural disasters are the worst for their unpredictability, but the ones caused by _society_? _Those_ can be predicted, almost to the second, by the patterns in extant history.

Every single societal collapse, revolution, and rebellion in Human history has been prefaced by an enormous disparity between the obscenely rich, and the desperately poor. Too many people hoarding too much of the agreed-upon trade tokens, ignoring the problems inherent in the world, and claiming that they worked hard for their accrued wealth. Inevitably, those who are downtrodden fail to believe in the lies told to them and strike down those who were once in charge.

Oligarchies always go rotten. Monarchies have that whole 'royal inbreeding' thing to concern themselves with. Meritocracies soon devolve into oligarchies if the society doesn't stringently enforce things. Fascism is, essentially, the creeping mould of societies. Unnoticed in small patches, and hard to get rid of if allowed to grow. Some creeping ideas of fascism, like _You can force people to act the right way if given the right incentives,_ can act like spores, spreading fascism even into the forces fighting against it.

At the core of the rot in any society are niggling little seeds that never _seem_ concerning. Memes like _If people worked hard enough, they could prosper too._ Thoughts like, _Only the right kind of people deserve to make it._ Ideas like, _Maybe we can make them behave properly._ Those are the weeds in the verdant gardens of civilisation. They are not always seen in time. They are not always quelled.

Humans have seen them flourish, hundreds of times over. They know what will happen if they're allowed to grow wild. They send out warnings, they advise courses of action, they arrange for underground railroads if things get that bad. They abide by the letter of the law as given to them, at least on the face of things. No other species is a worse set of Rules Lawyers than Humans. No other species has fifteen different ways to subvert any given security system before the ink is dry on the blueprints.

There is no other species more adept at low-down, dirty cunning. No other species more practiced at deception, no other peoples more ready to deal with seemingly random bovine excrement, and no other species who has seen it all before than Humans.

So when they turn up and announce that they are ready to help, and nothing seems wrong... your world is already divided into three camps. Those who take the offer and get out in time, those who stay and weather the inevitable slow slide into collapse, and those who _engineer_ the inevitable collapse whilst trying to profit from it.

The former always survive. The middle group suffer enormous losses for the duration. The final group suffer _total_ losses during the actual collapse.

Which will you be, if the Humans come to help you?

#  Challenge #360: Misunderstanding

" _Why does everyone think I'm a Vampire whenever I tell anyone I transform into a bat?! There are over 1,200 species of bat and only 3 of them drink blood! I'd rather drink a cricket and fruit smoothie then get whatever Hematological disease you've got!" –_ AmberFox

"So... you're undead?"

"What? No! I turn into a bat at will."

"But... vampire bat, right?" said Allie. "So if vampire bat, then vampire, then undead? It's the way it goes."

"No... there's over a thousand species of bat and only three of them drink blood. It's statistically unlikely that I'd even _be_ a vampire bat." Chiro argued. "I'm more into a cricket smoothie with a side of nectar than -euw- blood..."

Allie blinked, apparently considering this. "So... you're a _vegan_ vampire?"

There's a certain feeling behind watching someone miss the point so hard that it went into orbit and almost actually hit the target all over again. Chiro fought that in an effort to not scream in frustration. "Vegans don't eat bugs, dear."

"Vegetarian vampire?"

"Pretty certain most vegetarians don't eat bugs either."

"Uuuhhh... what's the name of the kind of vampire that eats bugs and nectar?"

"There _are_ no such vampires. I'm _not_ a vampire. I just. Turn into. A bat."

Allie attempted to process this again. "Isn't a bat vampire just the same as a vampire bat?"

Chiro took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's start from the beginning."

#  Challenge #361: A Hero is You

Grandma I got the big sad, can you read me a story? – Anon Guest

Oh my child, my darling dear. Sadness must be hunted. A story can quell it, but you must trace it to be happy in the long term. It is a hunt only you can embark upon. You must armour yourself with happier times, you must strengthen your soul with the knowledge that your true family is always there to support you, and arm yourself with clever thoughts to defeat it.

Sadness can turn into a monster if you let it, my dear one. It can grow too big to deal with alone. Sometimes, it will grow too large to deal with in company. It will eat you if you're not aware. Best to hunt it down while it's still small enough to defeat.

You've done well, darling. You have recognised that you have a big sad. You've spotted the monster. You know it best, because it is yours. The stories quell it, we know. The stories make it cautious. That's because the stories tell you that all monsters have a weakness. The stories help you know that monsters can be killed. Remember them as you track your beast.

Seek it out at its den. Track it to the source. If you cannot find a solution, we will work together; you, your true family, and I. We will unravel the woe to a tiny thing that can easily be trounced. You are making your own story, of you against your monster. It may hurt you, my dear, but remember that every hero's downfall is inevitably followed by them rising again. You, my darling, are the hero. Remember. Remember above all that you are the hero in your story.

Heroes have friends. Heroes have helpers. Heroes get assistance to help them in their battles. Heroes can seek respite if the battle becomes too hard, so they can recharge, revitalise, and rejuvenate. Your allies will help you, and you can always ask for help.

The happiest ending of all, my dear one, is when you unriddle the big sad, and solve it. Alone or with friends, you have the power to do it. I believe in you.

#  Challenge #362: You Hear Me

" _Get back to work and if I see you with something in your ears again you're fired!"_

The human just stared blankly

" _Do you understand me? Is your universal translator even working?"_

It took the human a moment then wrote something down

' _My translator is with my hearing aids you took' – Anon Guest_

In all things, communication is important. This is why any given traveller will find far more accessibility options available in Galactic space than many other places. It is also why many Alliance polities despise working with, or for, any of the Greater Deregulations. Mostly because those in positions of power in any given Greater Deregulation has never been very involved in communication. They insist on yelling at people until they give up.

They also insist on applying their moral values to everything that offends them[97] and yelling about it until they get their way. Such an exchange has already happened between CEO of CEO's Hal E. Burridin and one of the Alliance's Ronin Humans named Quo. Unbeknownst to Hal, Human Quo is wearing assistive devices. One among many that help those with hearing disorders. Hal has just processed these particular devices as 'headphones'. Let's watch the chaos.

"YOU!" Hal bellowed, marching over to the offending Human. "Are you listening to music on company time?" Without any heed to Galactic laws concerning approved personal interactions, interference with physical being, assault, and removal of equipment, Hal reached up and removed what he saw as an offense. "If I see you with something in your ears again, you're _FIRED_!"

Human Quo stared at him, as if trying to piece together a puzzle just by looking at a photograph of the piled-up pieces.

"Can you understand anything I'm telling you?"

After a moment, they put down their burden and took out a notebook and pen. This, Hal _nearly_ understood. If Quo had dared use their datareader then it, too, may have been illegally confiscated. The exercise took some time, as Quo had to mentally translate between GalStand and Deregger English.

The end result was in block letters and without punctuation. It read, _I CAN NOT UNDERSTAND ANYTHING YOU HAVE TAKEN MY TRANSLATOR AND ASSISTIVE HEARING DEVICE_.

There was more paperwork, kept folded in a pouch and containing brief infobullets about Quo's aural filtering technology and how it helped improve communication by reducing the incidents of their Auditory Processing Disorder. There was also a bullet about how it was illegal to remove them from Quo without their prior consent.

Hal slammed them back into Quo's hands with, "Stupid damned Alliance snowflakes, I don't know _why_ our commander in chief decided to accept their help!"

Quo picked up their burden again, earpieces on once more, and said, "No food for starving workforce. Your peoples desperate hunger." They continued on, whistling as they went.

[97] Also known as the entirety of the Galactic Alliance, which they insist is just one good sneeze away from total collapse. This repeatedly stated in spite of the fact that it has been running for millennia and shows no actual signs of breaking apart.

#  Challenge #363: Find a Family

She was small, almost dangerously thin, but fast. Her parents, addled yet again on drink and the newest designer drugs, didn't even notice as she left their quarters in search of food. She heard, as she was contemplating swiping an unattended sandwich, that one of the big havenworlder freighters was docked and was on loading cargo for their next run. Large cargo freighters usually meant larger amounts of food. This wouldn't be the first time this young human had snuck aboard freighters, swiped food, and escaped them before they left. But this time she wasn't so lucky. She was in their kitchens gathering food when the doors locked, as they routinely did when the freighter was preparing to leave a station. She was stuck there. When the havenworlder crew member discovered the kid, she was sitting on the floor hungrily devouring another sandwich. But they were now far from the station and, really, she didn't want to go back to uncaring people who hadn't even realized she was gone. – Anon Guest

They called her Bub, when they didn't call her Move, so it seemed reasonable that Bub was her name. She had learned to be fast and had learned what foods were good and what foods were bad, and how to keep as clean as Great Korprat deemed acceptable. The big people were sleeping and all the food Bub could reach had gone bad. The big people could eat it anyway, and would, but Bub needed to find something better.

She had been out of the apartment before. The big people left magic cards lying around and Bub knew that the magic cards made doors open. She found the one with the prettiest ribbon, put on her backpack, and scuttled out into the bigger world. It was always a race in the bigger world, between feet, around movers, through doors that her magic card might not make open, but she eventually found somewhere with food to eat. There were big boxes on trolleys and Bub found a place between the boxes. She could use a screwdriver to poke holes in the cardboard until she had a hole big enough to pick the cardboard apart and extract a packet from within. Lots of times, it was good good food.

This one had a picture of a peanut on it. Peanuts were bad food and made her sick. Bub turned around and picked at another box. Cookies! Jackpot! She ate those one by one while she picked at a third box just to see what was there. Something green. The big people always said Bub needed greens, and when they got them for her, they always made sure she ate them. Well. She had greens now, so she ate them. These ones were crunchy, and salty, and smelled like fish, but they tasted okay, so Bub didn't mind. She definitely didn't notice the trolley moving until it stopped.

Bub snuck out of her hiding hole into paradise. Boxes and boxes and _boxes_! All lined up in neat rows, some packed on top of each other, all in a big space with lights and arrows and safety equipment that was almost her size, like the play tools that weren't very good at being real tools. This was a safe place to be. If there wasn't any safety equipment, then they didn't expect people to be there. Which meant, in turn, that they would have air in here all the time. Bub was lucky she was still afraid of the dark. It had saved her life more than once.

Picking and sampling found her lots of good food. Bread and other greens and things the big people had talked about with daydreaming voices. Things the rich people could afford. Bub, now in safety gear just a little too big for her, set up camp in one of the bigger spaces that had warm ovens nearby. Bub liked being warm. She made three sandwiches. One for now, one for later, and one for after her nap. She put them in her backpack and hid it in her camp behind some boxes of plates and cutlery, and went looking for a bathroom.

It was a _lot_ cleaner than the one in her apartment. She was able to relieve herself without holding her breath, and sanitise her hands without anyone yelling at her for making the knocking noise while she waited for water. In fact, there wasn't even a knocking noise. Bub could get to like this place a lot more. She didn't want to go home.

Bub went back to her camp and snuggled down in her little nest of napkins. She had her second sandwich and drank as much water as she liked before falling asleep in her little nook. Nobody yelled at her for anything she did. If she wasn't thoroughly alive, Bub might believe she had died and gone to heaven. She slept through the moment the vessel she was now on undocked and boosted away.

Bub woke, and stretched, and started on her third sandwich. Listening to the space surrounding her, she could hear people at their work. Talking in funny voices, and clattering about with whatever tools they were using. Bub was used to the noise of work in progress. It was soothing. It made her happier as she ate her food.

Someone opened a door, and moved her hiding-boxes, and stared. This someone was sort of like a dinosaur, sort of like a bird. They said something in funny words that Bub didn't understand, and then there were a _crowd_ of bird-dinosaurs all bent over and looking at her. Bub ate her sandwich just a little quicker.

They coaxed her out with more good food. Cooked meat and the nicer greens and coloured stuff that Bub had never seen before but smelled yummy and tasted yummier. When the bird-dinosaurs spoke in GalSimple, they asked questions that Bub tried her best to answer, but somehow made them sad anyway. Nobody got angry, nobody yelled. They just... got sad.

"What being name?" they asked, and Bub said, "I'm Bub."

"Where you being from?" they asked, and Bub answered, "My apartment."

"How many years being you?" and Bub answered, "Four."

"What being parental name?" and she said, "I dunno."

It was a confusing afternoon. They gave her a bath that was all warm and had bubbles and smelled pretty, and new clothes that _looked_ pretty. And _socks!_ Funny happy socks that had a bottom to them that went _'plap'_ when she walked. And they took her to a big place with lots of coloured lights and _more_ bird-dinosaurs that pointed things at her and made funny purr-trills like a Skitty and _they_ looked sad but they never said why... And then there was another big space with a big nest and a bird-dinosaur who said her name was Taa'nah, and that she would be Bub's momma until they found her real momma.

Bub said she'd never had a momma. She just had big people who fed her when they remembered and yelled at her a lot. Taa'nnah wrapped her big feathery arms around Bub and said that, if she could help it, nobody would yell at her again. Bub felt warm and safe inside those arms.

That was her first day amongst the Thropori. There would be many, many more. Taa'nah, her new momma, kept her safe and warm under her wing all night, and made sure that Bub got balanced meals and the beginnings of an education. Taa'nah fussed over making sure Bub was healthy, and fretted when Bub caught the immunoflu a little earlier than the doctors would have liked. Bub never remembered having a birthday, but she soon got a celebration of her adoption day. Her new family paid attention to the things she liked and helped her learn about anything she took interest in.

When she was older, they gently told her that nobody ever reported her missing, not even the Great Korprat that she had said ran everything on the station she might have come from. They told her that the CRC was looking into living conditions there, and that it was a dangerous thing to allow a Human corporation to run a space station. They tended to view living beings as parts they could simply replace when they were no longer useful. Bub had never been useful, according to that corporate body, so her loss was not a liability.

Their casual dismissal of a missing child was one among many reasons why that particular station was under heavy investigation and soon to be under new management, if the CRC had their way.

By the time Bub learned who her genetic family was, she didn't want to re-unite with them any more. They had relied heavily on Korprat-supplied inebriants just to survive their working and living conditions with something of their psyches intact. They were only just now receiving therapy and rehabilitation. Their surviving children - Bub's sibs and half-sibs on either side - were undergoing similar treatments.

She let them know who she was, but they were only her _genetic_ family. She had, in a round-about way, rescued them from their plight, but she had no emotional attachment to them. Her true family were the ones who cared about her, worried about her, and helped her. Her true family were the ones she cared for, worried about, and helped in turn.

It was a lesson she had learned well, and would teach at every opportunity. Family doesn't have to be the people responsible for your genetic makeup.

#  Challenge #364: Here There Be Sock Puppets

An enemy deathworlder, a xenophobe, constantly making life hell for the havenworlders around them. A general, proud, fierce, having suffered many tortures and never once broke, always escaped. But now, they were being held by humans. Pain meant nothing to them. When asked about the movements of new weaponry, the answer was always a snark and the spitting or words "Do your worst, I'll never say a word, you'll have to kill me."

The humans bring in what they call the 3rd degree. Several gasping, saying that's far too inhumane. How could they do that to any cognisant?? The humans reply they are running out of time and lives are at stake. The alien smirks, he'll never break, ever, no matter how much they strike at him, surely that simple brown box holds sharp blades and poisons, right? Then, as the box opens to reveal a simple doll, a puppet caricature of a lamb, and it's set right by the speaker leading into his prison, a song begins... "This is the song that never ends...it goes on and on my friends, some people started singing it not knowing what it was, but they will keep on singing it forever just because... this is the song that never ends... it goes on and on....." – Anon Guest

[AN: Thanks, Nonny, for the Youtube link to ten hours of that nonsense. I only watched one loop for curiosity's sake so ner]

Good news, they captured a Vorax Ur-king. Great news, they potentially knew everything about his horde's movements and plans. Bad news, the Ur-king wasn't talking. They were closed-mouthed and arrogant with it. "I'll never talk," said the Ur-king, who wouldn't even give their name. "You will not get any information about my horde or myself out of me. Waste all your resources. Try subjecting me to pain. Waste every minute of every day. Deprive me of anything you can think of. It would be faster to kill me."

The attending Humans seemed unimpressed. The Havenworlders sighed and said, "Very well. Please remember that we did give you this chance." Then they left the Ur-king alone in a room with two Humans, who started to smirk.

"Well, well, well, Mx Jones... They said they weren't going to talk. We might as well skip ahead and subject them to Lambchop."

"Lambchop's a little extreme, don't you think? The CRC have red-flagged it, Mx Smith."

The Ur-king gurgled, which was something of a Vorax chuckle. "You are trying to intimidate me," they said. "You try to make me fear the unknown. I would dive into a black hole to see what is there! You cannot make me fear."

"Seems like they want us to test them, Mx Jones," said Smith.

"They have given us their consent, Mx Smith," said Jones.

"Then we shall proceed."

They made sure the Ur-king was comfortable in the restraints, dimmed the lights, and brought in a two-dimensional viewscreen from the darkened depths.

"Out of an understanding for your rights," said Jones, "we will be stopping every two hours to see to your biological needs."

"Only you have the power to make it stop permanently," said Smith. They touched a button and the image of... a sock-puppet in the parodical image of a Terran ungulate.

"The song that doesn't end," sang the creation, "It goes on and on my friends/ Some people started singing it not knowing what it was..."

The Ur-king stared in disbelief as the Humans left the room. "This is a child's entertainment! This is ridiculous. Who could possibly be harmed by _this_?"

At the first break, the Ur-king laughed as the Humans offered snacks, a bathroom break, and water. They laughed even harder as they left the room and left the floor to the singing sock puppet. The same was true for the second and third break. At the fourth, the Ur-king took the offered bathroom break.

It was at roughly Hour Ten that the song began to cut it. It was the monotonous cheerfulness in combination with the circular lyrics and the inability to detect where it was patched into a loop. It truly did not end, it faded into obscurity at the end of two hours, and worse... the music in the bathroom was _an instrumental version of the same song_.

There was no escape. Even when the Ur-king slept, the instrumental version, syrupy in its softness, kept playing. Infinitely.

They broke in less than a Standard Day. "My name is K'Thaan and I identify as male," he said, "I am Ur-king of fifty thousand Raids, and command two hundred thousand raider vessels. Our strike zones from most productive to least productive are..."

The Humans, watching in the booth above, bumped their fists.

"Lambchop," said Smith. "Works every time."

The Havenworlder supervisor shook their head, "I do not understand. That is the most harmless thing known to Deathworlders. Sock puppets... music... children's entertainment... How can this break the toughest of the tough?"

"Just be glad that we didn't give him Small world," said Jones. "They usually end up soiling themselves with Small World."

#  Challenge #365: Learning to See

Just as there are xenophobes amongst the various races outside the Galactic Alliance, so, too, are there within. Even amongst races that are, normally, allies. They and their family, and many within their community, were such xenophobes. They chanted Earth First during the protests they ran to show their displeasure of alien races being allowed to visit their world. Some of the more radicalized ones even committed crimes to try to "prove their point". This group, however in the minority they were, were hateful, loud, obnoxious, and at times, dangerous. And no matter how people tried to explain what a boon for Earth joining the Galactic Alliance has been, there was no convincing them.

_Then several of the xenophobes were being exiled to the lunar penal colony. They expected, due to the rhetoric and spite they'd heard throughout their entire childhoods, to be brutally treated and tortured by the aliens that made up some of the security staff, and subjected to hardship. However, the therapists intended to use this as a teaching moment, and try, once more, to help these young men and women that what they'd been taught of the alliance between humans and the G.A. was not accurate at all. –_ DaniAndShali

Terra for the Terrans had finally been classified as a terrorist group. Bombing a spaceport will do that to a group. Even sending _fake_ bombs to a spaceport will do that. So will loudly announcing on social media that you plan to spread diseases to any hospital that accepts alien life into its halls. As a clear and present danger to society, these aggressively xenophobic isolationists were calmly collected and sent to a therapy centre for re-education.

Tam knew what to expect. Everything she had been taught said that these outsiders were a million times worse than anything she and her family did to defend it. Therefore she expected them to plunge her into a tank of bugs that would eat their way into her brain and then eat her brain, replacing it with something the aliens could use to turn her into a shambling shell of humanity. It would be excruciating.

They recorded her. Their mistake. She stated her name, rank, membership number and that she will never consent to any surgical procedure done by a god-damned dirty alien. Whether or not that record would ever see the light of day didn't really matter. She and the people witnessing it knew that she'd said it. There were witnesses. They couldn't kill _everyone_ who saw and heard things.

She expected grime. She expected horrible conditions in which she had to pay for the air she breathed. She expected stench. She did not expect a luxurious suite four times the dimensions of the trailer in which she and her family lived. Tastefully appointed like an interior decoration magazine spread. Everything soft. Everything non-harmful. She could even pick her preferred environmental settings. Heat, humidity, music or other entertainment. Tam knew it was a trick, and didn't touch anything. She knew they had needles in the toilet seat and the bugs were in the soft furnishings. Therefore she did all she could to avoid them.

Tam crouched on a stool rather than sitting on the provided toilet. She slept on the floor and refused to change her clothes until even she objected to the smell. She knew all the tricks. Microwave alien-made clothing with a small container of water to destroy any pathogens. They had given her a microwave, and a cook-top, _and_ an oven to cook her own food with, and Tam used that weakness to her advantage. They wouldn't be able to drug her and she was glad of that. So drinking microwaved water was nasty, but they couldn't put anything into food that wouldn't wash away or boil off with cooking.

She didn't expect them to be friendly.

The therapist arrived in what looked like a glass livesuit. It was about the size of a well-built human male, but the colourful material showed that it was piloted by a small fuzzy thing the rough mass of a scottish terrier[98]. The servos and workings of it were clearly visible, and Tam had to wonder, "Why blue?"

If the alien had said, "I like blue," then Tam would have had a reason to hate the colour for the rest of her life. The creature didn't say that. It said, "Surveys amongst inmates shows blue to be a colour associated with both cleanliness and friendliness." This told Tam exactly nothing about its personal preferences or what aliens in mass liked or disliked.

"My name is Brikiefec," said the thing. "I am here to help."

"Horseshit," was Tam's instant response.

"What proof have you that I am lying?"

Tam ranted. The thing appeared to be listening. Tam found it easier to look it in its fake head than its actual beady little eyes. Any technique to keep true to herself was a good one. She told them everything she knew about filthy alien tactics and cheating at invading the earth. They had been trying this since pre-history, and they'd failed then. They were certainly failing now! Stealing all the jobs and the women and taking over everywhere, and mooching off the government that has a hard time controlling anything...

She talked until her mouth hurt from moving, but the alien still refused to act out against her. Why would they? They already had her locked up in a secure facility on the far side of the moon. She might as well be an alien, here, since she was so far removed from the real world.

"That is an interesting point, Miss Tam," said the alien. "Since you have gone off Earth, are you now an alien?"

"What? No! Of course not! I was born on pure Terran soil outta two Terran parents. I'm dyed-in-the-blood Terran!"

"Yet you also stated that..." the blue suit dialled up a screen with words on it. Tam's words. "Ah. Yes. You have stated that reptilian aliens have been replacing humans and interbreeding with them to -ah- dilute the true blood and make Terrans weak."

"Yeah? So?"

"How can you tell that your genetic line is actually pure?"

"My parents have been tested before I was conceived," said Tam. "There's certain things Humans can do that you aliens can't even begin to understand."

"Oh. I would very much like to take this test," said the thing. "To make certain it is fair."

The test was, Tam would learn later, a test for Autism Spectrum Disorder. Some questions had been re-worded, but the results were the same. Those with social learning disabilities were apparently aliens or the descendants of aliens. Terra for Terrans only tested the parents and registered the line as pure after that. They didn't test members that were already in the system. Those like Tam who had been certified pure by the organisation.

It was a crushing blow to her identity when the test revealed that she was somehow fifteen percent alien. She spent weeks in a funk, not paying much attention to anything. How? How was it possible? Her parents had taken every precaution, including isolating themselves in a special bunker from conception to birth. They'd only ever been seen by pure members of Terra for Terrans. She was pure, she had to be pure...

She snapped out of it when she realised that they had been feeding her bland oatmeal. "What the heck is this?"

"Pure food," answered the alien. Brikiefec. "You want things to be pure. This is pure oats, cooked in pure water. Nothing else. You have been drinking pure water. We can also be sure you receive purified carrots, if that is what you desire."

"This is disgusting, haven't you heard of flavour?"

"Flavour is an impurity," said the alien. "You do not want anything to be impure."

The argument went around and around like that until Tam wanted to pull her hair out in frustration. Variety is the spice of life, but variety was impure. She wanted purity, she got purity. Only the purest of foods were allowed. Only pure clothes, too. Untouched by bleach or die.

Tam eventually threw a tantrum, screaming that purity was a bad thing. As always, Brikiefec supplied the calm counter-argument, "Even in yourself?"

It was the beginnings of a breakthrough. Through months of careful conversation, games, and simple social interactions, Tam eventually learned that everything she had been taught from birth was wrong. It was a hard lesson to learn, and only ever hurt on the inside.

[98] The estimated bottom mass limit for cogniscent life. The upper limit is guessed to be about Bear.

#  Challenge #BONUS: It's So Relaxing

Oh, I can't really handle all the excitement and action in FPS, especially the PVP ones. I much prefer simulation games, like Frost Punk! You build your little town, and manage resources, and try not to let all your people freeze to death or starve or something. Nice, relaxing fun. – Anon Guest

Humans love to play. Their play takes every form you could imagine and some that seem incredibly unlikely. Some play involves flinging themselves physically at obstacles, off obstacles, or around obstacles. Sometimes, it's all three at once. Some Humans play by gathering in one room together and arguing in between bouts of moving small objects around on a table. Our Human... the Human for the _Wandering Trader_ , Human Dai, plays by interacting with computer screens.

We have tried to understand this. We do not understand this. Human Dai appears to be having fun and relaxing, but... it looks so much like their shipboard duties that we have... concerns. It is necessary for a Human to have fun or they begin to suffer. If they suffer, we all suffer the consequences. We _must_ look after our Human.

Companion Zogh was the one who chose a day to accompany Human Dai at his play, watching and attempting to analyse him at his play. Determining whether or not it actually _was_ play. Human Dai's chosen array of playing screens was large and colourful and the contents did not appear to match the usual Human entertainments of explosions and flashing colours. This was truly perplexing. "You do not make things go boom?" they asked.

Human Dai laughed. "I could if I wanted to, but in this game, things going boom is a bad thing. This is... a simulation game. I decide what goes where, how things are done, that sort of thing."

"You find this more fun than making things go boom?"

"Eh, I'm no twitch gamer and I'm just no good at FPS... that's First-person shooter. I get sick in virtuality, so... screens." Human Dai gestured at his array. "People get nasty in PVP \- player versus player - and I'm anti-conflict, so I put all my attention into sims and builders. Sometimes the odd RTS - real time strategy... or Resource Take and Strip - but it's generally about plotting and planning and making little virtual people do everything for me."

There were, indeed, little pixel effigies doing the bidding of Human Dai's cursor commands. If he zoomed out far enough, they looked like ants. "You play these for fun, yes?"

"Oh yes. After a long, hard day, I can pop on something like FrostPunk City and try to not let everyone freeze or starve to death. It's relaxing fun."

Humans. No matter their differences, they always had their illogic in common.

#  Congratulations!

Another year of stories are complete! And _you_ made it through every last one of them! Huzzah!

I would like to thank my patrons and the people who stopped by my Ko-Fi to drop me a dollar or three. You've all helped me keep on track, and especially, I'd love to thank everyone who dropped a comment on anything I've written throughout the year. You all keep me on my toes and help me learn to be a better writer.

I would especially love to thank you, you who are reading this. You have obviously gone out of your way to own a copy of this and, having ploughed through all of these assorted tales, have come to read this postscript. You're amazing.

As always, stop by internutter.org for my daily blog, details on how to donate to my cause, and the numerous other pies I have my metaphorical fingers in at any given time.

Let's hope the next year is even better for all of us.

#  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, two cats, and a spouse who sometimes thinks they're insane.

Unfortunately, this author has managed to avoid doing all the things that make author bios interesting reading. Sorry.

This writer is allergic to almost all forms of alcohol (long story), too asthmatic to indulge in tobacco, and in possession of a body chemistry that makes the more interesting drugs problematic at best. Thusly, their chief addiction is their own imagination.

C. M. Weller has heard all about getting a life, but has been too busy to arrange one.

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