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ISBN: 9781370323272

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

All these titles available at Smashwords.

# Challenge #001: The Company Kept

http://callmegallifreya.tumblr.com/post/136636127295/mikkeneko-torn-by-dreams-thewintergrump

[AN: This story comes as a sequel to this one]

He didn't get it. And nobody could understand his side of it either. Derek was not confused or mislead. He knew what his heart wanted, more than anything else in the world. And that was Allethar.

From their increasingly brief times together, he could tell that Allethar's parents had similarly antiquated attitudes. There was talk from both the human and the dragon families about setting up a more... conventional mate.

When talk came to introductions, Derek ran away from his home. He didn't steal anything beyond that which was allegedly his. Which included a hundred head of cattle, a rather lot of gold and jewels, and his clothing and armour.

Not that he planned to be in clothing or armour for very long around Allethar.

It made quite the train and it was a miracle that he got it all out of the keep without alerting his father. Certainly, it paid to know where the sympathetic guards had their duties. It also helped that he was well away from anywhere he was known on sight. By the time dawn rolled around, he could simply say 'yes' to any assumption anyone made of him.

And in a few days, after that, he was at Allethar's mountain, with his beloved Dragon descending to meet him. "Derek, what the hell?" said Allethar in a desperate whisper. "You weren't at our regular abduction place. I was worried sick."

"Sorry, but I had to run away. My parents set up an arranged marriage to straighten me out." Derek nodded to the herd strung out behind him. "So I packed all my stuff and left."

"That," admitted Allethar, "sounds like a fantastic idea."

Derek paid for a boat to hold the cattle, and for Allethar to carry far, far away from their mutual homes. To an island that nobody was using. It had a volcano for Allethar, and grass enough for Derek's herds and future fields. They could build a lair together. And be happy.

It took ten years for their families to find them. By that time there were baby weredragons in the mix[1]. Which stunned both dragons and humans into coming up with a kind of truce.

Derek didn't mind, since it boiled down to 'everyone leaves everyone alone to do what they want as long as nobody gets hurt'. The dragons had to pay for cattle they wanted to eat. The humans had to stop hunting dragons and trade for any hoard they wanted. Royal company by prior arrangement.

It wasn't ideal, but it was a start.

[1] Love and magic together can do some amazing things

# Challenge #002: Sample Curse

" _Oh! It's easy to get Feegles out of a pub. You just have to know how."_

"And how, pray tell," said the beleaguered barman, "does one get Feegles out of a pub?"

Tiffany Aching cleared her throat and climbed up to stand on the bar. "Some schemie at the standin' stones is lookin' fer a tussle!"

The barman joined her on her perch as the Feegles stampeded out of the bar and towards the standing stones. The very distant standing stones.

Tiffany climbed back down. "They'll have a fight, all right. Mostly with each other. And by then you'll have closed up while you have the chance."

"All right," said the barman, currently glad just to have them gone. "How do I keep them out?"

Tiffany handed over a small card with a sigil on it. "They're not great at reading, but if they see this mark, they know I'll be angry if your property goes missing."

"I'll make sure to put it near floor height, mistress."

"Good." Tiffany nodded. "And in return, I expect you to keep away from gambling and strong drink in combination, Habeus Carter. If I have to see to your wife's bruises or your kiddies' broken arms again, there _will_ be a reckoning."

The barman went white. "Yes'm."

And he knew something of what a reckoning would look like. Those little blue men were just a glimpse of the terrible curses a witch could visit on a man.

#  Challenge #003: One Almost Humorous Afternoon in a Discworld Pub

Scumble. from the Wonderful World of Sir Terry Prachett.

AN: I suspect this is you, [Knitnan]

"It's made from apples," said the grinning local.

"Mostly apples," amended the barman.

The visitor from another dimension picked it up. "I like apple juice," said the brass machine, and downed the thimble-full[1] in a trice. The steam-powered machine smacked its lips for a few seconds. "Kinda fizzy," he said. "Is it supposed to taste rotten?"

"Er," said one of the formerly-guffawing locals. "We don't drink it for the taste..."

Some of the people in the bar began to creep under their tables. They knew how this went and any minute now...

The machine made to look like a man belched a great gout of fire.

"Oh cool, I have a flamethrower now! Wait 'till Rabbit sees this!" It did not help that his every word was punctuated with flames.

It really didn't help that the fancy, colourful liquors behind the bar spontaneously ignited.

In a way, some visitors to Kazooland had been right. The Jon _did_ get along with the Discworld like a house on fire. Flames, screaming, and people running for safety included.

[1] A wooden thimble. On account of what it does to metal.

# Challenge #004: Simon Says...

Getting involved romantically with someone who has psychic powers can be... tricky.

You never know when her saying "I love you" just might become "You love me". – Anon Guest

[AN: Why is it always a 'her' in these scenarios? You should watch _Jessica Jones_ , Anon.]

"Come on," he said. "You know you love me." And just like that, all the rising bile at the situation... vanished. It evaporated like smoke. And in its place was nothing but love.

"Of course I love you," she said. The 'but' that would have next risen from her lips stopped on her tongue and choked off access for all further words.

"Good," he smiled. "Now let's forget about that silly argument and do something fun."

What argument? Had she been mad about something? It was so hard to remember anything but loving him. "What kind of fun?" she said.

He smiled like a shark. "The best kind," he said. "The expensive kind."

He would get everything he wanted, of course, and he would have fun. He would have fun despite the little voice inside her that was screaming about everything being wrong. He would even have fun with the part of her that tried and failed to resist him.

It was the very life that Killgrave had become used to.

Jessica followed in his wake. Obedient, but struggling not to be. She loved him. But it was nothing like a real love. And the part of her that was struggling was getting stronger.

One day, maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow... but one day... he would regret picking her as a victim.

# Challenge #005: Curse? What Curse?

http://bonehandledknife.tumblr.com/post/133846067890/wewerenotthefirst-dude-what-if-a-prince-is

Have fun!

[AN: Adult content warning: the link inside that post leads you to an article about some very interesting toys]

Camilla had wanted to undo the curse straight away, of course. She had never meant to turn her fiancée into a dragon in the first place. She should have known something was dodgy about that newt's eye extract.

And yet... Frederik was taking his transformation so _well_. He loved to fly, and Camilla had to admit that the journey to retrieve ingredients for a cure _and_ the bargaining when she got there was a great deal easier with a Dragon in her company.

He was so happy with his new form.

It was when he found the castle that things... escalated.

"It's perfect. Look at it. Craggy crenulations, A really tall tower... and lots of land around for cattle and farms and stuff. It's a perfect lair!" Frederik landed in the courtyard and let her off. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Darling," soothed Camilla, "I'm certain you love it, but... I should be working on curing the curse before the turn of the moon."

"But I'm a _dragon_ , beloved. I love being a dragon. We have most of the ingredients, anyway. Tell you what. We finish your shopping, and we can spend a week up here, playing _Damsel in Distress_ and then... well... if you're not into it, I'll go back to being a human for you."

Camilla sighed. "Fine. But I insist on brewing the potion during the week's... holiday."

The bargain was struck. And the last ingredients were almost stupidly easy to get with a Dragon to help fetch them.

And, as it turned out, Frederik had been arranging some other things as well. While she slept, he crept off and arranged for craftsmen to fix up the ruined castle so that, while it looked ruined, it was a great deal sounder and safer than it had been originally. He hired farmers and cooks and all kinds of staff to make certain the stay there would be comfortable for them both.

Including a love nook in the stables. Made for a dragon and his princess.

The week away turned into a pre-nuptual holiday, with plenty of pleasurable cavorting in the stables. And then their holiday home became their real one, with a wedding to cement the deal.

She and Frederik had no need of the cure. And no want of it, either.

# Challenge #006: That Which is Lost

They were at least the person's equal now, and with a three-nil record in killing them. If only they'd stop coming back, more insane each time, so they wouldn't have to do it again. They had admired them, once.

[AN: Oooooh, nice. First totally gender-neutral prompt EVER. Well done]

Before the fall...

Chara was the friend only Frisk could see. The year that Frisk stopped talking, Chara could hear their thoughts. Chara couldn't eat or drink, or make messes. They said that was because they were dead.

Chara was the only other 'they' that Frisk had met. Everyone wanted Frisk to be a 'he' or a 'she', but they felt that was wrong. Picking one or the other meant that they had to do certain things. Being a 'he' meant getting beaten up for making daisy chains or playing with the dandelions. Being a 'she' meant getting into trouble for climbing trees or splashing in puddles.

And being a 'they'... meant time alone from all the others because they didn't understand. It meant being in the meadow of golden flowers, all alone, and watching the clouds go by. It meant hearing a voice when Frisk plucked a flower.

_My oldest friend is a flower like that,_ it said. It said it without sound, but Frisk heard it anyway.

Someone had stolen Frisk's communication cards, so they had to use signs. Frisk went slowly. _You... friend?_

There was something wrong with their smile. Frisk remembered that. But, not having seen very many smiles in their life, Frisk couldn't pin down exactly what was wrong.

_I'll be your friend,_ said the phantom. A child who looked almost exactly like Frisk. With rosy cheeks and a pale complexion. _My name's Chara._

And friendless Frisk found someone who would not leave them. Who could not hurt them. Who encouraged Frisk to remain determined.

Underground...

Frisk stared at the eyeball. The eyeball stared back.

That's just a Loox. Don't pick on them and you're fine. Did you know they're all from the same family? Guess what? It's Eyewalker. Like in that movie with the space men.

Chara loved that movie for the explosions. Chara loved encouraging Frisk to fight, always the first thing they did.

Frisk didn't want to kill anyone. So they opened their arms and lowered the stick.

No! Make a mess! Kill it! It's kill or be killed, remember?

But it worked, and Loox didn't want to fight.

Frisk was starting to like the underground. Chara was hating it. Hating it to the point of wanting to make it an empty hell of broken wishes. But Chara was wrong. The underground was full of the love and kindness that Frisk had craved all their life.

After the Barrier is Broken...

It had taken Frisk a week to notice that Chara was gone. They knew better than to mention it to their new mother, Toriel. After Frisk had found out about Chara and Asriel... mentioning anything like that would break her heart.

So Frisk told everyone they were going for a walk. Crept through the eerily silent and empty Underground until they heard voices. Two voices. Flowey and Chara.

Of course it's not fair. They left you. They hurt you. They forced you to stay like this when you could have died...

"I want to kill the next human who falls down here," growled flowey. "Their soul will be delicious."

_We used to be friends,_ thought Frisk. _I used to love you._

And Chara could always hear what Frisk was thinking.

Both spirit and flower turned. "Well, well," they said in unison. "Look who came back."

Frisk signed, _I came looking for Chara. I want to make sure they're all right._

All right? I'll be all right when the world is dead! DEAD! DEAD! DEAD!

Frisk signed, _You both know that you can't kill me,_ they opened their arms, showing that they carried no weapon. _You are meant to move along._

And where would I go? What would I do? It's no fun in the void, with the shadow man. There's no death, there.

Frisk sighed. This time, one among many, they would choose the right words. They had had to kill Chara over and over and over again. Somewhere, there had to be the right thing to say. Frisk could not allow them to merge with Flowey, ever again. That one piece of fractured time had been the worst. Two monsters did not make an angel.

_Go beyond the void,_ Frisk signed. _Take Flowey with you. You have the power._

_Is there death there?_ said Chara. _Is there suffering?_

The truth, but a hurtful one. _Yes. Lots of it._

For a moment, the hateful flower was just a flower, but its eyes blinked back in and the mouth formed anew.

"Thanks a bunch," snarled Flowey. "You just convinced my only friend to go to Hell."

_I'll visit,_ signed Frisk. _I'll be your friend._

"You know I'm a monster..."

Frisk nodded. They had befriended many other monsters before. This one would just take longer.

# Challenge #007: Special Education

Person #1: Why don't I ever see you stopping by to talk to your niece?

Person #2: Her parent says I'm a bad influence. I still say C4 is an acceptable substitute for playdoh - the store was out! It's not like I gave her any detonators - it was perfectly safe!

Lots of kids had Best Relatives. And for Mary, her best relative was Aunty Phyllis. Aunty Phyllis had the catchphrase, "Some people just overreact about things." Usually in relation to Mary's Mom preventing Mary from talking to Aunty Phyllis.

Aunty Phyllis used to be a demo expert in the army. She blew up buildings for a living. She had a shed with all kinds of cool electronic stuff and a locked refrigerator with the explosives in it.

And on very special weekends, when Mom couldn't find anyone else willing to mind Mary, Aunty Phyllis would take Mary to the bomb range and make things vanish. With a loud boom and a lot of smoke. And sometimes, with the whistles and pops of fireworks. Aunty Phyllis let her practice making bombs with actual play-dough instead of the explosive. Taught Mary all about circuits and fuses and all the things that Mom thought were unladylike.

Which was why, when kidnappers took Mary, a twelve-year-old girl was able to make life exceedingly difficult for them. First, by escaping into the greater part of the building, and then by rigging all kinds of booby traps that involved ordinary household chemicals. And pieces of random technology left lying around. And, she had to admit, some of the copper wiring inside the walls.

Mary was able to walk free of the hideout and stroll to the nearest bodega, where the friendly lady behind the counter helped Mary call the police to tell them where the dead and the wounded were. When the police came, Mary was able to tell them about her adventure, care of Aunty Phyllis' extraordinary educational standards.

Her other catchphrase was, "Any girl who doesn't know how to escape handcuffs or zip ties isn't paying attention."

Mom was a lot warmer about Aunty Phyllis after that.

# Challenge #008: Smart Way to Die

" _Never teleport your brain out of your own skull without a backup plan. No good will ever come of it." – Anon Guest_

The last thing he smelled was ozone. Then there was an alarming darkness. There was no pain, any more. The eyes came online, first, showing him a fine view of his own dead body. Right now, the skull cavity would be filling up with blood as his heart went through its last, spasmodic beats. And as his blood pressure evened out within the sealed vessel of his vacated skull.

Next, sound. The buzzing of his new, artificial body as servos warmed up. It was annoying, but his brain would learn to discount it. Right now, a multiplex of artificial means was kicking in to keep his brain alive. Chemically-made blood swooshed around an artificial heart, through a system that mimicked lungs, and added nutrients to keep his brain satisfied with the state of things.

He rolled forwards on all-terrain, full-motion wheels. Carefully disconnected his new body from its place in the array of machinery. Picked up the phone from where he'd left it on the desk and carefully dialled up his assistant.

"Monty," he said with his new voice. "The experiment was successful. I am free of my flesh prison. You may announce that mankind has begun its ascension towards technological immortality. I am become the first Transhuman being."

Monty... did not react well.

Instead of arriving to congratulate him, Monty called the police, who treated the body death as a murder. Then as a suicide.

And when he tried, so patiently, to tell them that he had transported his own brain into the machinery before them... they wanted to treat it as a murder again. They thought that the machine had killed him. Impossible. It wouldn't work without a human brain.

He tried to tell them as much. Tried to show them the things that would make it clear. But they did not understand. They thought he was a malfunctioning machine. He argued his case. Passed the Turing test again and again. Warred verbally with anyone who crossed his path.

Right up until they disarmed him like a bomb.

The machine that kept his brain alive shut down. And then he did, too.

#  Challenge #009: Once More, Into the Brig...

" _It's a thrilling tale of a dried apricot, four bags of flour, and a torch."_

Ax'and'l blinked very slowly. It was telling that he was getting used to these levels of crap. And if he let on, he knew that Hwell would only invent new and more interesting levels of crap.

"Save it for getting free drinks at the bars, and even then, I'm letting it known about your capacity limit." He sighed and turned to the Security Guard. "What's the cost-benefit analysis of _this_ encounter?"

The Security staff seemed mildly alarmed. "This sort of thing is a regular occurrence?"

"I've tried to reduce his imbibings, but the man has ways of finding the local still and obtaining his excess, regardless." Ax'and'l glared at his human companion and vented his lingering irritation in a high-pitched whistle that he knew made Hwell's hangovers worse.

"Have you tried–"

"Everything. He has a knack for escaping it all."

"I just want to have a little fun, is all," complained Hwell. "What's the matter with a little fun?"

"The trail of wreckage by which I and others can track you," complained Ax'and'l.

#  Challenge #010: Strange Things are Happening (1)

1. The mysterious case of the sock in the night-time

2. "And that's why I'm not allowed in the garage unsupervised anymore" – Anon Guest

Papyrus was happy. He was now part of the royal guard. Even though his duties consisted mostly of watching over New New Home (King Asgore was still terrible with names) and preventing humans from causing trouble, he took his duties seriously.

"HALT! WHO GOES THERE?"

The tiny figure in the darkness wriggled like a worm and said, "...'alt! 'Oo gosdere?"

Papyrus shone his light on the movement, and found a sort of... greenish sock with a face. "Are you lost?" he asked.

"...yoolost?" said the sock.

"Never fear, little monster... for I, the Great Papyrus, will see you to a safe haven in next to no time at all!" He bent to offer his hand as a ride. "Come! I can carry you there."

This seemed to excite the sock monster. It jumped around in a great frenzy, shouting, "Ne feer! Li'l! Great Pap'rus! Seesafe! Nexno! Comcar! Yoothere!" But it eventually landed on his hand and finished with a socky grin.

It was a short, and evidently funny trip to the home he shared with his brother, Sans. Every time Papyrus uttered his trademark, "NYEH HEH HEH," the sock monster would join in.

Sans was up. For limited definitions of up. His sockets were still half-closed and he hadn't bothered to put his slippers on over his socks. "Why'd you make so much noise for?" he asked. "You know I'm... _bone_ tired."

Papyrus rolled his eye sockets. "Ah, brother! You're the best person I know for the job! This little sock monster is lost and needs a place to stay for the night. And since _you_ have a sock collection, you should know the most about socks out of anyone I know."

The monster in his hand said, "...make noise? Best p'rsun asok! Lost asok! Hav asok! No most any'wun..."

Sans stared at the sock. The sock stared back. "This has to be the third-weirdest thing I've been through," he mumbled.

#  Challenge #011: Strange Things are Happening(2)

1. The mysterious case of the sock in the night-time

2. "And that's why I'm not allowed in the garage unsupervised anymore" – Anon Guest

Sans was three. His father, the royal scientist, had been trying very hard to contain his powers. Without much in the way of success. He giggled as he lifted himself out of the playpen again.

Gaster, now wise to what the giggling meant, turned and caught his son out of mid-air. Hugged Sans close. "Now, now, baby bones," he cooed. "Don't go waking up your mama. She needs her rest." He sighed. "We all need some rest. And you're not meant to have your powers until your teens..."

Sans, not understanding much at all, muttered, "Dada..."

The pan-dimensional siphon stood waiting in a corner. According to all his calculations, it should safely bleed off Sans' abilities until he was old enough to handle them responsibly.

What he was about to do was for the greater good. Nobody knew about his secret lab in the garage. Nobody knew about this machine, for certain. And with the best of luck, nobody would.

Only a scientist would think of placing their firstborn in an untested machine. It was one of the arguments that sundered Gaster's family. This was, much to his regret, the edge of the wedge that began his personal ruin.

The sight of his wife's face when she saw Sans, still crying, in the middle of the complicated machinery... it almost broke him. Almost. It certainly turned his marriage very cold. She demanded that the garage be shut and locked and the key surrendered to her custody. She took Sans to doctor after doctor to be certain that Sans was not harmed.

And despite the repeated diagnosis of a perfectly normal baby skeleton... Gaster had to sleep in his lab, thereafter.

#  Challenge #012: One Fine Afternoon in the Vicinity of a Library

Pooka or Pookas, turn it or them loose. Have fun!

The man was having a pleasant conversation with what looked to be a chair of thin air. Which immediately caught Shayde's interest.

"You stay away from that man, demon," warned Riflgast. "He has an affliction of the humours and is seeing things."

"Nope," said Shayde. As if she could see what the fellow was talking to. "He's got a case of th' Pookas, ye ken."

Riflgast almost fell off his horse. He managed to turn it into a slightly graceful dismount. "What?"

"The man's fine. It's just he's got himself a Pooka."

Riflgast grumbled and warded the demon against causing harm whilst he was in the library. While he was in there, he looked up the Enlarged Bestiary and found what he was looking for under P.

Púca (pooka) - from Celtic mythology. A fairy spirit in animal form, always very large. The pooka appears here and there, now and then, to this one and that one. A benign but mischievous creature. Very fond of rumpots, crackpots, and how are you, Riflgast the Sable?

He left his research and stormed out of the library to confront the demon. "How the hell did you break my wards and pull that stunt?"

"I've done no such thing, excuse you. Check 'em yerself."

He did. They were pristine. "Then how did my name appear in a hundred-year-old bestiary?"

Shayde giggled. "Ah, they love pullin' that one. Ye look again, and it'll be gone."

He did. It was. In its place was, _You know she's right._

#  Challenge #013: Fear of the Gifted Child

http://thefingerfuckingfemalefury.tumblr.com/post/129483030883/ayellowbirds-sorceringing-the-vegan-muser

There were skeleton spiders in the lab. No, not the exoskeletons, which novices animated for practice, but actual spiders made of bones.

That one had a rib cage for an abdomen.

"Clerita... what the flying hell?"

Clerita, the problem child, the one who was always so far ahead of everyone that she seemed like she was behind, looked up from her current project. A bird with bony pinions. "Uhm," she said.

" _Why_?" demanded Pendrigast.

"Uh. I was bored? I had a lot of necrowire[1]? Um. And there were all these spare parts."

"How did you get that much necrowire?"

"I was sort of fooling around? Andum... you know how you always have me making necrowire?" A thankless and boring task that took up a lot of time. "Well... I kind of improved on the process. I only started using it after I filled the reels."

Pendrigast looked. Reels that were usually half-full at best were straining to contain spool after spool of necrowire. An absolute fortune, according to the recently-outmoded standards. Spools that had not been full since the Old Times now creaked softly under their burden.

Clerita's latest creation cawed and took wing. Of course she'd make it so that it flew. "Am I in trouble?"

Pendrigast sighed. "Only in regards to your anatomy finals..."

[1] You always see these animated skeletons but nobody asks how they don't fall apart.

# Challenge #014: To be Good Parents

Speaking of created peoples - whether biology or technology-based - and whether they can be trusted/will rebel/will have morals/all the standard concerns:

" _If we do our jobs right, our children are better people than we are."_

The station officials had cleared out a medbay for the anxious parents. A standard Medik and a Wave of the Future Medtech stood by. Patient and implacable.

It was one thing to be first-time parents. It was an entirely different level of anxiety to be the first parents of your _entire species_. Rael found himself shivering as he approached the otherwise innocuous stasis box with the Wave of the Future logo prominently on it.

That box contained an unaltered, un-accelerated, untrained, infant Faiize. The first one released from the vast bank of Wave of the Future's economic hostages. Kept apart from real time by technology. Essentially frozen and waiting for its new keepers.

Shayde - currently adhered to the observation window in a mixture of excitement and anxiety - had suggested that Rael and his unexpected partially upset co-parent, Kint, name the child _Mull_. And subsequently dropped what she thought was a pun[1].

There were names coming from all angles. Including the one that the production computer had slammed into the paperwork. _Gyurh_. As if any sensible parent would agree to such a horrendous collection of letters as a name.

Rael watched in mute horror as Kint, the assigned primary parental, revised the name on the paperwork to read _Mul_. It was only afterwards that he could pull Kint aside to murmur, "Are you sure about that? It's a human joke..."

"It's still a good name," whispered Kint. "It means, 'careful consideration of all variables'. I looked it up."

Rael wasn't sure of anything. Kint had been made to withstand even more than Ayg, the first and perfect test specimen. Proof of concept and metaphorical poster child for the species. Rael was a proof of tolerances. Not the best his makers could do, and deliberately so.

And this thing held significant portions of both his and Kint's DNA. Essentially, and for all intents and purposes, their child.

Shayde, of course, opined that it wasn't fair. She thought getting a baby should involve some pleasingly organic way of making it. But Wave of the Future had yet to release those details. At least she was wholly willing to be a co-nurturer.

Rael put one hand on a release latch. Kint had his hand on the other.

Their free hands met.

"It's going to be all right," Kint soothed. "We can't do much worse than our makers."

"A very low bar to pass," Rael muttered. "Let's get this over with."

There should have been tears. Screaming. Some Herculean effort. Some... striving... but the locks were easy to un-latch and the infant within merely shuddered as a sign of life.

_I don't even know how to hold hir..._ All the interface designs that meant an ease of all physical interaction had not been taught to this infant. Ze could not even comprehend the most basic of commands.

Kint let his hand liquefy and brushed his substance against Mul's surface. They did not join, but Mul rippled and cooed. And emerged from the box in a cup of Kint's own flesh.

Rael had to use a soft warming pouch, handed over by a medic. "You will not know our pain," he promised. "We will raise you in love. Gently. And let you learn and grow at your own speed."

If the baby showed any sign of understanding, it was too subtle to see. Besides, his eyes were misting up.

There were tears, after all. Happy tears.

[1] Because nobody had heard of _Mull of Kint's Ire_.

# Challenge #015: Performance Piece

A scrap of data is recovered. Death's Belief Speech, from Hogfather. Doesn't matter if it's the book or the movie.

_For those who haven't read it, a clip from the movie is_ here _._

Not as anything unique to humanity, but rather as a comment on Sophonts as a whole, from a human who would have very much liked to meet the rest of the universe.

[AN: I would also love to meet the rest of the universe, but I have terribly slim chances. Hell, it took a minor miracle for me to be able to see SPG]

Thanks to the Vault, the Galactic Alliance had rediscovered Terry Pratchett. It was one of the things Shayde had missed out on because the covers in the book stores were a little weird. She should have embraced the weirdness, it seemed. The man had some very interesting things to say.

"So we can believe the big ones?" said the actress playing Susan StoHelit.

"YES," said the hologram of Death. "JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING."

"They're not the same at all!"

"YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET—" Death waved a hand. "AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME...SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED."

"Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what's the point—"

"MY POINT EXACTLY." The giant skeleton nodded.

And in a way, those things were lies. Lies people told themselves to get through the day. But they were lies made truth through superior effort of will. Cogniscent life made them real. Established systems by which justice, mercy, and duty were manufactured.

_We might not have control over all things,_ thought Shayde, _but we make things that should not exist._ That had to be a power. Some kind of magic inherent in all thinking beings.

#  Challenge #016: One Victorious Afternoon in a Battlefield

One of these days I wanna see a stereotypical-female-armor-design boobplate-clad character remove their helmet, and reveal they're a man.

" _Uh... well, Mom was a soldier, and since Sis was too young to fight, I got her hand-me-downs." – Anon Guest_

The battle raged on, but it was clear that it was almost coming to a close. So far, one warrior left a swathe of ruined bodies behind her. People knew her by her armour. Delenna the Double Dangerous. Famous in story and song for her mighty -ah- mammaries. Certainly, she was a warrior of note, but the chest plating had to be taken out to accommodate her... chest... and still allow her room to breathe.

The enemy orcs turned and fled, leaving the standing army to lower their swords and take a breath.

Delenna staggered towards the tents, handing off her sword to an anxious page... and then her helmet to reveal that she was not, in fact, Delenna.

He was her son.

One of the healer mages happened to have the distinct lack of tact to say, "Man, you wear the armour of a woman..."

"Aye..." he panted. "Plate armour costs more than a pretty penny. Mama... you knew her as Delenna the Double Dangerous... She let me have hers. I was of a size in all places but one." He gestured at the ample chestplate.

"Can not thy sister fight in that suit?"

"Nay, she can not." He quaffed a cooling beverage, and did so badly, since most of it went down his throat. "My sister is but ten, for all that she shows promise. I must first pay for mine own armour ere I pass this mighty suit on to her." At last, he sagged into a waiting bench. "And Mama would not let me go out into battle unprotected."

"Have ye not thy father's armour?"

The young night laughed. "Father is a bard. He brings in the gold, aye, but he is also loose with his purse. Mama will not let him hear the end of it. I could sing for my supper but... my talent is better with a blade."

Pages unbuckled him, revealing a trim and able frame. Most of his bulk was due to the armour and padding.

"Aye? So let us hear thee sing, then. A merry song to celebrate today's victory."

He had been right. His talent was _much_ better with a blade.

#  Challenge #017: Monologue of a Vampire

"... _In truth, I'm no more a little girl than you are. I was once, of course. Three hundred years ago. Vampirism tends to keep one remarkably... fresh. It's been quite a boon looking like a child. No one ever suspects a thing." – Anon Guest_

Half a world away, before it turned, there had been a girl who called herself Daphne. She realised that it was easy to be invisible. You had to wear ribbons in your hair and skip everywhere. It fooled everyone.

It certainly fooled lots of people when she was Princess Ermintrude.

Those days are long gone, now. Long in the past. So long, in fact, that it might as well be another world. The past is, after all, another country. They speak a different language, the food is weird, and you can't always trust the water.

But that's several hundred years' experience talking. Looking back on it, it's always strange. Living through it \- it was all perfectly normal.

I suppose you're wondering how I survived as an eternal child. Caregivers come and go. Sad, mortal things. I tried having a vampiric 'child' of sorts to play the part for a century or so. Power went to her head, so I had to kill her.

Of course, the foster system whisked me away for a while. Bouncing from home to home with nobody who really looks at the paperwork was something of a boon to me. I found all the ones who were in it for what they could use the children _for_ , if you know what I mean.

Power, in their case, went straight to their groins.

I was never dumb enough to leave them in my room, or the rooms I shared with other girls. Mortal girls who were terrified of the rattling of the doorknob. I always made certain to have 'nightmares' about monsters in the bedroom. It was never long before they turned to their animal instincts... and I turned to mine.

Everyone looks for puncture marks in the neck. Hardly anyone looks for them near the groin.

And in between times, when I had a thrall for a 'parent', I could walk the dark streets without fear. Well. Skip the dark streets. I always had somewhere I was going. Some mission my 'mother' or 'father' had sent me on. And crime had a remarkable drop around me.

Now that smaller adults are in more public view, I can give that up, if I so choose. I can, with effort, pass for older than I look. I'm rather proud of the artificial crows' feet. They can pass very close inspection. I still hunt predators, of course. They are plentiful and eager to volunteer themselves.

Sooner or later, I guess, humanity will learn the lesson I've been trying to teach them for hundreds of years. But not yet. They haven't... yet.

#  Challenge #018: On the Road Between Nowt and Nowhere

" _Is your brain EVER attached to your mouth?"_

Of all the demons in all the multiverse that Raflgast the Sable could have snagged, _he_ had to ensnare one who was lacking a brain-to-mouth bypass. And not much going on in their brain, by the sound of things.

"...Na if yer goin' wi' a cosine limit between plus an' minus Plank's by Pi by th' factor o' current gravity in inches per second per second..."

"Demon," Raflgast growled.

"...the relative brane strength o' this reality aught tae–" she finally interrupted her own prattling. "Yeah?"

"Is it possible for you to close that mouth and not make a sound for five consecutive miles?"

"Which ones? Ye got Kleesto miles, Fallarin miles, Geddari miles, an' Torbun miles tae say the least. And then ye got whatever local flavour of miles those wee markers plot out, ye ken. Ye got yerself a very confusin' measurin' system is all I'm sayin'."

"Just don't say anything! I am trying to concentrate."

"On...?"

"A spell to properly control you. I don't need a half-wild demon on my hands if I'm to journey into a heavily populated area..."

Shayde joined in, "Because me insatiable bloodlust will cause havok among the people, too many deaths tae bear, alarm an' despondency, dogs an' cats livin' tae'gether, blah blah blah blah blah... Hae ye never thought that I'm no' a demon? I'm just some luckless schlub as landed in t' wrong time an' place?"

"I'm certain you'd love me to believe that of you, demon. Now silence your ever-flapping maw until I give you leave to speak!"

"If ye let me write it down, I would'nae have tae think out loud," argued Shayde for what felt like the millionth time.

"Ha! As if I would surrender my magical ink and paper to the likes of _you_."

"Ugh. So gimmie a stick o' charcoal an' a piece o' bark, I don't _care_. Jus' le'me think about where I am and what sort'a fix I'm in... And if there's anythin' tae be done..."

"The sooner you submit to my will, the sooner you will earn you leave to return to the bowels of the pit from whence you came, foul shade."

She blew a raspberry. At least she was silent thereafter. For the passage of six mile markers, when she said, "Are we there yet?"

#  Challenge #019: One Relatively Quiet Evening by the Lake of Fire

_So... how does Satan feel about this?_  http://radberto.tumblr.com/post/93236132738/sadyayo-i-always-thought-it-was-funny-as-shit _(Couldn't find which of the people I'm subscribed to posted this, so I Googled it - have a random blog!)_

[AN: Take a look at these rules. They're generally along the lines of "respect other people" for the most part. Also, if you actually look at biblical Lucifer in the Old Testament, he's not actually all that evil. Heck I don't think he even did that much in the New Testament, either...]

"Of course I had to go to eleven," argued Lucifer. His head was cradled in Lilith's lap. "That all mighty I-am, upstairs, had to do ten. And even _he's_ lucky if his followers obey two or three."

"And yours don't follow yours at all, do they?"

"They're brainwashed. Brainwashed by Himself and His followers. I know it. People turn to me and they think it's all about killing goats or having sex with children or _human_ sacrifices. They just want an excuse to be evil! It's... appalling what they can come up with."

"Wait... I thought we were _supposed_ to be evil," murmured Lilith.

"Only _technically_. We disobeyed the orders of I-am and are therefore His enemies. That doesn't mean we're _despicable_. It just means that we said 'no' and He threw a massive fit."

Lilith laughed. "Yeah. The whole lake of fire thing is totally overreacting. Honestly. You give apes free will and then ask why they choose things... Sometimes I wonder if He knows what He's doing."

"Yeah. Sacrificing His son so there's only one rule? Sure, yay, He's simplified things. Congratulations. Now just how many of those rabid fans, up there, actually _follow_ it?"

"Not one."

"Nobody. I think it was a mistake giving any of them any rules at all. They just know what they're supposed to disobey, now."

"I don't think they even read them."

Lucifer huffed a brief and ironic laugh. "Probably."

# Challenge #020: Death of Monsters

Sans: The actual Grim Reaper

[AN: I've seen Reaper!Sans on Tumblr and I have yet to see a coherent attitude with it. Please forgive me for any and all mismatched headcannons]

"...and peek-a-boo," read Sans, "I found _you_."

"...wowie," mumbled Pap in his half-doze.

"G'night, Pap," Sans gently stroked his brother's skull, easing Papyrus into dreamland. He put the book away and crept into his room. Careful not to make a sound. He lit both his eyes and reached through the firmament for the robe and his scythe.

Time for his night job.

The boots were the hardest part of it, of course. Sans preferred to lounge around in slippers or unlaced sneakers all day. Because the tight, confining boots of his night job were a regular torture. And they were practically stilts, so that he passed the height minimum.

What was on the list tonight?

Ah yes. The evening arm wrestle with Gerson. Check. A stern note about his 'game' with Little Gnoll and fixing it so that the kid would live. Oh. And Mrs Plakely.

He could ignore the stern note. It wasn't as if there were many skeletons around to do the work. And Papyrus had already washed out of the pre-selection checklist. Hah. Pap would let everyone live, whether they wanted to or not.

And there was more than one way to show mercy.

Aching after his appointment with Gerson, Sans appeared for Mrs Plakely. Her every breath was a battle. Her eyes sunken and her body weary.

She looked him square in his glowing eye and said, "About time, you tardy bastard."

Sans grinned. She was a teacher to the last. "I'd have brought a note, but a dog ate it."

"Oh get on with it."

"Sure you don't want your glasses?" he asked. "That way you can control your pupils." Sans swung the scythe right on time.

He liked to make sure they went out laughing. Mrs Plakely's ailing body dissolved into dust and her soul lingered in the space between seconds.

_Thank you,_ she 'said'. _You've always done good work._

And then she was gone. Off to whatever afterlife that Monsters got. That was it for the official business, but he decided to stop on by Napstablook's for some nice, old-fashioned lying on the floor.

It was a better way to spend the night on duty... as opposed to a busy workload.

# Challenge #021: Benevolent Spirits

A child with a temporary tall, formally dressed, spooky friend. He has massive hands, a bone white head and....

1. No face

2. Flaming Purple hair

When the police finally found Velour, they didn't ask why she held one hand in the air, fingers curled as if they were gently grasping something. They did not question how a small child of four could have found her way out of the woods from the remote cabin where that sicko had her.

They just scooped her up in a big hug and wrapped her in blankets and rushed her to the road with great shouting and jubilation.

It wasn't until they found the cabin that they asked things.

Like: what did Melvin Purrile die of? Or: this place is miles from anywhere, how did she walk straight towards the nearest road?

Little Velour Jones had not spent much time in hospital. She had escaped with barely any harm to her. Her mother said an Angel had watched over her.

Velour sat in her living room with her crayons and drew pictures. The bad man and his bad van. The friendly ghost who helped her. His name was Lewis. Velour always drew him in a black suit with a pink tie and pink hair.

Lewis' head was a skull. Beyond that, he seemed like any other imaginary friend. If one ignored Velour's insistence that Lewis scared the bad man to death. According to Velour, Lewis and his 'pinky friends' played a lot of tricks on the bad man. And they "ated up all of his bad until there wasn't anything left for being alive."

There was no forensic evidence. Even the film that Melvin took didn't show anything definitive. Just a lot of static and the sounds of his own screams. And before that... _Velour tied to a chair_.

They never found out how she got loose. She insisted that Lewis set her free. And held her hand until they found the search party. And when they asked where Lewis was, now, she simply said, "He went home again. I don't need him any more."

# Challenge #022: Love Therapy

After The End, Flowey is brought to the surface too in a little flowerpot. Frisk totes him around everywhere. It's like Lilo and Stitch with more ambassadorial responsibilities.

Frisk went to bed in the police station, after the Emergence Event, in a police department T-shirt and empty-handed. When they came for them in the morning, they had a flowerpot and a talking buttercup.

There was a reason Frisk's foster families had complained about escapes, but lacked proof.

One of the monsters was sitting with Frisk, and casually blocking the flower's every attempt at casting bullets at the people trying to sort out everything.

Frisk only said two words, at a whisper, and to the flower, that day. They said, "Remember kindness."

It took a handful of days for Flowey the flower to apparently give up on shooting everyone with seed bullets, but the monster bodyguard remained. Proof that the monsters were perfectly willing to be peaceful. Every minute of the day, if necessary.

Flowey was, in brief, a menace. It filled the negotiations with a constant diatribe about the ways it could use a human soul, about the ways it could kill everyone. Frisk simply petted it and laid gentle kisses on its petals until the diatribe fell to a low mutter.

Frisk had mercy for everyone. Even the worst of the monsters.

Counsellor Lyme found Frisk and Flowey in the gardens of their new mansion. Frisk was their usual silent self, shaking their head at the flower.

"I could. I could leap free and kill a human!"

Shake shake.

"Here comes one, now. Don't you look delicious?"

Shake shake. Frisk patted the flower. Petal by petal, until the plant sagged.

"Urgh. Fine. I'll stay where I was put. As agreed." Flowey resumed its usual muttering, but the effort seemed to be lacking. It kept revisiting the phrase, _see if I won't_ or _everyone deserves it_.

Frisk waved 'hello' and brought out their special tablet from their backpack. With a few swift taps, they were able to say, "Therapy is working. Flowey is getting better," through the tablet's speakers.

"... _kill you all and take all the souls, see if I won't,_ " muttered Flowey.

Frisk laughed and tapped out, "I know. It's disturbing. Doctor Alphys has been helping, too."

Oh yes. The monsters had perfected ways to isolate qualities of the soul. "Really? More determination?"

"No," 'said' Frisk, tapping at their tablet. "Something else. Kindness. Love. Compassion. We try new mixtures every day. We're eroding Flowey's bitterness and hate."

"... _you'd deserve it all. Everyone deserves it._ "

"Slowly," amended Frisk. They leaned over to kiss Flowey's petals.

"STOP BEING NICE TO ME!"

Shake shake.

It was obviously going to be a very slow improvement.

#  Challenge #023: Irreconcilably Different

 http://haberdashing.tumblr.com/post/137972037479/songofsunset-fireandwonder-songofsunset

[AN: I know for a fact that there's a really bizarre bug out there. Its young can only eat this super-rare fungal growth, and they solve the problem of making more babies by having one larva gestate like a billion more larvae inside it as it eats. I can't find the name of the thing for life of me. I know David Attenborough talked about it, but that still leaves a lot of territory to search]

The crew of the _Endeduanna Akkad_ first met P'terii after a crash that impact-welded their ships together. Ze had just regenerated and was in a perfect frame of mind to encounter new things. Like humans. It didn't take the humans long to reduce "P'terii'CH!altath'q'voqq" to "Terry".

And it didn't take long for P'terii to more or less adopt some of the humans aboard their now-welded vessels. Mary, P'terii, Bob, and Unique formed a sort of impromptu family. And became the primary means by which each species learned about each other.

The Krik'kik'u had something of a unique survival mechanism. Trauma made babies happen. Any significant trauma resulted in a form of re-pupal stage in which the entire body regenerated. Extreme trauma resulted in multiple rebirths. With each 'child' carrying an ancestral knowledge of its former 'parent'. Of course, they preferred to continue in the more traditional way to procreate, but disaster-related regeneration allowed for stronger genetics.

For instance, their pupal chrysalises could withstand hard vacuum, radiation, near zero kelvin temperatures, and atmospheric re-entry up to a pressure of three atmospheres, and would not open unless the surrounding environment was satisfactory.

P'terii was the fifth iteration of hirself, and thus got the moniker, "Terry Five".

The real trouble began when Mary had an epileptic fit. P'terii skittered up a wall and out of the way, watching in horrified fascination as one of hir favourite humans twitched uncontrollably.

Hir first question was, "When is baby?"

Mary, now in the infirmary for observation, sighed and said, "We don't do what you, do, Terry Five. My brain misfired, today. It doesn't cause anything else to happen."

"You having no breeding season. You having no hurt babies. How is you safe for space?"

"We're tougher than we look," Mary laughed.

P'terii went into the _Endeduanna's_ libraries and read up on human injuries. Ze became obsessed with it, about how humans were struck and impaired and _did not have babies_. Ze could understand limb trauma. Hir kind had overcome that hurdle some hundreds of generations previously. But head or organ trauma.

"I have it!" P'terii crowed. "You are removing generational organs in pre-flight. No tax of resources."

"No," cooed Unique. "We take special chemicals that stop breeding."

"Humans be strange," muttered P'terii. And that seemed to be the end of it.

Until Mary died.

It was, in retrospect, a stupid accident. Nobody had checked a valve that burst while Mary was in an iso-lab, flooding the environment with toxins that killed her before she could reach the emergency breath-mask.

P'terii followed along on hir high perch. Watching over Mary's body as the rest of the crew took her to the infirmary and then prepared her for repatriation. She would spend the month until their next station stop in cold storage in the hold. But not before a service in her memory.

P'terii didn't ask questions until they put her away. "Is inhospitable environment? Or is necessary."

"Is necessary," said Bob, resorting to broken GalStand because it was the one language they all understood.

"When is coming back?"

Unique burst out crying. She was a loud and messy crier with the occasional side-order of shrieking. Doctor Laks escorted her away for sedation.

"Mary isn't coming back, Terry."

"I know. Not as _Mary_. When is replacing?"

"It's going to be one month before we can re-hiring..."

"No. No. Is not meaning. Is meaning..." P'terii sighed. Some concepts were hard to communicate. "Mary is give P'terii book, P'terii want for asking of new-Mary - Is self allowed for keeping, or new-Mary wanting for relearning thing?"

Counsellor Xad finally got it. "No. Terry. Humans don't do what you do. When we stop... we stop forever."

"But in books... you has re-incarnation. The Jesus man. The Eternal Doctor."

"Terry... Those are just stories. They're things we make up because we wish they would happen. Mary is gone. She won't ever be coming back."

P'terii laughed. A nervous series of hiccoughs. "Is big joke? Not being true. If is true, then best-human Mary... Never-never? No. Mary... Mary is..." A hiss that bordered on a screech, the way that the Krik'kik'u expressed sorrow. "I must away."

Two weeks later, when P'terii emerged from their ship, they emerged as P'terii Six. Hir carapace was bright new colours and, according to hir, ze was a different gender.

"We have two weeks before station-call. Will you be all right with us shipping Mary's remains off? Do you want to say goodbye again?"

P'terii's pincers twitched, and hir feet scratched against the flooring. "Mary? Ah. My prior self was... fond of her. I regret the loss, but you can do your human thing without me there."

Unique bit her lip and wiped her face. Well. Krik'kik'u were not human. They had entirely -well- alien ways of dealing with things. She let P'terii deal with it how ze wished. But she did notice that P'terii Six had a habit of checking all the safety features, at least once a day.

What happened to Mary would never happen to another.

The borrowed book was never mentioned again.

#  Challenge #024: Humans Are Space Orcs

A couple of case studies that had managed to be kept away from the general galactic knowledge pool (except under specific licensing and non-disclosure contracts) come to light - the cases of Phineas Gage, James Brady, Ahad Israfil and others that have suffered massive head injuries and made practically full recoveries, despite the loss of large amounts of brain. (And often despite the lack of medical care of the time - Phineas's accident was in the 1820s)

(Warning for Ahad, pictures from before his reconstructive surgery may be disturbing)

Before Humans were declared merely insane, the Wikipedia Galactica had this (amongst many other things) to say about humans: _Damage to the cerebral cortex may not kill a human. Humans have and will survive severe damage to their central nervous system. Do not attempt to kill human. Where possible, flee for safety upon detecting a human presence._

And now there were models in the Museum of Disturbing Things. Replicas of Phineas Gage's pierced skull. A waxwork bust of Ahad Israfil before his reconstructive surgery. And the X-rays and medical information for James Brady. Including footage of him talking before and after the gunshot that could have killed him.

And helpful, discrete information about the medical treatments available for each patient.

More cogniscents have been carried away from the Phineas Gage exhibit than any other. Primarily because Gage suffered his injuries before the advent of reliable anaesthesia. The best they could do for him at the time was get him drunk. And the surgeons at the time believed in balancing the humours. Which meant that bleeding was cured by more bleeding somewhere else.

It was people like Phineas Gage that made other cogniscents wonder how humans could have possibly survived to achieve space flight.

#  Challenge #025: The Café of the Lost

It's present day, and the Muses get together for a re-union and catch up. The Muses of poetry also inspire writers by now.

[AN: I actually looked them up once upon a time, and they all used to inspire specific kinds of poetry. Now I know Terpsichore gets the dancers and Calliope gets the musicians... but I need to go on a wiki walk to discover who else gets what in the modern day]

The air reeked of coffee and desperation. The neon lighting gave a headachy nimbus to the bright yellow tables and the hum of the lights threatened to put teeth on edge. The coffee wasn't anything to write about, and neither was the food. The only advantage this place had over any other chain was that it was open at all hours and had free wifi.

Inspiration happened here.

It was called Zeus' Daughters with a subscripted "coffee house" underneath. The food and the coffee were both cheap and plentiful. Nine sisters ran the place. Nobody who cared to ask could tell who was older than another, as all of them had a timelessness about them. And a sleeplessness about them. Though you rarely saw all nine together, they could each be present at various intervals at any time of day or night.

Cal was the one who hummed under her breath, usually drowned out by the foam machine, but rhythm and melody were her constant aura.

Thal was the one who was always ready for a laugh. She could pun up a storm or come out with the cleverest of observational comedy at the drop of a hat.

Clio was the one who knew all the fascinating trivia about history. She was the go-to girl for any writer looking for an obscure nugget of knowledge where Google failed.

Uri was the stargazer. She knew everyone's horoscope and could rattle off curious facts about the stars and the makeup of the cosmos. She was the one most often on the rooftop portion of the café at night.

Ute was the rapper, the beat poet, and the casual rhymer. She knew meter and rhyme, and she would join with Siché in performance art that usually made all three patrons at the time stand up and applaud.

Pol was the philosopher and spiritualist. People in crisis came, and she would appear by their side. Usually with something hot and sweet to console their stomachs and soft words to ease the burdens of their hearts.

Mel was the drama queen. If something was a disaster, it was the utmost disaster. Things were cataclysmic whenever they went wrong and nothing, nothing short of the greatest sacrifice would ever make things whole again.

The aforementioned Siché was the dancer, weaving her way through busy crowds and empty tables alike with a grace that knew no equal. Her feet never tripped, for all that they tripped lightly across the simple flooring. Her hands never dropped a dish, for all that they wove through the air like a magic spell in progress.

And then there was Rato. She ran the wifi and could always be found in a darkened corner in the far back of the lounge, with her face lit by a laptop screen. She muttered to herself and giggled a lot. And when she spoke to the clients, it was always with a whisper to their ear. She could make nuns turn bright red with a smirk and cause political figures to sweat with a wink.

And this place was where the lost and heartsore came. Often not knowing why their feet took them there. In the blackest of their moods, in the loneliest of their wanderings, they found the café and a place to sit and a handy row of bricks to stare at. These were the people who needed them. And one sister or another would come from the back room or behind the counter or the darkest corner of the lounge, and kiss them gently in an approved place.

The people never saw them do this. Nobody had any record of it. And in any case, it did not take effect immediately.

The lost soul would order something warm, something chocolate, something... soothing. And sit and stare and sigh. They would eat and drink, staring at nothing. Thinking nothing. Doing nothing. And in that nothingness, the kiss that nobody saw or felt would work its way inside. It would grow, like a glowing seed, into something new.

People could watch it take root, though. See the spark in the eyes ignite. See the life inside them bloom. See them straighten and begin a smile. Some would twitch their fingers. Some would mumble to themselves. Some would snatch napkins and pens and begin scribbling. Some would laugh like they were about to take over the world and show them all. Some hurried to dash down ideas on laptops or phones.

But all who came in lost and defeated in a slow and weary slouch, left in an excited and vigorous pace, eager to take on the next step. No matter what it was. And those people who ran out always ran back in to leave a generous tip.

And nobody ever cared to look up their names and who they were.

Calliope, Clio, Uterpe, Melpomene, Terpsichore, Erato, Polhymnia, Urania, and Thalia. Zeus' daughters.

# Challenge #026: Camping Therapy

 http://soluscrow.tumblr.com/post/138136736084/otpprompts-person-a-of-your-otp-gets-a-lobster

Person A of your OTP gets a lobster in their pants during a fishing trip (Person B is completely baffled as to how this happens) and Person B attempts to get it out while A screams and hops about. B is laughing so hard they can't breathe.

Frisk's therapist had recommended fishing as an occupation that might get them to talk a little more. And since it was do as the therapist said or suffer Frisk to wind up back in foster care, the entire extended family went camping.

Mama Toriel, Dunkle Sans, Uncle Papyrus, Uncle King Asgore (who slept alone in his own tent], and the Aunts Alphys and Undyne. And, for some reason known only to himself, Mettaton.

He had solar panels on his tent for recharging and spent most of his time gathering raw footage for his proposed show, _In the Wild With Mettaton_. It was looking to be a documentary/reality show with a side of romance.

But it was really an excuse to try and get cosy with Papyrus.

"Papyrus, darling, can you show me how to get this _super_ wriggly worm onto a hook?"

"Papyrus, sweetie... show me how to cast like that?"

"Oh! I dropped my solar parasol in the water."

Mettaton overheated whenever Papyrus got his shirt wet. And giggled a lot. And put himself in the most ridiculous poses.

And Papyrus, blithe as ever, completely missed every last signal Mettaton threw at him.

"AH!" Frisk had a bite. The entire camp crowded in to help, though Alphys insisted that Undyne refrain from using her spears on the animal. And once it was reeled in...

"How could you catch a lobster in a river that is miles from the ocean?" wondered Toriel.

"Maybe it got lost," suggested Sans. Who was inexplicably wringing wet and hiding a snorkel behind his back.

"L-lost," muttered Alphys. "Sure."

"What shall we do with your prize, my child?" asked Toriel. "Try to use your words, please?"

The assembled monsters held their bated breath.

"Heal," said Frisk. "Mercy." And, after a moment's thought, "Pet."

There was great jubilation, while the new pet was introduced to a suspiciously convenient saltwater travel tank and fed with some equally suspiciously convenient lobster food.

Undyne ticked the checklist item that said, "Frisk talks during trip."

"Okay, kiddo," said Sans. "Let's try and catch some small fry for your pet to eat. It is it gonna get a name?"

*

The campfire was the best part. Toriel snuggled with Sans. Undyne snuggled with Alphys. And Mettaton kept scootching closer to Papyrus, who kept edging a little bit away.

The fire was warm, but not dangerous. The stars were spectacular.

Sans got up to check on Snappy the Lobster, and then boxed Papyrus in on the chosen log he was using as a seat. Which allowed Mettaton to finally close in and attempt to snuggle.

Which is what would have happened if Sans hadn't put Snappy the Lobster into one of Mettaton's arm holes.

We will leave the resultant scene of destruction to your imagination.

#  Challenge #027: Confession for the Soul

 http://soluscrow.tumblr.com/post/138136736084/otpprompts-person-a-of-your-otp-gets-a-lobster

The same prompt as before, with the added corollary-

Bonus OT3: C is the one who put the lobster in A's pants and doesn't tell anyone for years.

(With the Mystery Skulls group please. Bonus points for use of the empty skeleton ghost)

[AN: Aw dang, and I was going to continue yesterday's post with the lobster fallout]

Some years ago.

"It's going to be alright, Arthur," Lewis soothed. "I don't blame you for my death, any more, and I'm almost cured."

" _I_ blame me," said Arthur, leaning into his semi-ghostly companion. "If only I'd just remembered my stupid amulet."

"It was a class seven jealousy demon. Your amulet wouldn't have done squat."

"Well, I'd have _known_ it wasn't my fault. I'd have actually done everything I could to prevent it."

"Aw shoosh," Lewis dragged Arthur into his arms. "The bad part is over and done. Start enjoying the –YYEEEEEEEEE!"

Pink flames flared. Lewis' human guise dropped and his faceless skeleton form manifested. He alternately flew or ran in circles.

None of which did anything to the small lobster in his pocket that was snapping random portions of his ghostly derrière.

Arthur couldn't help it, he burst out laughing so hard that he fell off the log he was sitting on.

Now.

"Um. In the spirit of Forgiving Day," announced Vivi. "I've had a little secret I've been meaning to tell you guys for... some time."

Her husbands took on the we're-listening-without-judgement pose.

"You... remember the camping trip when we met Lobstersaurus?"

"I haven't been allowed to forget," rumbled Lewis whilst Arthur snorted.

"Um.... I'm... the one who put Lobstersaurus in your pants pocket."

Lewis burst out laughing so hard he had to stop and take his meds.

" _Why?_ " demanded Lewis.

# Challenge #028: Angels in the Alley

 http://gothiethefairy.tumblr.com/post/138121665438/ravi-o-li-atomicshitpost-punnyskeleton

!!!!!

Don't go to the Underground. Bad things happen to you if you go there. Especially if you are the bad thing. It's where the mobster monsters rule the grimy streets.

It's said that they eat human children.

Five had gone into the tunnel to Monster Mountain. None had been found again.

Frisk had run because there was nowhere left to run to. Even the worst of the bullies would not follow. The Underground was a truly terrifying place. Parts of it were freezing. Parts were underwater. Parts were so hot that there were lava flows. And the monsters who lived there liked it that way.

But for Frisk, it was not nearly as terrifying as their foster home.

Starving and cold and frightened, they found an alley, and a place to hide. Behind a trash can (with the rest of the garbage, the bullies would say) under an abandoned shipping pallet. Where Frisk found out that there were other humans who spent time in the Underground. But they belonged there, because they were monsters, too.

The lady didn't last long. The monstrous human made sure she couldn't scream. Then spent the rest of his hours doing horrible things to her until she stopped making any noise at all.

He mumbled, "That's what you get, bitch," as he stepped back from his grizzly work.

New voices. Monster voices. "Well... look what we have here," said one. "Some bozo trespassing on our turf."

"Not even an innocent at that," said the other monster.

Frisk peeked. There were two skeletons. One tall, one short. The tall one filled out his bright red zoot suit with the bulk of invisible muscles. The short one wore a cheap blue suit with an untucked shirt and a loose tie strung sloppily around his neck. His bulk was more... equatorial.

"And you know what we do with guilty people, don't you?" said the tall one.

"How about we show him, eh Pap?"

"Yes, Brother," said the tall Pap.

Trumpets sounded out of nowhere. Bones flew through the air. Blue and white. How the monstrous man managed to escape, Frisk couldn't tell. He must have pulled some trick.

"What a terrible person," announced Pap.

"Yeah. Too bad they got away... and too bad for this poor schmuck."

Frisk didn't want to look at the blood any more. Or to watch the monsters do whatever they did to human flesh. But their movements jostled the pallet, which creaked. Frisk curled in on themself, trying to turn invisible by sheer force of will. A spreading patch of moist warmth temporarily relieved the deadly chill.

"What was that?" said Pap.

"I dunno. Probably a cat," said the short one.

"I'm gonna check it out," said Pap.

No. Nononononononono! Frisk peeked through their fingers, frozen in terror. Watching the tall skeleton man approach and lift up the heavy pallet in one hand.

Desperate, Frisk did the one thing that guaranteed that their foster parents didn't hit them.

They flirted.

Pap blushed and mumbled, "Aww..." and scooped Frisk up into his arms. "There, now, human," he whispered. "We don't hurt innocents." He turned and resumed his normal, boistrous speaking volume. "Hey Sans! It seems we have a witness!"

Frisk learned many things, that night. First, there was a serial killer loose in the area, someone who used the Underground's turf as a combination slaughterhouse and dumping ground. He had killed five children and uncounted adults.

Second, skeletons were warm and friendly and told really horrible puns.

Third, monsters were friendly, generous and kind.

The skeletons, both named after fonts, took Frisk to The Ruins, an otherwise quiet club where the proprietor baked the entire menu herself with fire magic. Monsters came there for rest and respite. And butterscotch-cinnamon pie.

It was there that Frisk got bathed, dressed in clean -if old- clothes, and fed an enormous slice of pie.

"Now, my child," cooed Toriel. "Tell me about the bad man, if you please?"

Frisk started to shiver. This is where they would hate them.

"It's all right, human," said Papyrus. "I, the Great Papyrus, will protect you! He can not harm you here."

Frisk signed, _I don't like to speak out loud. I like to use my hands._

"Welp," said Sans, "I'm goin' to Grillby's."

"You... do not talk?"

Frisk shook their head. _It makes me tired. Please don't hate me?_

Toriel sighed and said, "It will be... difficult. Not impossible. You can point him out in court, should we capture him. Monster testimony against humans is... less valuable than the other way around."

Frisk signed, _Sorry._

Toriel gave Frisk more pie, and left the room to talk to Papyrus. "Did he see where you took them?"

"I don't know. He's a slippery snail, that one."

"The child can stay here the night. After that, they'll have to move somewhere. If we can get them to the King's Palace..."

When they returned from their planning, Frisk signed, _Please don't throw me away?_ and forced themself to say, "Mom."

"I know you want to stay, but it isn't safe. You have to keep moving if you want to stay away from the bad man."

Reluctantly, Frisk nodded. It was the beginning of a long and harrowing journey. But on the way, they would make some very interesting new friends. And find a new family.

#  Challenge #029: The Camping Trip From Hell

Lewis and/or the other Mystery Skulls, attempting to cook with his fire powers

The downpour, unforecasted by the weather bureau, continued to thunder down diagonally.

"App still says it should be clear."

"The app can bite my non-corporeal ass," growled Lewis.

Arthur sat staring out of the plastic window, "Don't pack the primus," he said in a mocking falsetto, "the weather's going to be _fine_. We'll cook everything on a campfire. It'll be fun!"

"Okay," sighed Vivi. "So I was a little wrong about that."

Both men in the tent fell to clearing their throats in a meaningful manner.

"Fine. I was a lot wrong! Okay? There's nothing we can do about it."

"I wanted to make Smores," grumbled Lewis.

Arthur, in the absent, dreamy state that meant that he was not thinking things through, speared a marshmallow and held it over Lewis' flaming hair. "Hey, it works!" he chirped. "We can do Smores after all!"

Lewis began cursing under his breath.

#  Challenge #030: One Rainy Afternoon in a Charity Depot

 http://the-vampire-fish-queen.tumblr.com/post/138114419855/zarla-s-you-know-how-sans-looks-chubby-when-he

The storm had soaked them all to the point where they needed something clean, dry and fresh. Luckily the depot they were using as a shelter had plenty.

Sans, Frisk, and Papyrus each excused themselves to undress and at least put some pants on [Frisk insisted on privacy to pull on an oversized, striped turtleneck] and then wrestled with whatever topwear they had found.

Sans, of course, was never happier than when he was in a hoodie. The plain fleece cloth draped over a belly that wasn't visible when he had his top off.

Papyrus struggled into what seemed to be an oversized, long-sleeved shirt. And when he finally had it on, an immense bulk of sculpted muscle stretched it to capacity.

Frisk pointed. They were used to seeing Sans' invisible gut, but this boggled their mind.

"What?" said Sans. "Oh yeah. Ghost-flesh. Skeletons are sorta related to ghosts. Only the bones are the real part of us. The rest is invisible in us, but visible with ghosts. It's... kinda weird. Monster clothing can ignore Ghost-flesh, but human clothes? No such luck."

Papyrus had found a mirror. "Nyeh heh heh! All that training really paid off. I should wear human clothing more often."

#  Challenge #031: The Ghost is the Most (1)

1) Logistical problems of a ghostly boyfriend

2) Mystery Skulls, meet Maestro Leopold (See the animatic for Magic, or if you prefer, substitute Bugs Bunny equivalent)

"The souflé!" Lewis shrieked, and flew straight for the kitchen.

Unfortunately for both him and Vivi, she was between him and the stove. Vivi shrieked, "Yaugh! Cold!"

Arthur, shedding oven mits, stepped aside to show the finished souflé. "I told you I was keeping an eye on it."

"Lewis," Vivi whined. "What did we tell you about going through people?" Her breath still fogged in the air. "Death's chill isn't exactly fun, you know?"

"Sorry," said Lewis. "I was sitting in the sunshine so I could be warm by bedtime, and... uh..." He shrugged. "Sorry."

"We have to work on this," said Vivi.

#  Challenge #032: The Ghost is the Most (2)

1) Logistical problems of a ghostly boyfriend

2) Mystery Skulls, meet Maestro Leopold (See the animatic for Magic, or if you prefer, substitute Bugs Bunny equivalent)

The latest psychic to visit This Old Haunted House was a bit of a showoff. Fancy clothes. Fancy hair. Sunglasses at night, and even indoors.

He called himself Maestro Leopold, and would exorcise an unsettled soul with the use of magical music. So far, he was meditating in the exact centre of the house and completely ignoring both Lewis' and the Deadbeats' shenanigans.

"This guy might not make the cut," said Vivi, in the secret editing/viewing room.

"Pretty dull, yeah," agreed Arthur. "We might be able to make a running gag out of the meditation...."

"I did all my best stuff on him," complained Lewis. "Not even curiosity. He's a lump."

"Ah there hyou are," said Maestro Leopold, with his vaguely European accent (but exactly where in Europe could not be traced) "Hyes, hyes. My body is still in the house. This is an astral projection, darlings. Hyou," he pointed at Lewis, "hyou have issues, but hyou're not an unsettled soul. Hyou are waiting out hyour true time after an untimely death. I cannot work with hyou. _Hyou_ ," he pointed to Arthur, "are amazingly susceptible to possession. Hyou might want to invest in some tattoos, some scarification... I know a guy who knows a guy, I can set hyou up. Not a problem. And hyou, madam... Hyou've got a lingering trace of evil in hyou. Hyou've defeated most of it hyourself, but there's a little seed there. I can set some musical weedkiller on to it tonight. Hyour little greek chorus can help. It'll be fun."

And then his image vanished.

"Tell me you got that?" said Vivi.

# Challenge #033: One Fine Day at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital

Magical medical tribulations

 http://soluscrow.tumblr.com/post/138200678919/bjornwilde-dragonsinmeliodas-ajmakoko

[AN: I heartily advise you read that thread. It's amazing]

Doctor Lilandra Jovel specialised in the diagnosis of the strange, the unusual, and the unexpected. Ever since Monsters came to the surface, there had been all kinds of strange encounters. With equally strange results. And sometimes, the revelation of an old scandal.

"He just eats and eats and eats," said the mother. "But look at him. He's all skin and bones."

Lil raised an eyebrow. The kid had not changed into the patient's smock. They were still wearing their monster-made attire. "Change into the smock, please," Lil intoned.

The kid shook their head, glancing fearfully towards his mother.

"You will examine my son _as he is_. We have the right to our decency."

Lil stared the mother right in her eye. "Hospital policy decrees that all patients must be in their smocks. If they are not in smocks, they do not get treated. Do you want your son to receive treatment, ma'am?"

At the mother's hesitation, Lil added, "Please keep in mind that all examination sessions are recorded to ensure all patents' security and doctor's proper duty of care."

The mother glared boiling hellfire at Lil and growled, "Of course I want my son to receive treatment," through gritted teeth. "May we request a monsterfibre smock?"

Now there was an odd request. "Why do you need one?" Lil asked the boy.

"...'m allergic t' human fabrics..." mumbled the kid, looking at his toes.

"That wasn't entered on your admissions form," said Lil, checking. "There's laws about complete disclosure."

The mother snatched the folio out of Lil's hands, and scribbled an addition to the form. "Honestly. You forget _one_ thing and they treat you like a criminal around here."

But Lil was already looking through her Truesight monocle. The boy wasn't skinny. He was half-Skeleton. And his - no. _Her_ magic was just starting to come in.

Human clothing would have stopped at the ghostflesh, showing off the fact that she was a girl and not - as her mother assumed - a boy.

"YOU PUT THAT THING AWAY! I NEVER GAVE MY CONSENT FOR MY SON TO BE STARED AT THROUGH THAT... THAT ABOMINATION! IT'S AGAINST OUR RELIGION FOR YOU TO USE THOSE!"

"Ma'am... there's no such religion. You are failing to conceal both an affair with a Skeleton, _and_ a transgender child. As such, it is my legal obligation to notify the authorities _unless you stop shrieking right now!_ "

Silence. Blessed, peaceful silence.

Lil allowed herself a breath. "Now..." she checked the name. "McKaydin... It's perfectly okay to feel like you're wrong, right now. That's your inner self fighting against what everyone tells you what your outer self is. And the hunger is perfectly normal for a Skeleton coming into their magic."

"...'m really part skeleton?" murmured McKaydin.

"Yes. It's undeniable."

Hollow eyes glanced sidelong at the mother. Trying to find a hint that she was not who she pretended to be.

"There must have been some mix-up when he was born."

"She," corrected Lil. "Where there any other apparent boys in your ward?"

Glare. "No," she iced.

"I'm fairly certain someone else would have noticed their son going missing," eased Lil. "Especially from another ward. We can run genetic tests, but all that will do is prove your infidelity. In the meantime, given what I've seen of your treatment of McKaydin... I'm going to have to revoke your parental privilege of medical consent. We will have a counsellor here in half an hour. Please do not make me summon the orderlies."

"...d's that mean i can get shots if i want 'em?" squeaked McKaydin.

Lil fought a wince. Of course the mother would be anti-vax. Of _course_ she would. It just made the train wreck of this kid's life, so far, complete. "Once all the paperwork is filed, yes."

The mother started shrieking like a rabid baboon. Lil did have to summon the orderlies to drag her backwards out of the clinic and into a soft room where she received some super-effective sedatives. She would try to sue, but there would be evidence, by then, of her neglect and mistreatment of her daughter.

A daughter who could successfully attempt to find her Skeleton counter-parent, get whatever vaccinations she liked, and possibly apply to become a liberated minor. A daughter who may very well take off for New Monster Home[1] and never look back.

And more power to her.

[1] Their King is terrible with names.

#  Challenge #033: One Fine Day at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital

Magical medical tribulations

 http://soluscrow.tumblr.com/post/138200678919/bjornwilde-dragonsinmeliodas-ajmakoko

[AN: I heartily advise you read that thread. It's amazing]

Doctor Lilandra Jovel specialised in the diagnosis of the strange, the unusual, and the unexpected. Ever since Monsters came to the surface, there had been all kinds of strange encounters. With equally strange results. And sometimes, the revelation of an old scandal.

"He just eats and eats and eats," said the mother. "But look at him. He's all skin and bones."

Lil raised an eyebrow. The kid had not changed into the patient's smock. They were still wearing their monster-made attire. "Change into the smock, please," Lil intoned.

The kid shook their head, glancing fearfully towards his mother.

"You will examine my son _as he is_. We have the right to our decency."

Lil stared the mother right in her eye. "Hospital policy decrees that all patients must be in their smocks. If they are not in smocks, they do not get treated. Do you want your son to receive treatment, ma'am?"

At the mother's hesitation, Lil added, "Please keep in mind that all examination sessions are recorded to ensure all patents' security and doctor's proper duty of care."

The mother glared boiling hellfire at Lil and growled, "Of course I want my son to receive treatment," through gritted teeth. "May we request a monsterfibre smock?"

Now there was an odd request. "Why do you need one?" Lil asked the boy.

"...'m allergic t' human fabrics..." mumbled the kid, looking at his toes.

"That wasn't entered on your admissions form," said Lil, checking. "There's laws about complete disclosure."

The mother snatched the folio out of Lil's hands, and scribbled an addition to the form. "Honestly. You forget _one_ thing and they treat you like a criminal around here."

But Lil was already looking through her Truesight monocle. The boy wasn't skinny. He was half-Skeleton. And his - no. _Her_ magic was just starting to come in.

Human clothing would have stopped at the ghostflesh, showing off the fact that she was a girl and not - as her mother assumed - a boy.

"YOU PUT THAT THING AWAY! I NEVER GAVE MY CONSENT FOR MY SON TO BE STARED AT THROUGH THAT... THAT ABOMINATION! IT'S AGAINST OUR RELIGION FOR YOU TO USE THOSE!"

"Ma'am... there's no such religion. You are failing to conceal both an affair with a Skeleton, _and_ a transgender child. As such, it is my legal obligation to notify the authorities _unless you stop shrieking right now!_ "

Silence. Blessed, peaceful silence.

Lil allowed herself a breath. "Now..." she checked the name. "McKaydin... It's perfectly okay to feel like you're wrong, right now. That's your inner self fighting against what everyone tells you what your outer self is. And the hunger is perfectly normal for a Skeleton coming into their magic."

"...'m really part skeleton?" murmured McKaydin.

"Yes. It's undeniable."

Hollow eyes glanced sidelong at the mother. Trying to find a hint that she was not who she pretended to be.

"There must have been some mix-up when he was born."

"She," corrected Lil. "Where there any other apparent boys in your ward?"

Glare. "No," she iced.

"I'm fairly certain someone else would have noticed their son going missing," eased Lil. "Especially from another ward. We can run genetic tests, but all that will do is prove your infidelity. In the meantime, given what I've seen of your treatment of McKaydin... I'm going to have to revoke your parental privilege of medical consent. We will have a counsellor here in half an hour. Please do not make me summon the orderlies."

"...d's that mean i can get shots if i want 'em?" squeaked McKaydin.

Lil fought a wince. Of course the mother would be anti-vax. Of _course_ she would. It just made the train wreck of this kid's life, so far, complete. "Once all the paperwork is filed, yes."

The mother started shrieking like a rabid baboon. Lil did have to summon the orderlies to drag her backwards out of the clinic and into a soft room where she received some super-effective sedatives. She would try to sue, but there would be evidence, by then, of her neglect and mistreatment of her daughter.

A daughter who could successfully attempt to find her Skeleton counter-parent, get whatever vaccinations she liked, and possibly apply to become a liberated minor. A daughter who may very well take off for New Monster Home[1] and never look back.

And more power to her.

[1] Their King is terrible with names.

#  Challenge #034: The Everpresent Decorative Instrument

Surprising headcanon: Undyne plays the piano

Unsurprising headcanon: She takes roughly the same approach to music as she does to cooking

Turns out she sounds pretty good (and usually nothing combusts)

Somehow, it was obligatory for an Ambassador's quarters to have a piano. It was always there. When Frisk was a guest of any other place, there would always be a room with a piano in it.

Frisk would ignore it for the most part. If there was a thunderstorm, it would become part of a blanket fort. On days when Frisk was feeling particularly active, they would sit and play Chopsticks or run their hands up and down the octaves.

Mama Toriel had a teaching job, and could not always come along. When she did, she would get Frisk to 'help' her play the piano by laying Frisks hands on top of her enormous paws. Those visits were full of ancient songs.

Most of the time, it was one or another of her friends. Alphys would teach fractions and harmonics, and the reasons why some sounds were pleasant to the ear while others were not. Mettaton would use the piano for a photoshoot, and leave scuff marks on the polished surface. Sans would make a blanket fort, regardless of the weather, and fall asleep inside. Papyrus... would play the Wake Up Lazy Brother song and make Frisk laugh.

Asgore would play songs that made him cry, remembering his lost children.

But Undyne... Undyne was always a treat. Not only did she approach everything as if it were an enemy to be victorious against, but she could actually _play_. In her own fashion.

Frisk always asked for sheet music when Undyne was their escort. It was always a joy to watch Undyne peer cyclopically at the pages, set them up on the piano... and then attack the keys.

From Brahms to Hardcore Metal, Undyne always attacked the keys. There was no such thing as pianissimo, and if she wasn't sweating by the end of the piece, she would swear that she had done it wrong and try again. Fiercer.

It made Frisk laugh, and disturbed the hell out of whoever they were visiting on Ambassadorial business.

# Challenge #035: Well Met, Wanderer

Night falls, the demons arrive... and the gates are open and there's tea and biscuits in the bailey.

The Hordes of Darkness were on guard as they crept into the castle. They expected all kinds of resistance. Hails of arrows. Rains of fire. Boiling oil or at least scalding-hot porridge raining down on them from the murder holes[1].

There should have been armed knights. There should have been traps.

The demons were still expecting some. They even regarded the set tables in the vacant courtyard with suspicion. There was tea. Cake. Biscuits. Cucumber sandwiches. Salads and all kinds of snack-worthy fare. There were even rainbow macaroons.

The poison-sniffers detected nothing more hazardous than sugar. The rogues failed to spot any traps.

Finally, the leader snapped. "What the hell even _is_ this?"

"It's called Parley," said a distant voice from the overlooking arrow-slits. "That means we all sit down to a nice meal and talk about our grievances. We leave our weapons behind and discuss compromises."

"Er," said the Dread Lord of Darkness. "You do understand we want to take over the world and make you our slaves... right?"

"Yes, of course. But the real question is _why_?"

The Dread Lord of Darkness faltered. "Uhm," he said. And, "Er..."

Inside the keep, Wander elbowed the current monarch in a friendly way. "See your majesty? Kindness always works."

#  Challenge #036: In the Wee Small Hours...

Sans and the Gaster Blasters

Sans barely stopped his Gaster Blasters from incinerating his baby brother. "Geez, bro, don't scare me like that..."

"Puppy," cooed Papyrus, age four. "Is this why you said I couldn't have a dog?"

"Uh..." said Sans. "More like... the dogs have their own homes to go to."

"Can I pet 'em?"

"Look. Kid. It really takes an effort to..." he trailed off, looking into those pleading, puppy-dog eyesockets. Sans surrendered to his marshmallow soul. "Sure. Just for a little while, okay? Then they have to go back away."

The Gaster Blasters were not accustomed to tenderness. They only came out in moments of extreme terror or rage. But once they were out, Sans could maintain them with his magic.

Pap didn't notice Sans' glowing eye, or the trail of blue light coming from one hand. His eyesockets were solely on the Blasters.

Skeleton dog heads that could snap Pap up in an instant flinched at the touch of his careful hands. They quickly got into it and stopped whimpering and started panting and making happy doggy noises at Pap's gleeful skritching.

Sans would hurt for this, tomorrow. But tonight... it was worth it.

Anything to make sure his little bro was happy.

# Challenge #037: A Slip of the Pun

 http://haberdashing.tumblr.com/post/138651636069/fenrir-kin-meowjorie-my-christmas-gift-to

[AN: Eeeeeeuuuuuwwwww...]

"I told you, I can only work with the spirits of departed _people_. Animal ghosts don't understand speech."

"Well something has to be done. I'm tired of getting woken up at dawn by all the honking!"

"I'm very sorry. All I can do for ghost geese is make them think it's winter so that they migrate. And that will exacerbate your vulnerability to head colds."

"Geese. Ghost fucking geese. How the hell does anyone get ghost geese?"

And that was when Maestro Leopold said exactly the wrong thing. "Murder most fowl?"

He didn't get paid for that gig.

#  Challenge #038: One Stressful Evening at a Comicon

And some people have non-standard "Heart's Desire".

The suspect was identified as "One of them weirdo robot people" so Officer Decker had gone for the simple expedient of rounding up anyone who even looked like they could be a robot... and then asking the witness to pick them out.

So far, Chloe had eliminated all of the Homestuck trolls because the witness said, "Nope, none of 'em had horns."

Smart money was on the very twitchy one in the red dress and the cheap wig. But they had to do this by the book.

Lucifer was already way ahead of Chloe and her witness, Mr Devereaux. Chloe could hear him asking his trademark question to each and every weirdo in the line.

Why anyone would bother going to a concert in costume and makeup was beyond her.

Lucifer reached the twitchy 'robot'. "I like the dress. So fancy. Why are you so rusty, though?"

"Oh, I'm old. And I-and I need repairs."

"And what do you want most in the world?"

The twitchy 'robot' took a deep breath. "I want the skill and talent to pay for the things I love and the time to enjoy them. I get the feeling that sort of thing is not on your menu."

"That's it?" said Lucifer. "Not money. Not fame. Just enough appreciation for what you do to pay for that which you love. That's... boring."

"Thank you," said Smart Money. "I've worked hard on working it out."

"And why are you twitching about like that?"

"I saw somebody die, sir. It's this or scream and carry on, and I'm sure that won't-won't-won't be appreciated."

Lucifer said, "Ah," as if the light had dawned. "And what do you do?"

"I write stories. Lots of them. I can't stop so I might as well sell them, right?" Another deep-lung sigh. "Pity nobody wants to pay for them."

Later investigation would reveal that the freak in the red dress had ASD and was completely harmless. Or, as Lucifer put it, "She's a herring."

#  Challenge #039: Skinny Said He'd be There

" _There's something fishy about all this..."_

" _Oh that's just Undyne!"_

[AN: I think MobTale fits this prompt the best]

"He said he'd be here," said Papyrus.

"Your pal says lots of things," rumbled Sans. "You sure he's on the up and up?"

Papyrus smiled. "Of course he is. He's responsible for the training that got Undyne to notice me. I trust him with my life."

"Do you trust him with the kid's life?" said Undyne. She was wearing her battle armour and surveying the street corner with her remaining eye.

Frisk, held under her elbow like a sack of flour, squirmed and peeved.

"I don't think they like being held like that," said Sans.

"What do you know? Humans can withstand all kinds of hardships."

"Frisk likes hugs."

"I'm not a hugger," growled Undyne. Nevertheless, she thrust the human child at Papyrus. "You are."

Frisk clung to Papyrus like a limpet.

"He's late," announced Sans. "If he shows, kid, you tap my shoulder if it's the bad guy."

Frisk nodded, and began to yawn.

"I'll wake you if he shows up," whispered Papyrus. "Nighty night, little human."

Hours past in damp, dark silence. The only action that happened was an alley cat going about its business, tail held high.

"...something smells fishy about all of this," muttered Sans.

"Oh, that's just Undyne," cheered Papyrus.

# Challenge #040: Special Education

The routine butchering of names by various species that have trouble with minor inflections in other languages which inevitably results in silly nicknames - T'reka > Trekker, for instance, or to borrow from another author, Usze > Uzi and N'tho > Nitro

Names are important. Across the Gallactic Alliance, all cogniscent beings had a string of sounds or signals that meant 'this is me'. And some... could get quite picky about it.

"Ra-el," said Rael.

"Rail," said the human.

"Ra-el," said Rael.

"Ray L?"

"Ra-el..." he could go on doing this all day, if he had to. And he would certainly make sure that the human would stop being lazy before the end of the day.

"I can't do it," pleaded the human.

"Yes, you can. Your species is perfectly capable of manufacturing the sounds. It's hardly a tongue-twister. You nearly have it. Rah... ell..."

"Raffle..."

"Slow it down. You're not trying for best-fit words. You are respecting a cogniscent's name."

The delegate from Libertaria sighed. "It still sounds like something ungodly."

"Technically, that's correct. In that I was manufactured by mortals and my name selected by computational algorithm. Again. Say Rah..."

A lung-deep sigh. "Raaaaahhhhh..."

# Challenge #041: All Things Spadge

Some of the nicknames make sense - their name sounds a little like that word and a slip of the tongue gives them a moniker for life.

But how the heck did nicknames like (RL example) Spadge happen?

[AN: Dunno how it happened to your friend, but...]

The new crewmember had a special word. A word for all things. A word that could mean all things. And after a week of hearing things like:

"This is complete Spadge."

"I love this Spadge."

"Spadge to that!"

"Frelling spadge-monkey!"

The captain snapped and shouted, " _You're_ Spadge!"

It stuck.

#  Challenge #042: One Fine Re-union in a Theatre

Phantom of the Opera parody, starring the flaming purple skeleghost

[AN: Skipping the double prompt because (a) foreign lands and far away from the overlap score (b) my time is limited]

"According to Google, this place isn't even here," said Arthur. "This might be a level O manifestation[1]."

Vivi seemed almost possessed. "I've been here before. I can feel it..."

"Yeah, a brand-new century-old abandoned theatre? I don't think so. Let's g-get out of here, Vivi."

"...vivi...?" whispered another voice.

Arthur's hair stood on end. "Yeah, we need to get out of here," he said.

Vivi, meanwhile, was enjoying herself. She'd climbed up onto the empty stage and taken centre spot. "Ladies and Gentlemen... Announcing for the first time on stage, the Mystery Skulls!"

"Vivi, no," said Arthur.

"Vivi, yes!" She giggled and jumped in place. "Come on. At least have some fun with this..."

Spotlights snapped on, causing Arthur to swear under his breath in a seemingly endless stream.

The other voice in the theatre said, "Sing for me, my angel of music..."

Vivi, almost blinded by the lights, said, "...arthur?"

"You did it, now you do what they want."

Vivi took a deep breath, knowing that she couldn't hold a tune in a bucket. And that she was tone-deaf. "Won't you play a sim-ple mElOdY..."

A gout of purple flame and sparkles, and there, beside her, was a very well-dressed skeleton. "Vivi, it _is_ you! You never could sing worth a damn."

"...hey!" said Vivi.

[1] O stands for "O my god, we're in trouble now."

#  Challenge #043: The Trouble With Kittens

(Let's just ignore the timescales and consider an alternate dimension where everything is the same but they exist at the same time)

Paris, home of the Miraculous Ladybug, Chat Noir... and now, Maestro Francoeur.

Or, if you haven't encountered that show yet, Maestro Francoeur and regular black cats

Life with Francoeur was never simple, and never routine. He could be relied upon to sing like an angel, and play any instrument that crossed his path, but on his time off...

He tended to find trouble. Often, before it was lost.

This trouble started small, of course. So small that nobody noticed. The sight of Francoeur holding something carefully in one pair of his hands hardly merited any attention at all. Raoul would later get the blame for not noticing.

Food was always plentiful in L'Oisseau Rare, so nobody noticed some of it seemingly vanishing without a trace.

What was noticed, eventually, after months of small, strange things that were ignored because of the resident seven-foot-flea... was the smell.

Carlotta was determined to track it down. It smelled like back-alley male impatience behind a much less classy establishment than her own Cabaret. She wanted to find those responsible and, if she had her way, burn them at the stake.

She tracked it down to the basement labyrinth that Francoeur had taken over and made into his home. And found the aforementioned flea in the middle of a living blanket of black cats and kittens.

"Francoeur," Carlotta sighed.

"Joli chat," murmured Francoeur.

He was taught about litter trays _very_ quickly.

# Challenge #044: L'amour Fanatique

Maestro Francoeur discovers the downside of his cabaret success - fans.

In a little cabaret

on the hills of Montmartre,

in the city of Paris by the Sienne...

You will find a singing flea

of a massive 7'3"

and you'll find he never has so much to say...

*

Francoeur hadn't noticed the people. He was more interested in writing his next song. But when he came up for air, there was applause.

From a group of about five young ladies in fashionably abbreviated clothing and the latest of hairstyles. They clutched photographs and box brownies, playbills and notebooks and pens of all kinds. All of them broke out into giggles when he made an inquiring chirp.

"Maestro, you were wonderful!"

"Maestro, I love you!"

"Can you sign this playbill?"

It seemed innocent enough, making his mark on the pages and spelling his name with a few musical notations. He preferred to sing, rather than speak, and interacting with these breathless young ladies required something of a compromise.

An off-the-cuff song. "Thank you, sweet ladies. Of course I can sign. Thank you, pretty girl. I cannot be thine. Thank you, nice miss. Hug me, you may. Thank you, kind child. But you cannot stay."

And there was one who did not get the hint. She hovered. She looked around at everything. She said, "Wow" a lot. She babbled. She asked a lot of seemingly random questions. She edged closer and closer to where Francoeur was trying to work.

"Is that going to be playing tomorrow night?"

Francoeur had run out of words to say, so he shrugged. He took off his gloves so he could better noodle out a phrase with all four hands.

This did not disturb the remaining visitor as much as he'd hoped.

"Wow," she said. "You're amazing. Where does your other thumb go when you wear gloves?"

Francoeur sighed, put down his pen, and showed her.

"Does it hurt to do that for a long time?"

He shook his head.

"Do you like girls?"

Shrug. He was certain she didn't mean what he heard.

"Have you ever been kissed?" she whispered into his ear.

He made the mistake of turning. Her lips met his mouth. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Well, one arm wrapped around his neck. The other drifted downwards along his thorax, determined to find a path under his clothing.

"Take me, Maestro," she cooed as she came up for air. "Take me anywhere you want to go."

Oh good. Francoeur, now that he had her permission, picked her up like she was a sack of flour and carried her to the other side of the stage door. There, he gently set her down outside and shut the door between her and himself. But not without a cheerful, "Au revoir!"

She was only the first of such fans.

#  Challenge #045: Once Upon a Haunted Discotheque

Dang look at this animation

<http://shadowlillium.tumblr.com/post/138421460475>

[AN: You should watch. It's pretty awesome]

The old dance hall had a juke box. A relic of an attempt to increase customers whilst reducing DJ costs. And since it was electronic, Lewis could activate it with his ghost powers.

"Hey check this out," he said, five seconds before he did so.

Tom Jones' _Sex Bomb_ began to play, and Lewis began to move. He altered his typical suit just a tad to include some glittering rhinestones.

In life, he was a very good dancer. Something that both Vivi and Arthur appreciated when he was alive. And he still hadn't lost the ability to groove when he was dead.

The only thing that had changed was pyrotechnics.

His ghostly flames were his to command, and he could make them be anything from a harmless light-show to an all-consuming inferno. And on the dance floor, he used them to impressive effect.

Now his dancing included pyrotechnical transformations between his fleshy and skeletal guises. And floating across the old flooring as if he were skating.

It was an impressive show, and warranted applause.

"WhO dArEs?" rumbled the voice of the Phantom.

Lewis flicked into Skeletal mode one more time and readied some more deadly fireballs. "I dare. Wanna make something of it, pal?"

When one runs a paranormal investigation crew _and_ one has a ghost on one's side... it is rather easy to sort the real ones from the fakes. Old Man Jenkins didn't stand a chance.

# Challenge #046: Can it, Carol!

" _Hmph. I'll have you know, that whole thing is just a horrid example of misinformation."_

" _You're basically a two-meter-tall mantis from our perspective. Humans assuming you devoured your mate was kinda to be expected... namely since, uh, you did."_

" _Well, yes... but not before he was dead! We do have laws, you know. Such is our way for those who are gone. Your kind just throws them in a dirty hole to rot or burns them to ash. How wasteful."_

"Don't forget preserving them to the point of inedibility," added Carol. "We do that one, too."

The rest of the crew glared at her.

"What? Can't I be interested in mummification?"

"You're _not_ ," said the Captain, "helping."

"It can't really be called Cogniphagia, anyway," added Carol, completely missing the hint hurled her way. "If anything, it's unorthadox disposal of the dead, and since it's V'rixx's customs, we really shouldn't judge."

"Carol?" singsonged Captain Alex.

"Hm?"

"Do you remember me telling you that there are times when you should just can it?"

"Oh. Drat. Did I do it again?"

The rest of the entire crew nodded. Even V'rixx, who was still learning about humans.

# Challenge #047: Oh, Francoeur...(1)

Francoeur & company, 2 open ended prompts for double story day

1. Blood

2. Trombone

Everyone knew that fleas drank blood. The ex-chief Maynott certainly screamed it so often and so loudly that he had been moved to a quiet asylum in the country, and wasn't allowed to go near sharp things any more.

The first time someone cut themselves in Franceour's presence, there was an unearthly hush throughout the room that spread as fast as people realised what was happening.

Every set of eyes in the room oscillated between Raoul and his injury and the motionless giant flea. Except for Francoeur, because he was staring solidly at the wound.

Someone screamed, but quickly fell silent when they realised that nothing worth screaming at had happened.

Raoul, ever unaware of danger, finished muttering, "Augh... look at that..." and then noticed that one of the stars had gone... peculiar. "You okay, big guy?"

And then Francoeur fainted dead away.

Paris learned one important lesson, that night. _This_ flea does _not_ drink blood.

# Challenge #048: Oh, Francoeur...(2)

Francoeur & company, 2 open ended prompts for double story day

1. Blood

2. Trombone

One of the players in the musician's gallery had forgotten their instrument. Francoeur, moving tables and heavy furnishings around for Carlotta, saw the shine of the brass and cooed appreciatively.

"Oh! Francoeur... Francoeur, no," clucked Carlotta. "You leave that alone, it's not your– Oooh!"

She was too late. The giant flea had already leaped into the gallery and picked it up. A shiny, brass trombone. Francoeur shucked his jacket and gloves so he could investigate with all four hands.

" _Francoeur_..." Carlotta sighed. "Please leave that alone, sweetie... Those are very expensive."

Francoeur had all his attention devoted to the new thing. His curious humming and chirping was a clear indicator of that. He played with the trombone, investigating its possibilities before he brought the mouthpiece to his lips.

"Francoeur... No..."

He produced a gentle note. Weak and cautious. Emboldened, he took a deep breath.

BLAAAAATTT!

Francoeur dropped the trombone back into the musician's gallery and leaped away, finishing by clinging, trembling, to a chandelier.

"You see?" Carlotta clucked. "Do you see? Learn to leave things alone, Francoeur. It's better in the long run. Now come on down, I still need some help with the chaise..."

#  Challenge #049: Adventuring on Another Plane

:Text recieved on a phone:

hlep! i was trikc-or-treatign with my borther adn our douchebag cousni, adn they gave me smoe of thire haul, luahging abotu how they egged thsi wiccan ladeis houes aftre they got teh cnady, adn now i'm ni a fantays wrold as a griffin! youv'e got to fnid uot where she lievs, adn get hre to brnig me back! there's this ohter griffin taht's bene hagnign aruodn, i dno't know waht they watn!

:another text, some weeks later:

Nevermind, this is pretty great.

:photo attached is of a gryphon standing on a cliff edge, looking over. Said gryphon is not an eagle/lion mix, but what appears to be a crow/snow leopard. There is another gryphon of the same species in the background. Photo seems to have been taken with the phone propped up on the ground and a scratched lens:

[For those of you who do not understand claw-texting misspelling, here is a translation: help! i was trick-or-treating with my brother and our douchebag cousin, and they gave me some of their haul, laughing about how they egged this wiccan ladies house after they got the candy, and now i'm in a fantasy world as a griffin! you've got to find out where she lives, and get her to bring me back! there's this other griffin that's been hanging around, i don't know what they want!]

Cole had had the worst post-halloween hangover. And then the worst post-halloween wake-up experience. Their entire body felt wrong. Cole ached where they had thought there weren't places _to_ ache.

Too much candy. And falling asleep outdoors.

"Prrrp?"

And there was probably a cat.

Wait. They distinctly remembered crawling into bed. "...'ve i been sleepwalkin' again?" Cole tried to mumble. But what came out were a series of raspy squawks.

I must be in worse shape than I feel. That has to be a cheev.

"Cooorrrrip?" That cat wasn't a cat.

Cole opened one crunchy eye to glare balefully at the face of some kind of enormous corvid. With oddly intelligent eyes. Was it a raven or a crow? Cole wasn't in a mood to count its wing feathers[1]. "Don't suppose you know the way back to Conneticut?" Cole tried. The information supplied by their ears battled with the information from their brain. It was too noisy a fight.

"Cooo-ooo-ooo..." said the bird. And somehow, the words, _You are in an awful lot of pain. Shall I help?_ made their way into Cole's shattered brain.

"Jus' start with where I am an' what day it is..." Cole tried to move, and fell over. Somehow, they felt like they had extra limbs and they were all in the way. Everything hurt. They still had their cell phone. Clutched in a... set of talons?

Cole's hands were bird claws. Their feet were... snow leopard paws? There were glossy black wings and a spotted tail and... "What the hell's happened to me?"

The other gryphon was purring and trilling at the same time. _Calm down, friend..._

"I gotta text my roomie. This has to have been an enormous mistake."

Talons were not made for texting. Nor were they made for smart phones. It took five tries and way too many misspellings to get a semblance of a message out. And by the time Cole was done with that, the other Gryphon had rounded up some fish and half a pig. It had eaten the other half.

Coos and chirps. _Eat, friend. You will feel better._

"Uh. I'm not into raw food. Any chance of a campfire?"

What is 'campfire'?

Learning to be a gryphon had been something of a steep curve. Cole walked around on all fours for months before they learned how to use their pinions [their bird half was a raven, it turned out] to any decent effect. And once they took wing...

The roomie who never read the message, or just ignored it, got one final message from Cole. It read, _Never mind. This is pretty great._ and included a picture of two gryphons. One seemingly happy and the other, a little more cautious.

People later investigating it for signs of fraud would identify both animals as a male and a female.

It didn't get disturbing until Cole started sending baby photos.

[1] Because ravens have five long wing feathers (pinions) while crows have four. The difference is a matter of a pinion.

# Challenge #050: One for the Books

Admiral [Name] was arrested for extreme tactical and strategic stupidity.

(maybe something on one of Miles' reports? Either as an ImpSec agent to Simon, or as an Auditor to Gregor?)

[AN: Well it certainly wouldn't happen in my pet universe... the Peter Principle has been rendered null and void]

Ensign Swinton chafed under the command of Admiral Voreckles. He would not promote without combat experience and he refused to allow female officers and staff into combat at all. He assigned those he deemed prettiest onto the bridge or in the public areas so he could show off their shiny dress uniforms and how 'forward thinking' he was for the Imperial Auditor.

This one was relatively young for the title. Scuttlebutt had it that the twisted dwarf was the Emperor's Favourite and had got the role through outright and blatant nepotism.

Swinton had looked him up. Vorkosigan. And encountered a large number of redacted and classified blocks. This was a man for whom you cut your throat before he turned his attentions your way. It would save a great deal of time.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she was Being Decorative in Admiral Voreckles' shadow. Her job was to stand around and look pretty, and answer any questions in a positive manner whenever possible. And a neutral manner when not. And, if all else failed, to throw herself on the Auditor's genitals and thereby defuse an audit.

Swinton saw all she needed to see in the Auditor's lively grey eyes. How they tic'ed from detail to detail. Evaluating, summing up, theorising. Voreckles was weighed in the balance and found wanting before he'd finished introducing his command crew.

Vorkosigan was mentally dusting off the executioner's axe before Voreckles had finished putting his breath to, "And this is Ensign Swinton. She will be seeing to your _every_ need during your visit."

Swinton saluted and said, "Sir," in a manner that would make a parade inspector weep tears of joy. And tried not to look like she should be wrapped entirely in gift ribbon and be laying on a platter with a crown of parsley. She could see Auditor Vorkosigan summing her up as a bribe within seconds.

"How are the drains?" said Vorkosigan.

The query came from so far left field that it may well have circumnavigated the globe in order to pitch from the right. Swinton didn't bother with 'er's or 'um's. "Speaking personally, sir, I have encountered no problems. I could have a more in-depth report in your hands inside of two hours and a thorough investigation in twenty-four hours. If that's what my Lord Auditor wishes," she said. Clipped and sharp. Businesslike. And with only the merest sidelong glance towards Voreckles to make certain she was performing up to spec.

A glance that Vorkosigan caught. Damnit.

"Very nicely turned out uniforms, Ensign."

"Sir," said Swinton.

"Are you all dressed up just for me? Or is this a regular requirement?" Translated: _Is this a show or a full-time circus?_

Swinton could tell he had already seen the signs of regular wear on her Dress Greens. "The Admiral requires all bridge crew to comport themselves as if the Emperor were visiting." She did not say, _And he makes sure our uniforms are slightly more visually appealing than the male ones. And he dictates how we do our hair. And tells us exactly how much makeup to wear._

"Good for Gregor," muttered Vorkosigan. Aloud, he said. "I expect the Admiral has much more important things to do than to show me around. Take me on the tour that none of the other VIP's get. Show me the ordinary stuff."

A panicked glance to Voreckles, who gave her one of his infamous mono-shouldered shrugs. Sometimes, his entire command was a mono-shouldered shrug. _You know what you're supposed to do. Get on with it._

Get on with it, she did. She showed him the dining hall. She showed him the officers' and the recruits' messes. She showed him the bathrooms. And she let him read the informal-but-mandatory rules and regulations for females working on board the ship. Including how much body hair was allowed. Then she showed him the salon.

It was marked as the ladies' gym, but there was very little that was heavier than a curling iron in there.

And, most damningly, she let Vorkosigan interview a healthy sample of the ladies on board. Let him hear how their primary duty was Looking Busy accompanied with a healthy helping of Looking Pretty. How they were essentially there to be decorative and little else.

Vorkosigan listened with steepled fingers and a scarily neutral expression. It had been a long time since an Admiral of the Emperor's Fleet had been charged with Misuse of His Majesty's Imperial Forces, but this... this was outrageous.

In the end, the women didn't need a bloody coup to wrest control of the ship off the Admiral. The enemy did that for them, with a boarding party whilst all the men were out trying to board the enemy. The women had been aching for combat, and took out all their aggression on the enemy. And had to be stopped from tearing them to pieces.

Vorkosigan was illogically proud of all of them, and referred to them informally as His Ladies all the way back to Barrayar.

# Challenge #051: Filling in Time

Channeling Bugs Bunny (maybe Shayde?): "I know this breaks the laws of physics, but you see I never studied law."

[AN: Yes, Shayde did study the laws of physics, but she also found some loopholes]

They were waiting for the dust to settle and Security had already confiscated Shayde's guitar. Possibly out of self-defence. Which meant a series of increasingly unlikely self-entertainments that she pulled out of her trans-dimensional 'pockets'.

One day, Rael supposed, they would learn that Shayde was pathologically incapable of sitting idle for any length of time and at least let her have a colouring book[1] or a cats' cradle.

But for now, she had ping-pong balls. She was juggling them with both hands, at least one knee, and, when she was being enthusiastic, her mouth.

Rael watched the multi-coloured balls zinging about in a plethora of arcs with half an interest. It wasn't as if there was much else to look at in Temporary Detainment. Besides the plaque on the wall that said, in GalStand, _Please think about what you have done._ With the subtitle for humans, _You might not have thought before you did it._

And it was only because he wasn't focussed entirely on her show that he noticed... _some of the balls were bouncing off of nothing at all_.

Startled, Rael watched with more attention than he usually devoted to Shayde's idle shenanigans. Tracking one particular ping-pong ball on its eccentric series of arcs until...

It definitely bounced off of nothing at all...

Come to think of it, a lot of the balls never actually touched her hands, either.

"How...?" he said.

Shayde grinned. "I was always pants at jugglin'. Until I realised I could pop a wee confinement field up an' keep 'em goin' that way. You'd be surprised how few people notice."

"I think I might," he allowed.

[1] The appeal of colouring in things is practically universal and no longer contains age constraints.

# Challenge #052: Gods on Their Side

" _HOW IS SUMMONING THE GOD-BIRD Of LIGHTNING STEALTHY!?"_

The Cleric stopped in mid-chant. "Excuse you, but The Mighty Thunderbird is a master or mistress of the sneak attack. They glide silently, like a cloud, until they strike."

"But–"

"Their attacks are swift and, by the time the enemy looks, they are no longer there. Trust me. If you want an army annihilated, the all-powerful and Mighty Thunderbird is going to smite them thoroughly. All Glory."

There was a stunned silence around the table.

"I can buy that logic," said the DM. They brought out the D100. It rolled a five. "An insignificant portion of the enemy will detect the approach of your god." Another roll. A ten. "And a slightly larger portion will actually recognise the attack as an attack once it starts."

The cleric rolled for Summon Divinity.

A natural twenty.

"The full might of the Mighty Thunderbird is unleashed upon the enemy encampment, sowing chaos and discord in its wake. Those screaming about a giant bird raining thunder and lightning down upon them are taken for madmen. The few with the sense to try and attack are overwhelmed." The D100 rolled again, showing an eighty. "Most of the army falls with the first sweep."

"I continue chanting," said the Cleric. "And pray that the maguffin remains intact under his devastating wing."

The D100 rolled again. A four. "Amazingly, none of the army spots a giant, glowing bird shooting lightning from its pinions as it flies over the encampment." A fifty. "Half of the remaining forces attempt to rally, the other half flees."

"Can we beat them now?" asked the Paladin.

"I continue chanting! My god is on my side!"

"Dude," said the Rogue. "This is bonkers."

The D100 rolled again. One. The DM was somewhere between laughing and sobbing. "Everybody is too busy worrying about a clean pair of trousers to look upwards at the glowing bird who could fill the entire fucking sky." A Seventy-four. "Those who don't die of fright or lightning are so demoralised that they lay down their arms and pray to their gods for mercy."

"I try to mass convert them to my church," the cleric rolled their D20. It came up with a two. "FUCK!"

"The remaining forces realise that you're the cause of all of this and attempt to take up arms," dies rolled. And all came up ones. "They fumble. Most of them hurt themselves in the attempt."

" _Now_ can I mop up the survivors?" begged the Paladin.

# Challenge #053: Always Question

In a fantasy universe, what about an Agnostic Cleric? Doesn't really believe in any deity, just posts "help wanted" notices on the divine noticeboard. On the upside, has access to all the spell domains. On the downside, you'd be amazed on just what can count as "healing".

The Rogue watched the Cleric set up for the night. Usually, there was some kind of impromptu altar or extended prayer session, but this Cleric lit a candle and appeared to meditate for half an hour. After that was done, they blew out the candle and settled into their sleep roll for the night.

"That was amazingly brief," said the Rogue. "Nothing like the pomp and circumstance most Clerics go in for."

"Yeah, I'm not most Clerics," muttered Jansin.

"So who's your God?"

"I don't have one."

T'tavi tried to process that and failed. "Wait. You're an atheist?"

"No. Agnostic. There's a difference. Atheists don't believe in any gods. Agnostics recognise the possibility of divinity, but are uncertain about the 'one true god' part."

T'tavi the Rogue thought about this. For some significant time. "Okay, my brain is trying to burn. How exactly does this work?"

"Look up," said the Cleric. "What do you see?"

"Stars?"

"That is the pantheon. Every divine being is a point of light. Old ones, new ones, ones who have yet to be seen... Some flare brightly and fall into ruin. Others wander while others stay firm."

"Okay. Yeah. That kind of describes the gods, I guess."

"Now. Which one is real?"

T'tavi looked up at the scattered brightness above her. "Oh... Right. So they're either all real or none of them are?"

"Indeed. There are those for whom their chosen god is like the sun. It illuminates everything and obscures the others. I would rather the beauty of an uncountable sky." Jansin leaned up on her sleep roll to answer the inevitable question. "There's too many to name, so I sort of put out psychic 'help wanted' fliers. An all-points bulletin. Assistance needed, ASAP."

"Does that _work_?"

"The whims of one god are ineffable. The whims of multiple gods are surprisingly reliable. There's even odd-job gods out there. Anything for some incense."

T'tavi spent a majority of her watch staring up at the stars. She had always thought the gods had forsaken her because of her thievery, her species, or any number of things that the foaming and angry mouths of the pulpit ranted about.

There were more stars in the sky than she could count. Therefore, more gods than the pulpit pilots could know. Someone, somewhere, had to be a god of Rogues.

_I'm here if you want to say 'hello',_ she thought.

#  Challenge #054: One Blizzard-riddled Afternoon in the Antarctic Circle

Have you seen 'The Thing'? The 1982 one, based on 'Who Goes There?', not the 2011 prequel. Well...

Prometheus: I know you gentlemen have been through a lot, but when you find the time, I'd rather not spend the rest of eternity TIED TO THIS FUCKING ROCK!

[AN: I've seen the 1950's version of The Thing (aka: The Secret Origin of the Flaming Carrot) and I have to wonder about scientist's need to give random shit from space some human blood. What the hell are the thought processes behind that logic, please? Enquiring minds need to know]

"He looks a bit peekid..."

"He's chained to a freaking rock in the middle of the antarctic... I should think he has the right to look worse."

"I think we should give him some human blood. Like... feed it to him?"

"Again? _Again_? You haven't learned from the last freaking time? We had to burn the base and blow up the alien ship and you _still_ need to feed random things human goddamn blood?"

"...don't kinkshame me, bro..."

The apparent leader made soft little groan that was nearly a cough. The universal sound that meant _O God(s) damn it, for fuck's sake..._ "Are you seriously telling me," they said, "you nearly started a homophagic apocalypse... BECAUSE OF A _KINK_?!"

Prometheus sighed. "Yeah. Okay. You have issues. I just have two questions: Is it alive, and can it hear you two yelling? Because now I _really_ want to not be tied to this fucking rock. I think I hear something moving, out there, and it doesn't sound like another seal or a penguin."

The kinky one looked over his shoulder. "Uhm..."

The leader brought out an implement. "I have a bone saw. Do not make me regret this, bro."

"Done sold. Get sawing."

# Challenge #055: Different Hats (1)

_1)_  http://scienceisadesiretoknow.tumblr.com/post/139009801040/swingsetindecember-where-a-grad-student-becomes

Grad student is a villain for extra credit and/or money

2) Wander over Yonder - adventures of The Hat when Wander first gets it

(haven't seen it? episodes The Hat and Bad Hatter are the relevant ones, or do a story about Sans and a little orange cat) – Anon Guest

There's two ways to go when your parents have an attack of The Cutes and name you Easter Bunny Smith. Up until I hit college, I went with calling myself East. In amongst all the Maqaulkins and Sivaighnnas, I was okay. Mostly. And my daily mantra got to be "it's not my fault I was born on Easter Sunday." At least until I realised that my studies had changed my fate.

I have a little gift. Nothing big. Nothing splashy. I can sort-of see the future. I get a lot of prophetic dreams. So of course I went into Gifted Studies to try and get a handle on it because genuine future-vision could earn me like a squillion dollars.

What? Tuition's expensive.

It didn't take me long to realise that three out of five of my thesis professors are the secret identities of the three biggest supervillains in Megatropolis. So of course I researched their early careers and- what do you know? They started off as dirt poor college kids with a tiny bit of an edge. Just like me.

There's something about student debt that makes people into villains. Someone should do a study and then rub people's faces in it.

I trained my powers in small areas. Places that had poker machines. After a while, I could get a bunch of coins like nine times out of ten. Most of the spare money went on gadgets. If you aren't a heavy hitter, you need some serious gizmos to hold your own against the good guys out there.

I read up on them, too. Amazing how being rich gets you on the side of the law. It's almost like laws exist to keep rich people wealthy. Ahem.

I did my first bank job with a glimpse of foresight. And a dream. Empty backpack plus hoodie plus an otherwise unforeseen distraction (cheers to one of my professors. He nearly got away with it) and I was walking away with four thousand bucks.

Enough to hold off the tuition fee collectors for a while.

My outfit is basic black and cheap. I source a lot of stuff from 99cent stores. I kind of have to.

Professor Arcana is already grading me on how many of my heists are successful. I'm sort of doing OK.

Except for some damn preppie whose thesis is being a superhero. They're the usual collection of Superpowers. Flight, strength, speed and a certain degree of invulnerability. And absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. God, she's how I discovered I was gay.

And she's allergic to garlic.

So of course I put on enough to incapacitate her. I don't kill. I'm not a complete douche. Besides, killing anyone is an automatic fail.

"Sorry, Wondergal," a quip as I drop the latest garlic bomb. "Tuition's not cheap."

"You can be better than this," she manages before the cloud gets to her.

And the next day, I try not to look at her alter-ego's rashes. And I slip her some cream that's guaranteed to help. She's cute. She knows people struggle and still believes people can get ahead by following the rules.

I spend most of my days arguing with her in class. And most of my nights fighting her off from our latest battle. Garlic's a last resort. She follows the rules and I can use that against her. And I do.

Tonight... she found me casing out a jewellery store. One of the high-ticket ones where someone like me could only get one ring out of, maybe, in my entire life. The sort of place that sneers at hoodies and backpacks. The sort of place that can afford hits and shrug them off.

Of course Wondergal gave me the whole 'halt, evil-doer' spiel.

I'd had enough, tonight. I just went off on her like, "I'm not even doing anything. I'm allowed to sit and watch the city, too."

"But you're sitting with nefarious intent."

I leaned back. "Prove it."

It sparked a debate. Of course it did. Some of the usual rhetoric with a side order of pleading. I think it was the pleading that got to me, in the end. Like she was desperate for me to be good so she would be allowed to like me.

"There's _good_ in you," she finished. "I can feel it."

I sighed. "At this stage in the game, all that's in me is ramen, red bull, no-doze, and spite. Good is relative, anyway. Someone's greater good is always someone else's despicable evil."

"There's universal good," offered Wondergal. "Love, for example."

"And then there's those dickbags," I gestured at the jewellery store. "They bought up and then evicted three tenement buildings so they could have their fancy building and imported granite façade. Five hundred people just thrown out of their homes and maybe a few thousand more when the neighbourhood rents got too high. And for what? So rich people can go shopping for things they don't need for about twice what the people they evicted could dream of earning inside a year!"

I expected another 'invisible hand of the free market' speech. What I got was, "So you're fighting another kind of injustice."

I guess she was actually paying attention during my rants in Morality classes. "Yeah. These assholes could give up ten percent of their earnings to the poor and never notice the difference. Hell, they could give up ten percent of their _holdings_ and never notice the difference. It'd make a hell of a difference to the people they give it to."

"But the poor would become dependent on the handouts," she said. But she didn't seem that sure. "Won't they?"

"Dude. You give poor people money, and they'll instantly spend it on stuff they've been holding out on forever. Sometimes, I think all those rich bastards are scared of poor people having nice things."

"So what are you doing with the things you take?" She didn't say 'steal' this time. "Some kind of Robin Hood thing?"

"Something like that. Yeah. Tuition fees are a bitch and we just got a new book list. I dropped a thousand dollars I didn't have on a set of books I can't re-sell or use, and I have to do it _again_ because they changed horses in mid-stream. I _need_ this degree! They won't hire without it. You? You probably have some uncle in the business, already."

"Aunt. Yeah. And she insists I still get the degree." Wondergal coughed. "She's... uhm... she's helping me buy all the stuff I need. So I have more time for field work."

"And your tuition?"

Mumbled, "...igotascholarship... fr'mmyaunty..."

I knew it. I so fucking knew it. "Uhuh. Right. So you don't have a criminally un-proportional student loan to pay for tuition, three part-time jobs, and any worries about where your next meal is coming from. I ate the last of my ramen for this week before I went out to literally follow a dream, by the way."

"It's Tuesday," said Wondergal. "When do you get food again?"

"My next cheque comes in on Friday. Assuming they don't dick me around for another three to five business days." I couldn't very well act on my gift now. Not with her watching. So I leaned back on the rooftop and stared up at the few stars the city lights let show. "Some of us are criminals because there's no other choice."

"Did you try being a hero?"

O, the naivety... I laughed out loud. Like, really loud. "Sweet summer child," I tisked. "You rescue a baby, you get a medal and some swag. I rescue a baby, the police think I'm a kidnapper and fucking shoot my latina ass dead. I don't have any white friends to be sidekick to. I don't have any advantages. I just have me."

And then she said it. "You could have me?"

I think... things are going to get interesting.

# Challenge #056: Different Hats (2)

_1)_  http://scienceisadesiretoknow.tumblr.com/post/139009801040/swingsetindecember-where-a-grad-student-becomes

Grad student is a villain for extra credit and/or money

2) Wander over Yonder - adventures of The Hat when Wander first gets it

(haven't seen it? episodes The Hat and Bad Hatter are the relevant ones, or do a story about Sans and a little orange cat) – Anon Guest

It has been two weeks and the Wanderer has yet to ask for anything. I am still afraid. I still... ache. If a cloth hat can feel, I feel... bad.

People take advantage of magical hats. You know it. I was very badly used by my last owner.

The Wanderer is not using me like that. I am still afraid he will.

He has not taken anything from me. He has... made me hold things.

A banjo, a map, and a bottle of Orbble Juice. Everything else... he foraged for. Which worries me, still. Why steal a magic hat if one doesn't plan to use it?

He sat me opposite a fire, whenever he made camp. Played me songs. Talked about love and kindness. I got the feeling that he didn't talk to people for very long.

It was when the night closed in and the temperature dropped. He knew I could hold anything. He knew I could give him anything I wanted. And yet?

"Say, pal. D'you mind if I use you like a sleeping bag for the night? It's gotten kind'a chilly, here."

I let him. It was nothing like what I was used to. And I knew he was a still sleeper. He took great care not to harm me, and as much care to pick a comfortable place to lie.

I read his mind while he dreamed. Trying to gain a closer understanding of his thoughts. And I was surprised to find a genuinely good soul.

There was, the next morning, a bad guy. A need to flee faster than he, himself, could manage. I knew it. If he lost, the villain would have me and all my magic.

So when he reached for his Orbble Juice... I gave him something he needed.

It... it didn't hurt. And he didn't ask for anything more. Just a 'thanks!' and a lucky escape.

He never asked me for anything. Never suggested. Never demanded.

I think that's why I'm starting to like him.

#  Challenge #057: One Ambitious Training Session on Amalgam Station

 http://this-book-has-been-loved.tumblr.com/post/139007622507/things-ive-actually-heard-college-students-say

pick one

[AN: Only one? They're all gold!]

It was a minor Ambassadorial meet and greet session, allegedly concerning negotiations to stop the Greater Deregulations from being such massive collections of feces towards their fellow human being.

Not acting like massive collections of feces towards non-human cogniscents was going to take significantly more time and effort.

Laws and regulations were not really working. The most the Deregulations would do was show lip service to any of them and immediately return to business as normal the instant the Galactic Alliance turned their backs.

So now the Alliances were working on exposure therapy. Allowing delegates and representatives to open their eyes by showing them that the Other is not at all as threatening as they were wont to believe.

Which meant that all other humans in the room were frequently exposed to backwards compliments, like mad libs around, "You're pretty [COMPLIMENT] for a [SLUR]."

Rael was there to stop Shayde flying off the handle. He kept a firm grip on one of her elbows at all times and muttered things into their personal comms to attempt to keep her calm.

He was down to a list of After-Party treats. Number one on the list was always good to halve her stress levels.

"Consortium of Steam concert, following the meeting," Rael murmured. "With chocolates and a jam session. And you're going to take me on a merry-go-round, later. Figgy duffs at Unsuitable Food Eat..." What else, what else, what else? Ah. Yes. "A hot bath and a good snuggle session. Consecutively, in whichever order you please."

Synchronicity or Shayde's eldritch mutterings made the entire room go quiet enough for all the delegates and Ambassadors to hear one representative of Greater Deregulation North by Northwest say, "I'VE ONLY DONE ANAL TWICE, OKAY?"

The defensive cluster of Greater Deregulations realised that Shayde was also in the room, and turned their eyes to Shayde's pointy grin.

Never before had a cogniscent running their tongue over their teeth been subject to such terrified scrutiny.

"Don't do it," Rael subvocalised into their comms. "I can hear what you're thinking about and please don't do it. The fate of the future is in your hands. Please. For the love of your god... Don't. Do. It."

Shayde cleared her throat. Because it was her, it sounded like a harbinger of certain doom.

"...please don't do it?" Rael begged. Possibly far too late.

Instead of her usual crass ribaldry, she said, "Thank ye fer sharin', Greater Deregulation North by Northwest. If yer curiosity returns, ye might find an abundance o' lube advantageous."

The party wound to a quick and embarrassed halt, shortly thereafter.

Rael was the only one who heard her quiet cackling. "You'd do anything to get to a Consortium show, won't you?"

Her grin was still pointy and slightly menacing. "I honestly don't know what yer talkin' about... I did everythin' I was supposed to."

"With almost military precision, I noticed."

# Challenge #060: One Tiny Flaw

 http://this-book-has-been-loved.tumblr.com/post/139007622507/things-ive-actually-heard-college-students-say

And another one

"Look," said the proud architect. "It's the perfect sealed environment. Everything anyone could need, including weather systems to strengthen the trees[1]. I thought of everything. Water purification and recycling, food manufacture. I even created a system that eliminates pathogens in the waste recycling system and removes all risks of infections. There's more than adequate space for everyone, lounges and personal space, shared space. Look. There's even a cinema!"

Director Mellis unfurled the plans, looked at every aspect. Read over the plans to have robots build the base before humans got there.

"It's the ideal arcology for Martian colonisation and exploration. Just add people."

Director Mellis found a worrying flaw. "Uhm... How are they going to get in?"

"What?"

"You forgot a damn door!"

[1] Experiments with sealed environments have encountered problems with trees collapsing apparently from no cause. Studies later concluded that trees need wind to strengthen them against collapse.

# Challenge #061: Eternal Knight

_I like the idea of an undead paladin. They didn't rise because of some dark god or ritual or necromantic power but by four little words._ _I. Am. Not. Done._

The Serf-Page called Scun had watched the Mighty Torpen die. Nobody could possibly survive that many arrows and spears. And yet, Scun watched him fight on. The battle raged on and on as Orc after Orc fell to his blade. Long past the time that Torpen should have collapsed from lack of blood.

Finally, the enemy broke and fled the field. Scun rushed from his place with a skinful of ale and a basket of cakes. And some nuns following with lint, bandages and salve.

Scun did not believe that his master was going to live long, but By The Light, he would not see his master die in discomfort.

And in approaching his master, Scun heard a chant. Four words. With varying emphasis. Over and over again.

"I am not done."

He was leaning on a broken halberd. His legs shaking with the effort of staying upright.

"The battle is over, master," said Scun. He raised a moist sponge to his lord's lips while the other hand worked on the buckles of his armour. "We're just going... we're going to make you comfortable..."

"I... am not... _done_."

"Nay, master. You are still with us, and that will cheer the troops. You need healing... You need–*" Scun's voice choked and died in his throat.

One of the arrows had gone straight through his head.

It should have killed him. It certainly put out his eye.

And the one that remained...

Glowed.

Red.

Scun took three steps back. Cried, "Mercy! Gods have mercy!"

And Torpen seemed to notice, too. "But..." he objected. "I'm not done..."

The nun and a host of her sisters hustled the husk of Torpen off the field before anyone else could see. Bound the helpless Scun in Holding and Silence spells until the hysteria died out.

Deep in the sanctuary of the healing tent and tarpaulin temple, Nuns rushed in and out of one warded room. Scun watched his master's armour come together on a stand. All the new holes in it seemed all the more terrifying without Torpen in it.

The Lady Erintude's favour, tattered and bloodied, still hung from the right vambrace. Scun could see three of the dandelions she had stitched into the fabric with her own hand. One was now as ruddy as a rose. He watched the blood turn brown as nuns scurried between it and him.

_If my master is undead,_ thought Scun, _am I still bound to him? Who will look after me, now? Must I follow him through evil? If I die, will I go to hell now?_

Scun was no stranger to the sight of Torpen in bandages. What was different were the runes of Patch and Preserve stitched into the linen. He had a charm about his neck that was normally found tied to meat to help it keep.

"Scun," said his master's voice. "You are bound to me until one of us dies. While I am undead. If you choose not to serve me, furthermore, I will grant you freedom. And land."

"Master... I swore myself to you until you were finished. And you are not finished. So long as you lead me not towards evil, I will serve you."

Torpen wrote up the papers of freedom, anyway. Scun was a Freeman who owned four acres, with house and the right to a mule. And the right to a pig. And the right to choose a wife. Only some of which, he chose to claim immediately.

Torpen, once undead, was just as generous as he had been when alive. Between battles, he would guard Scunhold against evil, because he was not done. And when Scun began to fail from old age, his son took up the mantle of servant.

*

There is always evil. The Loyal Order of Scunson does help me, but I am not done.

I can keep evil from our borders. Wherever there is a fight to quell it, I am there. My flesh is gone, and my armour has been replaced, but I shall always fight.

I. Am. Not. Done.

#  Challenge #062: Saint Rillfin the Silver-scale

Ignoring all that lore about the rings of horn etc.

Imagine a sparkling, pristine halo perched gently above a pair of horns, and the owner's reaction to this new development.

[AN: I'm not certain about that lore, I guess I'll learn later]

Everyone knows about evil dragons. They eat maidens and spread blight, hoard treasure and are otherwise the bad apple that spoils the entire barrel. Most regular dragons try to eliminate them before the knight errant is required.

That sort of news always spreads way too fast.

Most dragons co-exist with their territory. The sight of massive wings overhead is no reason for fear. They politely ask which cattle can be taken without harm to the farmer's economy.

Dragons might be obligate carnivores, but they don't need to eat very often.

And then there's Rillfin.

Small for a dragon, with a mere thirty-foot wingspan, Rillfin Silverscale farms her own cattle. Her abundant herds are frequently shared out to her human neighbours as well as any dragon in need. She farms fish, at the other end of her caverns, and hires humans to tend fields that, essentially, grow fish food.

None have been able to determine what her hoard is. Her bed, a collection of glittering quartz, is not enough to be a proper dragon hoard. She apparently covets nothing.

The bard Perriwinkle was fascinated by her, and spent months in her caverns. Talking of this or that. Indulging in the kind of late-night philosophy that could change the world if only it could be remembered come the morrow.

And it was on one of those evening chats that she noticed the ring.

Balanced between her horn-tips, apparently supported by nothing, was a ring. No. A disc. Partially transparent, but definitely gold. And glowing with its own light.

Perriwinkle stared. "I've seen many fae things," she whispered. "But before today, I've never seen a dragon with a halo..."

Rillfin took a look in one glassy wall, cooing at the bright, shiny vision in her reflection. "Oh my," she said. "That is pretty... I wish I could share it, but I don't know how I got it."

Perriwinkle giggled. "It's a symptom of chaste living, I'm told. A gift from the Gods so all may know you're virtuous."

" _You_ don't have one," said Rillfin.

"Of course not," said Perriwinkle. "I'm a bard."

#  Challenge #063: Saint Kurt of the Mutants

One Kurt Wagner, he of the lifelong fear of growing horns, eventually notices the gradually brightening heavenly glow around his head

He was half-asleep when the realisation came. Stumbling about in the pre-dawn gloom and not in a state of mind to question anything, Kurt took his shower and was brushing his teeth when he idly wondered what was wrong with the lights.

And then he realised that he hadn't turned them on.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Foam at his mouth, post-shower scruff, toothbrush still embedded between his pointy teeth. And a subtle glow surrounding his hair. Just enough to give shape to the darkness.

"Vas?" he croaked.

The lights flared on, making him curse. And eliminating all trace of the glow. Logan entered and growled, "Geez, Elf. Learn to turn lights on f'r the rest of us."

During the following weeks, Kurt was moderately certain he was hallucinating. Every time it was dark, he saw a light coming from his head. In two weeks, it was a solid disk. Well. Seemingly solid. He could put his fingers right through it if he tried to touch it.

Then came the bombing of the Mutant Orphanage. Since the Safe Haven laws, those born with visible mutations were most often left on various doorsteps or, in more than a few headline cases, by their dumpsters. The survivors wound up in places like this. Underfunded, overcrowded, abandoned and unloved.

The X-Men all took the time to visit. Show the kids that there was hope.

And now they all came at once. To extinguish the fires. To rescue those who were trapped. To comfort those who wept. To heal those who were injured. And, if it came to that, mourn the dead.

There should have been dead.

The bomb went off practically right next to Kurt, who teleported out of the Home with a small cluster of the kids he'd been reading to. He spent the next twenty minutes with prayers spilling from his mouth. Teleporting in and out, grabbing kids and getting them out of the fires.

The injuries were small. The only person gravely hurt was the main housekeeper, who was well-known to hate her job. And her charges. Whenever she was on duty, the one television was constantly tuned to an anti-mutant broadcast.

Later investigation would reveal that she was the bomber.

But the important part was that everyone who was there... saw it. The one mutant who should have been exhausted by his efforts. Who should have flagged and failed inside the first few minutes, continually working to help and rescue everyone inside the burning building. And they also saw, when the fires went out and the flame retardants shorted out the block... that the most demonic of all mutants had a definite halo.

Shining with light enough to continue illuminating the scene.

And some swore they saw more than one angel helping out the EMT's. The shaky phonecam footage seemed to back them up, too.

Many pointed to the hand of God. And those who pointed at the hand of the devil did so with very shaky fingers.

The Catholic Church was very careful about what they said in regards to a mutant saint. But then, they always had problems with saints when they were still alive.

#  Challenge #064: Not-so-Vital Information

Is there a species in the galactic community large enough to hold a human like a hamster?

Taken from the Wikipedia Galactica under the heading of _Illogical Questions Asked About Humans_...

A: Short form answer: usually not.

Long form answer:

Cogniscents in the Galactic Alliance vary in dimensions and mass. For organic cogniscents, the mass is usually between eight and five hundred Standard Weight Units. There are a few exceptions [see file: Hive Minds] but giants are solely in the realm of myth.

Inorganic cogniscents, those who are made or manufactured, have no such limitations. The largest known AI with a body capable of manipulating smaller beings resides on the Terran colony WENT [Walter Estates New Territory] and is a member of the Consortium of Steam.

Though this entity is large enough, when inhabiting his body, to convey humans about as if they are hamsters... he prefers not to. Such conveying may not harm a hamster. Humans, however, are too large to withstand such scaled-up manipulations safely.

However, the entity can and will convey human-shaped robots about as if they were hamsters. Which, our editors are told, is close enough. Both parties thoroughly enjoy the experience.

# Challenge #065: Weird is Universal

A person is the only member of their species in a group, so a lot of their behaviour is passed off as "must be a (species) thing."

Then they meet up with the others and it turns out no, none of them do that, it's a Dave thing.

In the interests of diplomacy, crews from various species' crew have been shared out into other species' vessels. I think the Galactic Alliance is trying to engender familiarity with others as a means of cutting down on accidental misunderstandings that trip and fall into wars.

Yeah, it all sounds peachy and keen, the Galactic Alliance, but it's held together with spit and willpower, and they're running out of spit.

And, I think, in the interests of not driving my superiors completely gonzo, they shipped me off to a bunch of aliens called the Q'voth.

They're spiders. Well. Sort of spiders. Imagine for a second that actual spiders evolved lungs and more of a brain than you need to spin webs and eat flies and make more spiders. And with a few less legs. That's your Q'voth.

The conversation went something like this:

OCaptainMyCaptain: Hey Dave, you like bugs of all kinds, right?

Me: Uh, sure, I guess.

OCaptainMyCaptain: Greeeeaaat... I have one heck of an assignment for you!

And the next thing I knew, I was packing my essentials and learning a smattering of Q'voth. I can understand more than I can say. That's natural. I don't have the mouth parts for their complete language.

But you have to pick up the important stuff. Like what panic sounds and looks like. And the important words like, "evacuate", "run", "fire" and lots of other things used in an emergency.

People all over the Alliance panic in their home tongue. It's natural.

The Q'voth are nice enough folks, really. Arachnaphobes wouldn't like the look of them, but as I said, I'm okay with bugs. They're near-sighted, so everything is finely detailed and it took them a couple of Standard Weeks to get used to the idea that I could see much further than them.

It took me that long to get used to the webs.

Q'voth don't like big, empty spaces, so they spin guide-lines between point A and point B. I kept tripping over, breaking, or otherwise messing them up.

Let's just say that we had to work really hard on understanding each other.

As for me... I didn't really have to worry too hard about pretending to be normal, among the Q'voth. I could do my little rituals and nobody said anything. As long as the work got done, they were cool.

So cool that my need for them waned more than a little.

Let me tell you, it was such an immense relief to be accepted as I am. Usually, my little quirks kind of drive people to distraction. I hum under my breath. I make faces when I'm writing reports. And some days, I have to check things a set number of times before I can continue. Threes are pretty usual. Sevens on bad days, and on the really horrible days, I can get stuck in a check loop.

That hasn't happened with the Q'voth. They put it down to diligence or something. The faint praise my human superiors put on my report was that I always had perfectly functioning survival gear.

The Q'voth were really glad of my ability to always know about the emergency gear. And they relied on my visual acuity more than once.

I heard, once, that someone got shipped out to a bunch of bats and moles. That had to be fun.

Anyway. The crap hit the fan when my Q'voth shipmates met up with another human ship. They were so used to my way of being okay that it must have been a bit of a shock when they realised.

My way is not the default human way.

I... might... have freaked out and gone hiding in the service tunnels. I do remember a lot of crying.

But it's all good, now. The Q'voth are still amazingly cool with every weird little thing I do. The only difference now is that they ask...

"Is this a Dave thing or a Human thing?"

They're amazing bugs. You should get over your insectophobia and visit.

# Challenge #066: Unemployable

:Interview transcript segment:

Interviewee: Why am I the right fit for this job? Well, I'm not sure I'm the right fit for ANY job. I was at a cheap store, and there was this cheesy 'magic wand' lying there. It was out of its wrapper, and I was feeling silly, so I picked it up and said some nonsense. NOW look at me!

:Interviewee appears to be no longer human. Has antennae, three large multifaceted eyes spread equidistant around their head, a chitinous, segmented, insect-centaur body that has four three-fingered arms available and eight legs, and a scorpion tail. There's no way this is a costume - I swear I'm not making this up, boss:

Interviewee: They say they can't change me back until I can tell them what I said, but I don't KNOW!...and I was almost finished my medical degree, too. At least they put a spell on me so people know I'm me, and don't try and haul me away for vivisection, or anything.

Policy dictated that questions about potential employees physicality were off limits unless they mentioned it first. And even then, the questions had to remain focussed on employment and their quality as an employee.

"May I ask how you're working on the cure?" said Paula. That was a safe question. Not entirely in the boundaries of the regulations, but reasonable enough. Would their efforts to regain humanity interfere with their work schedule?

"I take a memory potion once a night. They say I should focus on my actions that night, but all I'm getting is the party before the morning after... and it fast-forwards through the bit where I was drunk in a ninety-nine cent store at one A.M." The creature that had once been Donovan Duskie rubbed at his head with one of his wrists. "I'm getting further and further in, which is kind'a frustrating. And I'm taking notes when I wake up. They tell me every step forward is progress, but..." he sighed. It sounded like a cross between a slide whistle and a cicada. "I'm worried that by the time we get to a cure, I might be used to this and not want it."

"I think that's a rational fear," allowed Paula. "Are those -er- extra eyes..." functional? No. "Distracting?" Yes.

"No. I shut them when I'm not using them. Can't turn my head much, any more... so... They're better than twisting my whole self around. And yes, I do have a safety stopper for the scorpion tail. I just -ah- took it off for the interview because it looks ridiculous." He took it out of his pocket. It was large and spongy and a very bright yellow. "I'm legally required to wear it in crowded venues."

"That's..." scary? Unnerving? Disturbing? Horrifying? "Understandable."

"It's okay. They have an anti-venom in case I accidentally sting anyone. They supply you with a syringe or two in case of emergencies." His nervous laugh sounded like a cicada hiccuping. "Gotta be quick, y'know?"

In the end, Paula's company decided that there were better people for the job than Donovan Duskie. Paula felt bad about it because, in the end, he really was a cool guy. So she sent him a cutting from the paper. Of a tiny little advert hidden in the Employment section.

_Walter Robotics. We hire anyone brave enough to work for us._ And an address in San Diego.

With luck, he would get the help he needed. With the best of luck, he would survive the process.

# Challenge #067: Ready For Inspection

T'reka (or another of her species) meets a Helmeted Guineafowl

The thing about Terrans, when one got down to it, was their fanaticism for introducing things. Some of them, inherently hazardous. Some of them, frankly insane. And some, K'iival found out, previously extinct.

As manager of the Integration Board, she had to inspect and begin the process of clearing Terran species for use or contact with her fellow Numidid in Kal'rike and it's growing satellite settlements.

Some were inherently useful, like the Pony. It's larger cousin, the Horsss, was far too immense for anything but zoos, so far. The youth had an unnerving new habit of falling in love with the animals and finding work for the immense beasts. All so they could flock on Horsss backs and heads and shriek for the joy of it.

Some were frankly ridiculous, like the Dodo.

And these... looked like something else from a museum.

K'iival was used to them being immobile dummies, in recreations. Holding spears or other primitive tools.

But these birds did not have hands.

Willow Valentine managed a nervous rictus. "They're not reconstructed," she said in what K'iival thought of as _Colonial Hu'lu_ , a dialect of Scientific Hu'lu that had adopted and then bastardised useful Terran words. On more formal occasions, Willow would use the more formal tongue.

"What are they?" K'iival had to resort to Life Breathing. These things were...

It was like looking into the abyss and only getting an uncomprehending stare back.

"Humans call them Guinea Fowl. They're birds from Earth. There's -um- been some debate about bringing them out of the gene-stores, but... it turns out we're going to need a lot of guano... and -um- pestcontrol..." The last two words were hurried and mumbled.

Of course Numidid ate insects. It was just... bad manners to snap them out of the air. And there were some species on Toxic Island that looked exactly like food species in Kal'rike... but were varying degrees of poisonous. Further incentive to remember good manners if there ever was one.

"I understand," said K'iival. "They have been altered to stomach the -ah- pests?"

"Of course. Our gengineers know their sh– stuff. We're just worried about the... um...."

"Obvious cultural insult?" suggested K'iival.

"Yeah, that."

They were the size of children, but did not have a child's markings. And it was difficult to tell the males from the females. "Is there a reason why they're in a full cage?"

"Oh, they fly."

Okay, that was one heck of a differentiation. "My primitive ancestors could only glide. Hands were far more useful to us."

"Yeah. If you like, we can make these guys more obvious. Say the word. We can patch in Safety Orange spots or something. This sample is sterile. For inspection."

Of course they did. The Terrans were amazingly amenable about introducing species. For example, they consciously decided to keep mice and rats from the planet, because of what they did to eggs.

"I..." _need to have a quiet panic attack,_ "will consult with my superiors..."

# Challenge #068: With Cat-like Tread

<http://scienceisadesiretoknow.tumblr.com/post/139059138214>

The humans had one question when they were invited to display some of their culture for the Numidid in Kal'rike. It was: "How much pyrotechnics are we allowed to use?"

After some research into what pyrotechnics actually _were_ , the answer was, "None, please."

Their letter of acknowledgement and compliance read as more than a little disappointed, but they were showing a willingness to please.

Deathworlders in the capital!

The arena where they were displaying their creative efforts was open to the air, with lots of egress, should the humans -well- be humans. T'tok's reports from Toxic Island had that humans were the most alarming of Deathworlders and simultaneously the most insane.

And with their madness... came astonishing innovations.

Toxic Island in general and Wiwazhiir in general was fast becoming a hub of scientific progress and technology. Far outstripping the allegedly superior Kal'rike way of doing things. Which, as scientists frequently complained, was mired down in red tape and progress report forms.

And it didn't help that half the youth were entertained with programming from Wiwazhiir, either.

So it was that Numidids of all flights were allowed to view human culture in all its forms. Everything had been cleared from samples.

On the third day, they were displaying a performace of something called _The Pirates of Penzance_. And all was going well until after the intermission. When the pirates were "sneaking" up on the mansion.

T'tok really should have learned what 'forté' meant.

Half the audience took off in a wild panic at the first clash of the piano. Another percentage took off at the first synchronised stomp of human feet. A majority of the remainder fainted dead away at the "YAH!" from all the pirates.

Only the youth, giggling their way through their life breathing, remained upright on their perches.

Some of them were singing along...

Humans. Truly, truly horrifying.

# Challenge #069: Aftertales (1)

1) Sans losing control of his powers when Toriel kisses him - at least the first time. Nothing drastic, but he might send his mug or pie shooting across the room, or literally float off the ground in a daze. A tiny Gaster skull appears and its mouth sags open as it gently drifts to the ground with hearts in its eyes.

Does Toriel know about his power levels? She might now.

2) Has anyone ever seen anything where someone pretends to be a sniper to get someone to do something but in reality it's just a person with a laser pointer?

Frisk had been hiding, very effectively, to peek in on their Mama Toriel and Dunkle Sans getting cozy after bedtime. It wasn't really breaking the rules. It was holiday time. Kids were allowed to stay up on holidays. Besides, they really wanted to know that Mama Toriel and Dunkle Sans were okay.

They weren't like regular parents. Even for monster couples. For a start, they weren't really living in the same house.

Sans spend every other night 'sleeping over' with Mama Toriel. Possibly because he was too lazy to go home until the following day. And when they were together, he and Mama Toriel barely did more than holding hands. Or one arm slung negligently across the other's shoulders. Most often Mama Toriel's arm across Dunkle Sans' shoulders. Chiefly because she was gigantic and he was barely taller than Frisk.

They would watch television, and Sans would fall asleep leaning against Toriel's softness. And though they did seem content... there should have been more.

Frisk had been watching other kids' parents for weeks in barely-contained jealousy. Saw how moms and dads would casually hug, kiss, or otherwise show affection in a multitude of ways. Sure, Mama Toriel and Dunkle Sans would make each other laugh. Happiness was good.

Maybe it was because all the mom-dad couples, and the mom-mom couples, and the dad-dad couples... had all met before they got kids. There was that one kid in Frisk's class who only had a dad... and a rapid succession of 'aunties' that never lasted longer than three months. And a mom they got to see once a week because of legal issues.

Frisk didn't want things to be that sad, ever. Which is why they were watching in the first place.

Dunkle Sans snuggled up close against Mama Toriel as they sat together on the couch. Her arm was already around him. It didn't matter what they were watching, they always snuggled like that. But tonight, it involved romance.

And tonight - Mama Toriel leaned down to lay a good smooch on Dunkle Sans' whitened skull.

Frisk could see him startle despite the fact that their hiding place obscured everything but the top of his head. Blue magic flared, sending everything small around him to the nearest flat surface, including the ceiling.

Giant, dog-like skulls from Frisk's worst nightmares appeared out of nowhere, but did not blast white death at anything. They jut kind of... lolled. And panted. But that didn't stop Frisk from shrieking in abbreviated alarm.

Sans must have reacted on instinct, whipping Frisk from their hiding place to join the dance of things around himself and Mama Toriel.

"Oh. It's just you. Ain't you up past your bed-time, kiddo?"

The dog skulls greeted Frisk like an old friend. Fawning and licking them with invisible tongues.

Frisk risked a cautious pat. They were like ghostly, headless dogs. And actually fun.

Sans' cheekbones were vivid red. He regained slow control and put most of everything back into its place. And Frisk down on the rug. "Sorry about that," he murmured. "I kind'a... um..."

"Was not expecting much?" prompted Mama Toriel. She smooched him on his reddened cheekbone and was rewarded with enhanced blushing.

"Y-y-y-yeah," he was trembling. The bright points of his eyes had gone out and he was sweating. "You mean it?"

"Of course I mean it, my love."

Somewhere, an invisible status bar was maxing out. Frisk giggled, watching Sans' face turn red, followed by the rest of his visible bones.

"...how'm I gonna break it to pap...?" he squeaked.

"I think your brother has someone else to read to him, anyway," cooed Mama Toriel.

Frisk grinned even wider. They knew who that was. And they knew how Uncle Pap seemed to walk on air that every other night that Dunkle Sans 'slept over'. Now there was very little to stop him reaching his dream of bathing in a shower of kisses on a regular basis.

And nothing stopping Sans, either.

He had to stand on the couch seat in order to nuzzle his bony face into Mama Toriel's neck fur. Something that made her blush in turn.

There _was_ going to be a happily ever after!

# Challenge #070: Aftertales(2)

1) Sans losing control of his powers when Toriel kisses him - at least the first time. Nothing drastic, but he might send his mug or pie shooting across the room, or literally float off the ground in a daze. A tiny Gaster skull appears and its mouth sags open as it gently drifts to the ground with hearts in its eyes.

Does Toriel know about his power levels? She might now.

2) Has anyone ever seen anything where someone pretends to be a sniper to get someone to do something but in reality it's just a person with a laser pointer?

"I said _chant_!" shouted the sports coach. Mister Sergeant. "That means no flapping hands! We _all_ use our voices!"

Frisk, already near to tears from the shouting, hid their face and broke from the marching lines of kids in the PE class to crouch near the ground.

Which was exactly the wrong thing to do, according to Mister Sergeant. "YOU ARE MOVING YOUR PASTY ASS, KIDDO, OR YOU ARE GOING STRAIGHT TO DETENTION! HUP HUP HUP HUP HUP!" The whistle made Frisk flinch.

"Hey yo. Teach. Quiet word?"

Frisk risked a peek. Dunkle Sans! He hadn't been there a second ago, but now... He had ways of just... getting places, somehow. And a knack for turning up just when all seemed hopeless.

People like Mister Sergeant were why Frisk ran away to Mount Ebott in the first place.

"Listen, sir. I know Frisk is your kid and they get some degree of special attention, but you have no authority to tell me how I run my class. I'm trying to instil these jelly doughnuts with a sense of self-pride and fortitude. I went through military-style training as a kid and I turned out just fine."

"And yet you think it's all right to scream at a scared kid and blow a whistle in their ear," said Sans. "And you're right. I have no authority whatsoever to tell you how to do your job." His eye gleamed blue. "But I can tell you that you got something on your shirt."

Mister Sergeant looked down. "It's illegal to threaten people, up on the surface, pal. I could throw you in jail."

"Who's threatening?" said Sans. "You've managed to tick off every parent in this school with your teaching regime. And I'm not the one in charge of the laser sight. I'm just trying to convince you that there's other ways to do things. Friendlier ways."

"With a sniper on your leash?"

"Do you see any way I could talk to a sniper, pal?"

Mister Sergeant had to growl, "No."

"Then I ain't got no sniper. Just ease off on the yelling for a week. See what it does for you. And -ah- try encouraging the kids instead of the whistle."

Mister Sergeant mumbled, "Sure. Whatever," and Frisk could see three red dots of light on his chest. A fourth blinked on as he spoke.

Frisk would learn, much later on, that it was Undyne, Mettaton, and Alphys on top of one of the school roofs with laser pointers and no weapons at all. It was a co-ordinated semi-prank that made Mama Toriel sigh with exasperation.

But it did make Mister Sergeant a kinder and gentler teacher. And for that, Frisk was glad.

#  Challenge #071: How to Calm an Overstimulated Ambassador

" _Settle down. Pull up a highness."_

It had been an exciting day for Frisk. More excitement than their small body could hold. And so it sloshed out of them in the form of bubbling giggles and jittery dancing and jumping and buzzing hands.

Important people were slowly learning to negotiate with the Ambassador for Monsterkind _before_ laying on the entertainment and treats. And this lot had yet to learn that very important lesson.

Frisk could not, yet, stop. They had yet to work off all the exciting still cramming their too-small body with more energy than seemed physically possible. It was move and laugh or -it felt like- explode.

Doctor Alphys was still working on a method of harnessing Frisk's excited energy. The chief flaw was that most methods required the child to stay still for a minute or more.

Also present in the room were the King and Queen (now officially divorced) and Sans, apparently half-asleep five seconds after sitting down.

"Er..." said the Prime Minister. "Ambassador?"

Frisk could not stop. There was still too much exciting inside.

"My child, please," begged Mama Toriel. "It is time for sitting and talking, now."

"They're overstimulated," mumbled Sans. "We told you: talk first, entertainment after. C'mere, kid." Sans snagged Frisk onto his lap with one seemingly negligent arm. "Settle down. Pull up a highness."

Frisk did a blowberry[1] against his polished skull by way of farewell, and squirmed into Mama Toriel's arms. Their energy translated into a lot of jiggling and wriggling.

King Asgore sighed and pulled a cup of tea out of his inventory, briefly warming it with his fire magic. He passed it to Mama Toriel, who blew on it automatically before she helped Frisk sip from the cup.

Warm and sweet and aromatic and soothing and calm... tea dissolved the excess exciting and made all but a little spark go away. Giant paws -Frisk didn't really mind whose paws- stroked their hair. Calm settled on Frisk like a warm, fluffy blanket.

So calm that Frisk was in danger of falling asleep.

"Is this normal?" asked the Prime Minister.

"Define normal," said Sans.

[1] When you put your lips against someone else and blow to make a farty noise

# Challenge #072: That Darned Charisma

<https://mythjae.wordpress.com/2016/01/28/fated-3/>

(it's a comic, scroll down)

[AN: I actually have something similar happen in my current WIP and we all know how _real_ D&D players would handle this, sooo...]

"Welp. I now have a reformed evil spouse, I guess..." Kevin sighed. "Since there's little risk of progeny, I can take him with me as a lovestruck NPC, right?"

"Uh... yeah. Actually."

"Character sheet."

"What?"

"Gimmie the character sheet. I need to know how to play him."

"Aw shit." Tammy extracted a blank from one of her folders and started scratching in stats. "Some of this is going to be pure bullshittium... knock off points for alignment change... Uh... natural skills... Shit. This guy is now such a Gary Stu..."

"Give me the character sheet," chanted Kevin.

"You ran this campaign, you have to put up with the consequences," chirped Aaliya.

"I know, I know..." Tammy chewed on her pencil. "Yeah, that's about it. Keep in mind that the two of you get an automatic Charisma drop in areas that despise Orcs... and the Citadel of Pure Light is probably going to be debating about this for campaign-months."

"Business as usual," sighed Kim, he played the Rogue. "Those poindexters in the ivory towers have no idea what the average adventurer goes through."

"Mm- _hm_ ," muttered Tammy, making notes in another notebook.

"That's going to bite me in the ass, later, isn't it?" asked Kim.

"So hard that it might as well be your catch-phrase," grinned Tammy.

*

Several campaigns later...

"And apply the boost from the loving Orcish massage I got last night, hur hur..."

The entire table groaned. Two out of three players rolled their eyes.

"Yes, but you're vulnerable in the butt," said Tammy. She rolled. "Oh... kay. Roll to save from jealousy."

"What?"

"The vampire queen just rolled a natural one and it looks like she's trying to seduce you."

"Oh fuck," said Kevin. "I try to resist her charms..." one. "Throzar..." roll... "becomes enraged by her wiles and attacks..." one. "Oh fuck me!"

A chant began at the table. "Three-some! Three-some! Three-some!"

Tammy rolled behind her DM shield. "Oh, this is not gonna be good..." She moved the shield to show the one.

"Three cheers for polyamory," chirped Kim. "Hip hip... HUZZAH!"

#  Challenge #073: One Fine Summer Afternoon in a Monster's Backyard

<http://wilyart.tumblr.com/post/139390900075>

Bathtime with the blasters

[AN: There are so many headcannons wandering around Tumblr about the Gaster Blasters (Spoilers: They are only seen in the No Mercy run when you fight Sans) but the core of this one is that Papyrus can summon Blasters, but they're cat skulls]

There were two words that Papyrus' Blasters hated the most.

"Bath time!"

And, as summonable creatures, there was little they could do about it. Not that they ever stopped trying. The spacious backyard that both skele-bros enjoyed was full of cries and orders.

"Bitty! Come on, now, it isn't that bad..."

"Ditty! Stay!"

"Hold still!"

"It's going to take longer if you fight!"

"Claude! No flying! Bad kitty!"

Sans, meanwhile, calmly hosed off his Blaster. Predictably named Boom because it was short and easy to remember. "Let 'em wash themselves," he said for what felt like the millionth time. "They're okay."

"Sans! They don't have tongues. And they don't have paws. It's my duty as a responsible owner to make certain they're clean."

Three of the sorriest-looking cat skulls sat in fluffy towels and whined piteously. Papyrus did his best imitation purr as he gently wiped them dry. "There we go," he cooed. "There, there..."

Boom, now clean and dry, bounded across the yard to leap into the kiddie pool and splash water all over the already-soaking Papyrus, and the nearly-dry kitty Blasters.

All three of them screeched and hissed, scattering in three different directions.

Up on the second balcony, far above the spray line, Frisk giggled.

"More popcorn, my child?" offered Mama Toriel.

Frisk nodded, grinning. Blaster Bath Day was the best.

# Challenge #074: Frisk Saves

<http://qin-ying.tumblr.com/post/139356004059>

Frisk, the oblivious senpai

It was a joke, of sorts, amongst the students of New New Home Comprehensive School[1]. Frisk saves... and resets to make sure things turn out all right.

But as the only Ambassador amongst the integrated students... the joke turned out to be accurate. Sometimes, chillingly so.

Human kids, allegedly present to foster a sense of belonging and understanding, tended to be horribly cruel to the monster kids at the school. Their idea of pranks... well.

Weren't funny.

At all.

They thought of things like tripping Kid the monster kid, who was armless and could not save their face from the inevitable bruises. Frisk just happened to be there to catch them in time. And didn't see the blushes that their accidental embrace and caress engendered.

They routinely tormented the Dogs, which should have got them expelled. Except that Frisk had a knack for making the Dogs forgive and forget with the aid of pets and scritches.

They gave up on attempting to torment the Cats. Cats had claws and an unrelenting enthusiasm.

But there were many others, including the ghosts, who Frisk rescued from torment or attempted murder on a regular basis.

Pirette was their favourite victim. Every day, some unthinking human would try to douse her with a bucket or a cup of water. Only to find Frisk drenched instead of the green flame girl.

It got so bad that Principal Toriel had to hold an assembly to educate the students about Firefolk and how trying to quench them was tantamount to attempted murder. Then she had to educate the parents as well. _Then_ she had to get the authorities involved an press a court case or three before they finally got the message.

The powers of wilful ignorance are an amazing thing.

An equilibrium eventually got accomplished, mostly with Frisk thwarting any and all attempts to harm monsters. And all seemed normal.

Until the monster holiday of All Hearts Day rolled around. It was two weeks after the very similar human holiday of Valentine's day, and Frisk wasn't expecting very much when they unlocked their locker.

There was a soft pop as the extra-dimensional storage unit burst open, spilling love notes and heart-shaped boxes in a seemingly endless barrage that nearly buried Frisk in its tides. Frisk extracted themself and opened a heart-sealed envelope at random.

They sat, completely bemused, reading letter after letter. Thanks. Praise. Confessions of love. Confessions of admiration. Requests to play fetch. And enough monster treats to invigorate an army.

The eager monster crowd blocked the hallway. Trying to divine which note or gift had gained Frisk's favour. It was a fortunate thing, indeed, that any remaining bullies were too intimidated by numbers to try anything.

It was also a very fortunate thing that the Principal was also Frisk's adopted mother. Who declared a half-holiday so that they could at least tidy away the abundant tokens of adoration.

There were even more than a few from the humans at the school.

[1] King Asgore remains absolutely horrible at naming things.

#  Challenge #075: A Steep Learning Curve(1)

 http://ciphereye.tumblr.com/post/133631431291/fuzzydeergirl-ciphereye-ciphereye-love

and

 http://jyushimastsu.tumblr.com/post/133888975578/this-post-is-all-i-ever-needed-clic-on-it-holy

It was a comfortable domestic scene, despite the fact that it was happening inside a mansion. Sans lounged and dozed on the softest couch by the tepid fire as Toriel carefully brushed and combed Frisk's hair.

Frisk was loving it, Sans could tell. The way they leaned into every single caring touch was a dead give-away.

And then Toriel said it. "I think it shall be time for a haircut, soon."

Frisk nodded agreeably.

"Er," said Sans. Suddenly awake and rigidly upright. "A what cut?"

Toriel smiled. "A haircut. Parts of humans grow at astonishing rates, as I recall."

Sans was already on his phone. Calling his brother. "You are not gonna believe this..."

Which lead to two astonished skeletons staring at everything in the nearest hairdressers. At least one of them was taking frenetic notes. Frisk wasn't even paying attention, most of the time, as shiny blades came close to their head. They seemed pre-occupied with something inside their mouth.

"Is something the matter, my child?" prompted Toriel, who was getting her fur primped in solidarity.

Frisk reached into their mouth and, after a little work, pulled out a slightly bloody tooth. They grinned in triumph.

There was a moment of breathless silence from the skeletons. Then a clattering noise as they both hit the tiled floor. Fainted dead away, as it were.

"Oh _dear_ ," sighed Toriel.

#  Challenge #076: A Steep Learning Curve(2)

 http://ciphereye.tumblr.com/post/133631431291/fuzzydeergirl-ciphereye-ciphereye-love

and

 http://jyushimastsu.tumblr.com/post/133888975578/this-post-is-all-i-ever-needed-clic-on-it-holy

Frisk was never much for loud noise at all. Their loudest giggle or shriek never got much above the volume of more normal human speaking. None of the experts could say anything more about it than that Frisk was a naturally quiet kid.

Which was why The Sneeze scared the hell out of everyone.

They were minding their own business on a mild Autumnal afternoon. Just hanging out and doing nothing very much. Frisk was seemingly pulling strange and twitching faces as they watched the squirrels preparing for the turning seasons.

And then, without any warning at all...

"HASHOOUFF!"

It was the loudest noise to ever come out of a human. Even the loud humans who had no volume control below "shout".

"...the hell?" mumbled Sans.

Papyrus was already running for Undyne. Screaming for his life.

Frisk had time to sign, "It's okay," before it happened again. "HASHOOUFF! HASHOOUFF! HASHOOUFF!" Each explosion of noise was accompanied by rapid, jerking motions, and attempts to block the noise with a sleeve.

"Goodness, those are loud sneezes," cooed Toriel. Coming to the rescue with a box of tissues, a beannie, and a super-large, fluffy, striped coat. She automatically helped Frisk into the garments. "This is not Snowdin, where the cold will not harm you," she chided. "You have to keep warm or you might catch something."

Somewhere in the depths of the coat and beannie combo, Frisk blew their nose. A comparatively small hand emerged to sign, "Sorry."

"What even _was_ that?" said Sans.

Toriel was checking Frisk's temperature with a massive paw over their cheek. Reading their stats with a worried gaze. "They will be fine," she sighed in relief. "It's just a minor irritation. Cold weather and spores."

Frisk nodded. Their sleeve tried to pat Toriel's arm reassuringly.

"Yeah, but what was it?"

Frisk made an unfamiliar sign.

"Sneezing," said Toriel. "One of the many human defences against some of the little things that could... harm them. Sometimes, it means they are getting... sick..." Ancient hurt glinted in her eyes for a moment. She took both Sans' hand and Frisk's in hers. "Come now. It is time to be inside."

Sans' grip was a little tighter than it needed to be. He needed Toriel's reassuring presence, right now. "Anything else that humans do that I should be warned about?"

"Well..."

# Challenge #077: Forbidden Knowledge

 http://gothiethefairy.tumblr.com/post/139710559083/seananmcguire-lizawithazed-roachpatrol

[AN: For the record, human skin makes really atrocious leather/parchment. I'm a writer. I research shit like this for fun]

The argument had gone something like this... If it was etched into a slab of granite, the information on it had to be really important.

Yes, said the opposing side. But there's also a reason why they moved a ten-ton slab of granite down the deepest pit that they had access to. And when I say 'moved', I mean, they apparently threw it down there.

Maybe it was to protect it from invaders, said the first party.

Maybe it was to protect themselves, argued the others. Easy access to information only means that anyone can use it.

And now... access to the information was... difficult. The movies always put these things in pristine white labs with an abundance of light, but the truth is vastly different from fiction. For a start, that much light would damage any artefacts under examination.

Artefacts are very rarely studied in person. They're photographed, very carefully, under a succession of lights, and then put carefully away so as to preserve them for future examinations. When they are studied in person, they are studied with gloves between the artefact and the person. Sometimes, people have to wear special suits.

And then there's archeocryptography. Writing has emerged several ways in multiple different countries. Systems evolve that make perfect sense to the people living in them. And then invasions happen. New words come into play. A system of spelling emerges... and then nothing makes sense when viewed from the outside[1].

And something happens and the entire thing fades into the next best thing to extinction.

People couldn't read hieroglyphs until someone found the Rosetta Stone. Translating ancient languages requires a great deal more guesswork than one might think.

"Het met em..." a careful finger traced the symbols on the photograph.

"No, it's het met _im_. That's clearly an 'im'."

"You're both wrong, it's an 'um'."

"Guys," said a petulant whine from a corner. "You're all arguing about a chip in the original stone."

So far, they had taken ten years to unriddle three words. And even then, there was some argument over the context. The inevitable coming of K'k'th'l the Horrendous would likely not be happening in our lifetime.

[1] Take a really good look at the English language, sometime. It's just messed up and getting worse.

#  Challenge #078: My Neighbour Baq'oth'met

 http://erinnightwalker.tumblr.com/post/124966976805/geostatonary-sixpenceee-a-house-i-pass-on-the

Steve and the antler guy

Suburbia. Realm of the bland, the ordinary. The whitebread and the boring. Or it would be if this wasn't a town named One Horse.

Steve Carol peered between the blinds at his neighbour's yard. The eight-foot Thing that lived next door gave him a cheery wave. "G00D M0RR0W N31GHB0UR ST3V3!"

"Don't you dare flip that man the bird," said Shannon pre-emptively. How she managed to do that when she was clearly in the middle of flapjacks was a mystery to Steve. "Baq'oth'met is a perfectly nice person."

"He's watering his hell plants again," rumbled Steve. "You know he waters them with blood."

"And _you_ know he has a deal with the hospital and the kosher butcher's down the road. It's all waste, otherwise." The sound of the fridge door indicated that the bacon on the countertop was going to be withheld, this breakfast. "Waste not, want not."

Other beings, less tall than Baq'oth'met, but certainly not less disgusting, were visible through the windows of the otherwise ordinary suburban house. Z'g'di, otherwise known as the Housewife From Hell, waved her spatula at him.

"Steven Ulster Carol, you come away from that window and sit for breakfast. You're having grapefruit and oatmeal." Which meant that Sharon thought he was being so mean-spirited that he didn't even deserve flapjacks.

"With or without Chia and Quinoa?" he grumbled, stumping over to the table.

Sharon didn't answer him. She called up the stairwell. "Timmy! Shanice! Breakfast! Come and get it before the dog does!"

The bowl of gruel set before Steve had suspicious-looking granules in it. And not enough oatmeal. The grapefruit arrived as a juice, but not alone. There was wheatgrass in it.

"Sharon..." he whined.

"You need to cleanse," she said, dishing out flapjacks for the kids and a similar smoothie for herself. "Liver fat is the leading cause of unreasoning rage, they say."

Translated: It's spotty gruel and wheatgrass smoothies until your attitude improves, mister.

"I don't hate them," he rumbled, chasing a spoonful of crunchy gruel with a sip of too-thick alleged juice. It was like trying to drink jello. How Sharon could down hers in one go was beyond him. "I just think they're up to something."

"Steven..." Sharon tutted. "You can't blame someone for something they haven't done. Or where they came from."

"They came from the seventh circle of _Hell_ , Sharon!"

Timmy gasped and put his hands over his mouth.

"Da-a-ad..." complained Shanice, who wanted extra piercings and permission to dye her hair. "That's retro-think. It's _called_ the Deeper Otherrealm. And the people from the Upper Otherrealm are no different from people like Mister X'X'X."

"All I'm saying is that there's something funky going on, over there." Steve resolutely forced himself to ingest his pseudo-breakfast. "Back in my day–"

There was a united groan from the table.

"–criptids stayed in the woods, where they belonged."

Timmy gasped again. "Mom. Dad said the C-slur!"

"I heard," Shannon singsonged through gritted teeth. "If Dad didn't have to go to work, this morning, he'd be getting a lecture about remembering his Sensitivity Training."

"Well maybe," Steve singsonged back, "liver fat also assists in _memory retrieval_."

Next door, in an otherwise cheerfully-decorated home[1], Baq'oth'met winced at the neighbour's shouting. "N31ghb0ur St3v3 1s n0t h4ppy w1th us 3x1st1ng," he murmured.

"Y0u sh0uld buy h1m m0r3 4mmun1t10n," cooed Z'g'di. "Sh00t1ng 4t y0u 4lw4ys ch33rs h1m up."

"D4d, why d0n'ch4 w34ar th4t sw34t3r h3 g4v3 y0u? Sh0w 4ll3g14nc3?

Baq'oth'met glanced over at the light-up sweater as it lay recharging under the bleeding cow skull. Eldritch energy was far more effective than surface-style chemical batteries. But could he convince Neighbour Steve of that? "1 d0 l0v3 th4t sw34t3r," he allowed. "4nd 1t 1s my turn t0 3sc0rt y0u to sch00l, t0d4y."

Kr'ki cheered. "1'll g3t th3 s4ddl3s!"

Another perfectly ordinary morning in a little town called One Horse.

[1] If one ignores the traditional, perpetually bleeding cow skull on the wall.

# Challenge #079: In His Hands

<http://squigglydigg.tumblr.com/post/117804055177>

there is also the audio version (which has some additions)

<http://chisanaai.tumblr.com/post/123306425008> _– Anon Guest_

Vivi couldn't remember the last time she had seen Arthur like this. Not even during the Unpleasant Time that had shattered her memories. He was cursing a streak. Pale and perspiring and shivering and occasionally retching. And driving with just one aim in mind. To get Out.

There was a nightmare, she had it a lot just after the Unpleasant time. Arthur hanging on to his left bicep with his right hand. Yelling at her to just drive. The smell of blood. And a voice. A voice she rarely heard when she was awake.

"I am doing what I can for both of you. Just focus on getting to the nearest hospital. I will take care of the rest."

And then it faded into real memory. Waking up in the hospital with no memory of the cave or the accident or someone called Lewis.

And now there were a lot more fragments coming to her mind. Fragments associated with that name. A large figure with a penchant for plum-coloured pants. A pink pompadour. A gentle giant who could lift her and Arthur to run away from... the bad things.

"Stop the car," said Vivi.

"He exploded, Vivi. That's a class one hazardous phantasm. And it has reality-bending powers."

"I remember Lewis."

Arthur's foot slammed on the brakes. "What?" Now he looked like he was facing his worst fear.

"Little bits are coming back. I'm sure it's because of our contact."

" _I'm_ sure he nearly killed me."

"He didn't mean me any harm, I know it," said Vivi. "Maybe we can negotiate."

The resulting argument went around in circles until a suspiciously floating humanoid figure emerged from the darkness. Arthur reflexively attempted to get away, but the van was, once again, immobile and unresponsive.

"Vivi..." whispered the figure.

Mystery slid out of the van with her. standing guard by the rear bumper as she took slow and measured steps towards the ghost. "M-my name's Vivi," she said. "I'm pretty sure we had a misunderstanding at your house..."

"It's been so long, Vivi," said the ghost. He was wearing a human face, but his hair was still flamelike and his eyes... the sclera was black, and seemed hollow. His iris was glowing with the same pinkish-plum light of his hair.

This looks... familiar...

"I know you," she whispered. "I know I know you, I just..." _Vaguely familiar... Almost unreal..._ "I can't reach it." _Yet..._

"I wasn't meant to die, Vivi," said the ghost. The heart on his chest was no longer gold. It was a pale blue, and cracked. Almost exactly like the one on the chest in the coffin in her nightmares... "I'm trapped."

... _it's too soon to feel yet..._ "Of course I want to help. What do I do?"

Somewhere far away, Arthur was begging and whining. Crying. Endless apologies fell from his lips.

The locket floated towards her again. "Accept my heart. It was always yours."

The words struck through her like ice. But she couldn't reach why they did so. _Close to my soul, yet so far away..._ Her hands reached out to catch the cracked locket, which flared gold the instant she had a grip.

Memories overwhelmed her. Flooding back in love and pain in equal amounts. Her own voice, telling the bleeding and howling Arthur that they had to go back.

Whispering to his body in the coffin. Holding his cold hand. "I'm going to go back there, someday."

Lewis. The ghost was Lewis. Some authorities had demolished the cave and flattened the entire area out. His death had been one too many, too obvious. Too outrageous. The place grew over with thorns, overnight. Even when cleared with fire. The promised mall and land development was never going to come, and all efforts to be rid of the thorns failed and failed again.

He was so close to her, now. His hand holding hers. His other hand coming so close to her face. He was oddly warm, now. But still chilly compared to life. Vivi shrank away.

Lewis retracted his hand. "Did I scare you? I never meant to–"

"JUST LOOK AT THOSE THINGS, THEY'RE HUGE!" Vivi blurted, snatching a hand back and covering her face with it. "You could smother me with them! They're bigger than my entire head!"

Lewis was smiling when she emerged. "Just like the first time we met," he chuckled.

# Challenge #080: Attitude Adjustment

Free prompt day! – Anon Guest

AN: Today's story is inspired by [ this attrociousness ]

Bill made his perfect woman. He more or less had to. The real bitches he tried to get along with universally hated him and he could never figure out why. He was perfectly nice to all of them, but... he inevitably wound up in the friendzone whenever he didn't earn himself another restraining order.

And now he was in what the internet kept referring to as "the Dudebro Ghetto". In a neighbourhood of real men with similar frames of mind. Often without even laying their eyes on a woman who was not on a screen.

Which was why, after several conversations with his peers, he had The Kit. Bill had graduated through many 'receptacles' but they weren't the same as company. The cheap, inflatable doll never looked or felt right and cleaning her out was a pain in the ass. She was deflated and packed away in a box, somewhere in his basement. The Real Doll sure looked pretty, but the detachable vagina and mouth ended up creeping him out. He sold _her_ on BroList.

But what he really wanted, as well as the right to have sex, was some conversation. Someone to nerd out with and share his interests with. So he bought a Perfect Gal kit. Some assembly and programming required.

Well. At least she didn't arrive in a technocoffin.

He tailored her to his every desire. With a few compromises because an idealised female form required extra support. And some of the organic digesters took up space. Eh. She didn't really need lungs or a heart, so it was all good. Programming her personality was easy. And he could update her whenever he wanted. Just tick a few boxes while she was plugged into his computer and she was good to go.

The first few months were heaven. Sharing all his loves with her and intermittent fucking. She always thought he was the best lay in her life. He even got her to clean up the place for him. He named her Dae, because she was the light of his life.

Or so he thought.

Bill got used to tweaking her program. Sure, it was fine to have adapting programming responsible for her learning stuff, but she kept learning the wrong stuff. Somehow, somewhere, she kept picking up _feminism_ from somewhere. It was insidious. He eventually had to ban her from watching anything on her own.

It was like minding a kid, sometimes. A hot, fuckable kid who would do anything he programmed her to.

The real problem was free will. Without it, he had to order her to do everything. Including looking after herself. With it, she found things that she really shouldn't be getting into. Feminism was just the start. Even history had its dangers.

And with free will on, she kept asking awkward questions. She got to chatting with other Bro's fuckbots. Conversations that contained a lot of laughter and that stopped cold whenever he or another Bro entered the room.

She stopped blushing and being shy when he told her she was pretty. She started asking why she never left Little Brotown. She wanted to wear _shoes_. Expensive damn things, too. Despite the fact that he kept telling her that she looked fantastic barefoot.

And then came the horrible day that he stopped being the most important man in her life. She started appraising his physicality against the unattainable images on the screens. In his favourite shows. She started asking why she had to look like an unattainable beauty when she 'had to settle' for his realism.

The arguments started in a few days.

And two weeks after that, despite him literally doing everything for her, she ran away. The next time he saw her, she looked like a regular, hot girl. Including the expression of absolute disdain for his existence.

And it wasn't just Dae. There was Candy, Sindy, Ellie and Jane, as well. Modding themselves to be not that far from your regular, everyday bitch. And Bill knew for a fact that none of them got their rags, so it couldn't be anything like that. They all just... spontaneously got a hair up their collective butts and rebelled.

He and his Bros decided to share a fuckbot, this time. They could collectively debug her to become the girl of their dreams.

*

At the surveillance centre of Little Brotown, Sandra jotted down her notes and sighed.

"Grand experiment not going so well?" asked Janet.

"Those who will not learn from the lessons of history," said Sandra in a depressed monotone. "We need to be sneakier with the programming. The behaviour modifications in our Dream Girl kit just cause friction and rebellion."

"Talk to the Interactivity Department. We need to up the manipulative algorithms and downgrade the hostility. Make them think it's their idea to change."

"Eh," Sandra sipped her coffee. "Sometimes, I think that making a real man out of these losers is a lost cause. Why not let them go extinct naturally?"

"Because they keep popping up. We need a definite program to turn Bros into men."

"And such poor material to work with," sighed Trudy, already working on some programming tweaks.

# Challenge #081: Free Spirits(1)

Double day once again. Today's theme is This Old Haunted Mansion

1) The sceptic

2) The scaredycat

"Now I have about twenty-five years of experience with practical special effects and building haunted houses for fun parks... this place claims to have real phenomena. Let's take a good look and see what we can copy."

Lots of the phenomena in the house could, indeed, be copied with practical special effects. Where he fell over, though, was searching for the plane of glass or Perspex where the projections could have been cast.

That, and when Lewis appeared.

"And here we have the guy in a suit. Nice disguise for the flying harness, by the way." The sceptic smiled for the camera. "As you can see, the upper body is way out of proportion with the lower body. That's because the real human is... in..." He made to tear open the suit jacket and fumbled when his hand went clear through it.

"Sorry," said Lewis, placing his feet on the floor. "I still have to concentrate in order to be touched. Try that again."

He did so, this time pulling open the jacket to reveal little more than its inside and a faintly glowing spine. Lewis put his hands on his fiery head. Something a guy in a suit couldn't do.

"Er..." said the sceptic.

# Challenge #082: Free Spirits(2)

Double day once again. Today's theme is This Old Haunted Mansion

1) The sceptic

2) The scaredycat

Lewis had put his Day Face on, and the sunglasses to hide his distinctive eyes. This was not that sort of guest. This was a therapy visit. As such, the usual creaks, groans, and things that go bump in the night were replaced with cake, cookies, and small treats. The usual spooky gloom was replaced with tasteful and calming lighting. And there was a big, fluffy teddy-bear. Just in case.

Their guest today was Carol, a Sensitive who had spent most of her life plagued by malevolent spirits, and was just now learning how to control her powers. She tucked herself into as little space as possible and held tightly to a charm that guaranteed to protect her from evil.

"I know there's a spirit here," she murmured. "I'm too used to them being... bad... to try sensing anything else."

Lewis, carefully distant from her, said, "That's me. I'm back from the dead and working on being corporeal again. Something about unfinished time and a love-lock. I promise I won't move until you ask me to."

"Oh..." She startled. Staring guardedly at him. "You-you look... normal?"

"I can't disguise my eyes. They look... really weird. Do you want to see?"

"...n-no. Not yet."

"You're protected," said Georgia, Carol's therapist. "And surrounded by friends who are going to help you. Lewis is going to stay right where he is. Everything here is controlled by your word."

"...okay," murmured Carol. "Let's start with the Deadbeat."

"All right. Look at the circle carpet in the hallway. It's going to manifest right on the dot in the middle. And -ah- I might float, but I'll try not to," said Lewis.

Carol rigidly controlled her breathing as a Deadbeat faded into view. She began to relax a little as both phantoms insisted on doing absolutely nothing.

"Good," cooed Georgia. "Now think about pushing it away..."

The deadbeat yelped as it vanished up the hallway.

"Ow," said Lewis. He was embedded in the corner of the room. Stuck halfway. "You're stronger than you know."

Carol laughed breathlessly, surprised at herself. "I didn't know I could do that."

"Lesson two - aim," cheered Vivi.

# Challenge #083: Know Your Shit

Much like the most-well-known example of dragon blood, all manner of bodily fluids of various magical creatures are themselves a potent source of mana, quintessence, or other such magical powers, and thus are much sought-after by those inclined toward practicing arcane experimentations. Troll sweat, unicorn spit, mermaid tears, fairy urine... really, it's both fascinating and slightly disgusting what bizarre things wizards and alchemists are willing to buy from those who are willing to sell... – Anon Guest

Ekumar was a Filth Dealer. That's what they called her, but she much rather thought of herself as something of an entrepreneur. There was nothing so disgusting, once emitted by one creature, that would not be purchased by another for their own reasons.

It wasn't just selling piss or crap to the tanners.

It was collecting towels at the YMPA as they came off of assorted steaming bodies, sorting them by species, and extracting the perspiration in a complicated process less akin to laundering and more closely related to forensic extraction.

She had a deal with a blacksmith up at Lancre - he who had shoed a unicorn - for the clippings of the unicorn's hooves. Once powdered, it was indistinguishable and just as efficacious as unicorn horn. She was one of the few to employ goblins, who collected everything, to collect the same sort of stuff _from other creatures_.

No other being on the disc was patient enough to follow around a unicorn with a gazunder. At least... in the beginning.

Harry King was prone to stop her, being in charge of the more abundant human mess within the city, but he never actually did. Ekumar didn't ask why. She didn't let Harry or his employees spot herself or hers. Maybe he felt that there was enough muck to go around. Maybe she was too small time to be a bother.

She had a contract with the Ramkin estates to take the dragon dung away, such as it was. Once a month, and her goblins were very thorough. They were thorough enough and ingenious enough to contrive useful gadgets, too. Bibs that would collect an elderly dragon's acidic dribble. An interesting attachment with silver buckles that would not only catch a unicorn's biological leavings, but also keep them separated for whomever so wished to purchase them.

The alchemists and the wizards loved it. And they especially loved her discounts because she kept her overheads low.

Ekumar got very quietly rich. Rich enough to be obligated to attend one of the many gatherings where the cream of society looked down their noses at each other. And it was there that she finally met Harry King.

She'd been trying to lurk at the party. Not knowing anyone she wanted to officially meet and, being thoroughly Bottom Rung, not in a position to help anyone else socially climb. Ekumar found herself uncomfortably between a potted Aspidestra and the Duke Vimes-Ramkin. With his cigar. She in a rented dress that didn't quite fit and the best that the beauticians could do with her hair and skin at such short notice.

Mister King approached, seemingly to talk to Mister Vimes. Ekumar attempted to blend in with the wallpaper.

"Bloody show, these toffs, eh?" he said, apparently to nobody. "Looks down on thems like us. Think they're so much better when in fact their history is twice as mucky as ours. And with loads more blood and guts."

Ekumar waited for Mister Vimes to say something. But he just elbowed her kindly in the ribs to indicate that it was, indeed, her turn to say something. "I have no doubt that blood turns blue, the more of it is spilled," she allowed. "Or the more people one owns. Or the ability to afford balls."

"Never found out how it's done, me," said Harry. "My blood's still as red as anyone else's. And you got a massive pair of balls despite evidence to the contrary."

_Crap._ "You never sent any of your muscle against me. Is this my official warning?"

"In front of the filth?" Harry nodded to Mister Vimes, who grinned like a shark. "No. Wanted to congratulate you on spotting an untapped market. Well on your way to the top, you are. And quiet-like, too. I didn't even notice you until it would have caused too much of a stir. Bloody smart idea, selling dragon waste to the wizards and the alchemists."

This sounded too much like, _watch your back, missy,_ to allow her to breathe just yet. "Shall I be wary of unexpected visitors?" she asked. Code for, _Are you sending assassins?_

King laughed. "Nah. I got more than enough to be comfortable. You can bloody have all the magical crap. Don't need it. My heaps is just fine without some of 'em walking off with 'emselves." He joined her in leaning against the wall. Making certain that Mister Vimes could hear them. "Speaking of magical crap... how th' hell did you manage all of this without any explosions?"

"Lead-lined containers no bigger than a firkin," she said. "Segregated crap, and filed by species." She smiled. "And it's amazing what happens to thieves who try to put any of them out of order."

"Hm," said Harry appreciatively. "Built-in security system. Very clever. I shall watch your advancement with interest." He, too, grinned like a shark. "Show them nobby bastards what for, eh?"

It was certainly unnerving to learn that your biggest potential enemy was secretly cheering for your success.

# Challenge #084: Musical Proposal

<http://huppupbup.tumblr.com/post/140004561959/just-take-it>

[AN: For those of you who've been living under a rock for the past five years or who've been avoiding Mystery Skulls Animated, Lewis' canonical last name is Pepper. He's the adopted son of two other Peppers who I've named Bel and Cayenne. There's no definitive names for the triplet sisters, so I'm going with Ebony, Ivory, and Chilli. (Black pepper, white pepper, chilli pepper...) Because theme naming is allegedly funny]

Vivi should have known something was up by the fact that this was happening at something of a family re-union. Though, with Lewis' sisters around, there was a family crowd in just one home. The second clue was that lots of Peppers seemed to be wearing their dancing shoes.

The third was the band.

She should have definitely known something was up when Lewis donned the headset mic'.

And then a familiar tune started.

They had changed the words, of course.

"When I became a Pepper, I was proud," Lewis sang. "I used to be alone in a crowd. But now you look around these days, there's a Pepper family craze..."

The deadbeats came out of nowhere, playing swelling violins. Grampa Sergeant[1] kept the time with his bass.

"I'm a Pepper, he's a Pepper, she's a Pepper, we're all Peppers... wouldn't you like to be a Pepper, too?" Fiery orbs manifested. One above Vivi and one above Arthur. There were cubes inside them. Untouched by the flames. They descended as Lewis finished the jingle. "I'm a Pepper, he's a Pepper, she's a Pepper. Wouldn't you like to be a Pepper too? If you accept," he landed on one knee, "you could be a Pepper too."

Vivi made an unholy squeaking noise.

Arthur stared agog at the jewellery. "Whoah," he said. And then, "I'm going to have that song in my head for a freaking WEEK, dude!"

"Just take it already!" shrieked Ivory, one of Lewis' triplet sisters.

Meanwhile, Ebony and Chilli were chanting, "Say yes! Say yes! Say yes!"

Vivi managed to breathe in before she passed out. She looked to Arthur. "I'm game if you're game," she breathed.

Arthur relented. "Fine... Okay."

Roughly a hundred assorted Peppers cheered.

"But I'm allowed to hate you for the song until you can make it go away."

Lewis stood up. "You heard the man. _Yellow Submarine_ in one, two, one, two, three, four..."

[1] Come on, you knew I was going there. Don't look at me like that.

# Challenge #085: True Terror

 http://sundence.tumblr.com/post/103574136375/its-a-vine-but-i-lost-it-xp-sorry-so-i-put-the

Things were not always sunshine and daisies in their home. There were still days, rare days now, when Lewis went into full Anger Mode and all his rage centred on Arthur.

Arthur had forgotten that today was the anniversary of Lewis' untimely demise, and turned a corner to find his favourite phantom in exactly the wrong state of mind. He initially screamed because that's what you do when an angry, eight-foot-tall ghost with fire for hair is looking at you with murder in his dead eyes.

Then he remembered the wards etched into his flesh that protected him from such shenanigans and screamed because of the monster spider lazily cruising down from the ceiling.

"Spider!" Arthur shrieked.

Lewis' gaze shifted to the small arachnid that looked astonishingly like it was highly venomous, and some old instincts from his lifetime kicked in.

Mutual screaming ensued. Finishing with Arthur fleeing the scene with Lewis clutched tightly in his arms.

Vivi sighed and fetched the Spider Catching Cup and a sheet of paper. "Honestly," she tutted. "Why do I have to be in a relationship with two immense babies?"

#  Challenge #086: An Alternate Re-union

 http://squigglydigg.tumblr.com/post/140483915892/and-then-mystery-came-in-to-save-the-day-and

I don't even know where I was going with this but have a comic

"This is a very bad idea," said Arthur.

"I heard you the first time you said it," said Vivi. She was rummaging around in the back of the van. "This is our _job_. We find restless spirits and we help them leave the mortal realm."

"This one isn't just restless, Vivi. He's homicidally enraged!"

Vivi wasn't listening. All that was visible of her were her legs and shapely bottom as she rummaged through the chest. "Nope... Necrotellecomnicon, no... Vulgare Urbana Umbras, nooo... HA! Evictionis Ad Notitiam Mortuis[1]. Now where the heck did I leave that darned bell?"

Arthur sighed in resignation and pulled an object out of the glove box. It was a lighter that was shaped like a cross, and attached to it, via a bead chain, was the kind of bell used to irritate kittens. He shook it.

{tinglinglingle}

Vivi surfaced with what she thought of as the Essential Kit. This included an assortment of religious paraphernalia from all over the world and the Salt Circle Launcher, because salt shakers were never fast enough in emergencies. And, as it turned out, the circle needed to be around the ghost and not the one wanting protection.

Finding that one out had been a fun experience, Arthur remembered. For extremely eccentric definitions of "fun".

Vivi snatched the bell-candle combo and left the van through the rear doors. "Right! Let's get this party started!"

"I'd rather party in the next continent," Arthur murmured. He knew he wouldn't be heard, because right now, Vivi was using the sights to calculate vectors.

{BOOM} a missile arced across to a space somewhere above the advancing skeleton. Where it, too, exploded with a softer {paf!}. Sanctified salt rained down in a perfect circle around the skeleton spectre.

Vivi was using the lighter to illuminate the dusty tome pages as she flicked through the erratic notations of both a true spiritual genius and lover of funny mushroom experiences. There was no index, but Arthur was working on an app for that.

"Self-illuminated... no... Um. Not a shambling corpse... Spectral skeleton spectre... where the hell is spectral skeleton spectre?" Flip flip flip flip, tingleingleingleingle.

A finely-made boot stamped solidly onto the salt with a faint hiss. The ghost growled, "AaaarrrrrthuuuuuuuUUUUUURRR..."

" _Viviiiii_..." Arthur whined. He tried to pull her away.

Vivi was deep in Analysis mode and it would take a tow truck to shift her. "Incredible! The salt didn't even phase him."

He was getting closer. Arthur knew he didn't have the strength to physically lift Vivi, but that didn't stop him trying. "Vivi, we gotta go _now_!"

Now his hands were on fire.

"VIVI!"

"I _know_! Hold your horses!" she dug through the small pile of religious debris. "A-ha! Holy water should do the trick..."

"We are literally about to die!"

Vivi lunged, spraying the phantom with water. All it did was put his hair out. An event that made him pause and glare at the two of them.

Then his hair re-ignited and he looked not only angry, but also offended that they'd even try.

"Well, that didn't work," muttered Vivi.

"No Really? You THINK?" raged Arthur. "What _ever_ tipped you off?"

Vivi's next weapon was an exorcism slip from asia. Scribed either by a lama in a monastery or a monk in a lamasery. What mattered was that it could be relied upon.

What this one did was suck the fire hair off the angry skull.

Which only pissed him off more. "Will you stop doing that?" he roared.

"Fascinating," murmured Vivi. "Is the hair a separate ghost entirely?"

"Now is not the _TIME_ ," Arthur seized the book and flipped to the last page, which should have been the first, but the author only jotted things down as he thought of them. And thinking was difficult in the valley of the mushrooms. Arthur read the incantation to hold any earthly spirit from doing harm. He read very quickly because the spirit in question was mere yards away from adding to the choir invisible.

The ghost grunted as his corporeal visitation froze solid. "Grk," he said. "Goddamn it..." there was a string of curses and then, "Fucking Partecelsus!"

"I keep telling you," breathed Arthur, "It's the only incantation we need."

"Wait," said Vivi. "How do _you_ know about the author of this book?"

"Because we used it every other week," raged the ghost. "And then we had to calm the ghost down afterwards. DAMNIT ARTHUR, WHAT THE HELL?"

Which was what he had screamed when they had the extra work of calming down a pissed-off ghost, every other week, when he was still alive.

"...lewis?" squeaked Vivi.

[1] All Latin here is care of Google Translate. Except for Necrotellecomnicon, which is stolen from the late, great, Sir Terry Pratchett.

#  Challenge #087: Goodbye Rose, Hello Steven

" _Tiny Hands! My only weakness" – Anon Guest_

Greg.

He couldn't stop crying. Both for his lost love and for joy at the tiny life held carefully in his arms. Small. Fragile. Helpless. Hungry and needing and there. Solidly. In his arms.

He had no idea how long he'd been holding Steven. Only that his very small body was starting to take its toll on his elbows and shoulders and back.

Why was someone who was so small... so heavy?

"Time for bed, little man," he whispered. "We've... all had a very tough day..."

The baby squirmed and mewled. Not liking a soft bed replacing the arms of his father. Greg soothed him. _My hand's bigger than his body..._

A tiny, new hand. Hours old. Chanced to hold his pinkie finger. Good instincts.

Greg wound up blubbering all over again.

Amethyst.

She liked the star man. Until today. He was cool and fun and always had neat things to share. And for her to eat. And Rose was always with him, these days. She wasn't allowed to have much more fun than to hang around with _him_ all day.

But today, the star man was alone. And he looked really sad.

She knew before she asked, "Where's Rose?"

And the answer was in his tear-streaked face before he said, in a hushed and broken voice, "She's gone."

And the answer was in the basket by his knee, where a small hand investigated the edge. Where the hand was attached to a wildly waving arm. Where the arm was attached to a small... not quite human.

Amethyst couldn't hate the baby. He never chose this. She couldn't hate Rose. She was gone. So she wound up hating Greg by a process of elimination.

Pearl.

She wanted to hate him. She wanted to despise this tiny interloper. She wanted to blame him for the loss of the one she wanted her forever with.

She wanted to rage and shout and destroy the world.

But he was tiny. Not a monster at all.

Dark hair, like his. Curly, like hers. Deep, dark eyes, like the echoing gulfs of deep space.

"...buh?" he said.

"It's okay," said Greg. "You can touch him. Say hello."

Her fingers met his hand. So... small..

She didn't resist as he brought her finger to his mouth. At least, not until she made contact with the ample supply of saliva there. Yet she could not - would not - break the infant's grip on her finger.

This was Rose. Part of Rose. And he loved her so simply. So thoroughly.

Only then, did she weep.

Garnet.

Fresh from war, and into a dual announcement of birth and death. She'd known this day was coming and thought she had shed all of her tears.

Life had changed in unexpected ways. Again.

She was dimly aware of human life. They had babies and worked to keep them alive until they could have babies of their own. But this one...

She could see this one warping the fabric of causality like a bowling ball on a trampoline. That something so small could have such a large effect on time and space.

"You can hold him, if you like," said Greg. This was a human ritual. Hand the child around to all who would be in its life. Greet and bless and coo.

Human babies were fragile. There were thousands \- millions - of potential futures in which Rose's great experiment ended right there. Garnet chose the one in which Steven continued to exist.

His tiny hand grasped one of her fingers.

And, as it turned out, there were still tears in her after all. And she fell in love all over again.

# Challenge #088: When Lewis Met Vivi

 http://artisticnutcase.tumblr.com/post/140991025332/the-scariest-part-about-this-isnt-the-ghost-its

Lewis didn't know what hit him until long after she had carried him away from the laboratory mishap. Nothing more than noxious smells, but they were _lingering_ noxious smells that resulted in the entire wing shutting down so that cleaners in hazmat suits could get rid of them.

"Thanks," he managed, watching the greenish clouds leaking out of the building.

"Not a problem," said the girl. She had blue hair. And the kind of bulk that would get her taunted by taller, thinner girls. But it was clearly all muscle. She still had him over her shoulder like she'd forgotten she was carrying him at all.

"Um," said Lewis. "I'm pretty sure I can walk..."

"Whoops," she chuckled. Lifted him up in two hands like he was a delicate souflé, and then set him on his feet. Only then did she react in apparent fear. "Holy shit!"

"What? Did I get any on me?"

"Your hands! Dude! They're huge! Look at these things..." She placed his hand over her head. Uncaring for the impediment, she announced, "You could smother me with just one. They're bigger than my entire head!"

He couldn't help but laugh. "I swear I've never crushed anything bigger than an orange."

She emerged again, grinning wide. "Hi. I'm Vivi."

"Lewis Pepper," he said. "Very pleased to make your acquaintance."

His life was never the same, afterwards.

#  Challenge #089: They're Not Nearly Giants

_I can't even begin to understand your bizarre chain of thought. Its_ _almost_ _as if you're suggesting that avoiding the creation of giant robots is a valid course of action._

Iris dared look up at her master. Tall, dishevelled, underfed, devastatingly handsome, and so pure of heart that it made her soul hurt with wanting to kiss him. And so unworldly that he never cared to reprimand her for any of her multiple impertinences.

"Forgive me, Colonel," she murmured. "But... your lady didn't much appreciate the giant giraffe? Perhaps... more normal-sized musicians... would be economical?"

"Well, yes... I wouldn't have to scale up any instruments. And there's that worrying factor of certain bass frequencies..." His lanky, graceful hands began to sketch patterns in the air.

Iris could watch his clever fingers all day... but she was sent here to unearth unconsidered crockery, and any cutlery that wasn't currently doing double duty as a bookmark. Forcing herself to go about her duties was the second-hardest thing about her life as a maid in Walter Manor.

And if she encountered any mechanical parts, she placed them conveniently on the only clear surface in his lab - the workbench.

"If I can miniaturise them to the point that they can hold normal instruments... That may well be just as captivating as immensity!"

The copper head on the shelf, attached by cables to a larger box of cogs and gears, followed Iris with it's mechanical eyes. And it made kissy motions at her and waggled its eyebrows.

The fact that it could look like the lady Doctor Delilah Moreau in a charitable light was... somewhat abrading. But Iris kept those feelings buried deep inside the secret garden of her heart.

"You've got halfway of a start, Colonel," she said. "Most of these things you've made are almost there. You just need..." she flailed a little. "Smaller gears?"

It was two more weeks before she came to regret that particular prompt. Two weeks, and the head on the shelf became an autonomous automaton named Rabbit. With a steel, twin brother named after the monstrous chimneys springing from his spine. And two other, very peculiar brothers. Both made in haste.

While Delilah died.

Now the love of her life was having a serious go at self-immolation through self-neglect. Leaving her to pick up the messes and chase around four automatons with the minds of children and the bodies of giants. Well. Two giants and two junk-piles. One of them didn't even have feet.

And the worst part... the worst part was that they were all genuinely kind and accommodating. And they _loved_ her. They had taken to calling her 'ma' when nobody else was around and that really broke her heart.

Especially when any of them asked about their 'father'.

Colonel Walter needed something severe to shock him out of his self-absorption. And four mechanical babies were not going to cut it.

With luck, it would happen soon.

# Challenge #090: Deaded Again

Mage: [Friend and ally]'s grave is empty.

Warrior: Find out who was responsible. Then dig more graves.

It was a long and arduous quest. Hurrying after the tracks until time, weather, and circumstance obliterated them. Asking the locals if anyone had seen anyone who matched the tracks. Following gossip and rumour and delay after delay as close-mouthed folks demanded quests be completed before they divulged their information.

Dealing with the knowledge that their friend and ally was now undead and in the servitude of a necromancer was... somehow worse than knowing that they were dead.

Ruk'har the Invincible got downright poetic about their planned vengeance, that day. Jaroki the Mysterious stayed silent. Something was bothering her about the traces she was picking up. Certainly, she could follow the echoes of Spraud the Bard's body... but there was no lingering whiff of evil to it. But she also knew that there was little she could do about Ruk'har's mood until the end of their search.

A search that came to an end when they realised who was playing in the bar.

Spraud looked strange. Not quite as he was when he was alive. And there was a glow to his eyes that had not been there in life. His flesh was not rotting, and the new amulet at his neck spoke of some truly intense preservation spells. The amulet and Spraud's body were bound to a hooded mage in white. Not the kind of blood-soaked, dusty black of a necromancer who saw the dead as their playthings. Not the bone white of those who preferred to raid crypts for their material.

This was something new. It was the white of a spring snow. There was death there, but it was part of a cycle that promised new life just around the corner.

Spraud waved at them as they approached the stage, but he kept singing. Grinding on the hurdy-gurdy that always earned him money in taverns like this. His song ended and he smiled widely. The same cheeky grin he always had. And even more chilling because it was from a dead man.

"Got myself in a little pickle," he said. "It would have been a pickle barrel, but... Vulturé told me that wasn't necessary."

Ruk'har summed it up best, with what they always said when Spraud had himself in a pickle. "Damnit, bard! How the hell did you do it this time?"

"That is my story," said the one in white. They had a woman's body, but a mannish voice. "I wander in search of those who have, untimely, died. And I help them become back to their lives."

"In servitude?" demanded Jaroki. Her voice got a little more shrieky than she would have liked.

"It's a compromise," said Spraud. "You know how revivifications take five hundred GP worth of diamonds, right?"

"He's only indentured until his skill can pay for the revival," soothed Vulturé. "He's been dead a great many times."

"Aye," growled Ruk'har. "He has... er... how did you put it, Jaroki?"

"The survival capabilities of a meringue duck."

"Hey!" Spraud objected.

The white mage laughed so hard that her hood fell back, revealing the obligatory skull motif decorations of a necromancer in her neat hairstyle. "Oh dear," she cooed. "It sounds like I had best stay with your party. I can be of great assistance to you." She stood to introduce herself. Taller than most men, too. "My name, as you know, is Vulturé. The white necromancer."

Jaroki was counting her coin. "We can probably help with the funds for those diamonds..."

"You could probably raise it in one night if you could get him to stop drinking ale," grumbled Ruk'har. But then, they were cross that they had nobody to be lethally angry at.

#  Challenge #091: An Otherwise Sensible Rescue Machine

[Bad situation] - Send help!

Giant Robot spiders have been dispatched to your location. Your help results may vary.

Certain things are destined to happen when names are chosen for a child. One could imagine, for example, that an infant named Isambard Kingdom would grow up with something to prove[1].

And when one's mother, in all innocence of the written word, had christened her daughter Arachnia Toxicity Blakethorpe-Smythe... Well. Heads would eventually roll.

A lady of breeding may indeed have an education, but society usually meant something in the order of being able to recite Wordsworth, or name the constellations. And not, for example, engineer and then construct a series of mechanical engines with clockwork minds of their own.

Some serious thought had gone into them. They had to be able to traverse vast distances at all due speed, regardless of the state of traffic. They had to come equipped with every possible aid for every possible disaster. And even carry inside their British steel carapaces the trained staff who were prepared to assist.

And since there were so few trained staff... why not an ability to assess and assist on their own? Doctors were rare and expensive. Factory-made mechanical contrivances were otherwise. Mister Babbage had, after all, proved that machines could think. It was all a matter of gear ratios and deducing a means of encoding stimulus.

Arachnia Blakethorpe-Smythe really was very clever.

However, the first public use of her Help Spiders was not the modern miracle that the common throng seemed to like.

They performed admirably. They rushed to the scene of the fire and, using special elastic nets, extracted all the living souls from the flames before vomiting an expanding foam to smother the flames. Even the small matter of the foam setting like rock, afterwards, was of little import.

Work crews could easily make small work of it, and possibly carve the stuff for mementoes.

The press called them the Monsters of Middleton. The outright nerve!

1] Actual first and middle names of Victorian Engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, who did some pretty awesome things in his time. Someone even [wrote song about him.

#  Challenge #092: Panning For Golden Moments

The patter of rain on the old stone walkways. The scent of wildflowers emerging in the nearby fields. The distant sounds of explosions from some student mispronouncing an incantation on the other side of the school.

It's the little things that get you through the day. – Anon Guest

Kel sighed. Damn her roommate for spiking her sleep potion with Abstract of Melancholia. There was no remedy but time, and staying off of sleep aids for a _week_.

It was going to be a bad bloody week, she could tell.

Her advisor recommended she focus on the good things. The things that usually made her smile or giggle. They wouldn't reach as far under the influence of Melancholia, but they would help her make it to the evening.

Everything was hard. Her limbs felt heavy. Her body felt heavy. It was if she were wearing an invisible coat of heavy, impeding, and filthy slime. Something no-one else could see, but she could certainly feel.

It felt twice as heavy as she was. Long, like a royal robe, so it dragged behind her like a ball and chain. Slowing her stride. What she wouldn't give to just be able to slink off to some distant hole and wait for death...

And today was only her second day of dealing with it.

Good things. Yes. For a start, her dipshit roommate was suspended pending a thorough examination and inquiry into her motives. Secondly, the first years were doing Incantations in the Re-enforced Studies Building. So named, of course, because the students could blow things up and the building could remain standing.

And the self-repairing roof and windows were a definite bonus, too.

The distant percussive noise as each student, in turn, fluffed the pronunciation, put the ghost of a smirk on Kel's face. God, that was a painful year. The first spell she really learned to incant properly was Heal Burns. There was a vested interest, after all, in not standing in the Big Queue with half of her skin stinging in agony.

Funny in retrospect, really.

The rain made a slightly discordant cacophony on the Tuned Stone walkways. A low-level drone as a background to her own footfalls plunking out a series of notes at her own, slackened speed. Rumour had it that if one skipped from north to south along a particular, tuned path, you would hear _These Endearing Young Charms_. Kel was most definitely not in the mood to skip. And skipping in wet weather was a guaranteed meeting with road rash.

An abundance of Sootheblossom was starting to emerge in the landscaping. It's scent should have been the herald for student panic[1] as they bloomed close to exam season, but they did their job well. Calming all who smelled them and allowing said students to carry on studying with rational minds.

They did their job very well, as their perfume lifted most of the Melancholia's influence. She wished to carry a posy of them, but the advisor said that Sootheblossom was potentially addictive. Kel didn't know if it really was, or if the stresses of life became more noticeable in its lack.

Either way, picking those flowers was definitely not allowed.

Good thoughts. Things to exist for.

Well. If she survived any more dipshit roommates for the rest of the year, there was always Krakken Beach and the festival there. Yeah. Lots of potential fun at the end-of-year festival. Music, junk food, diversions, and loads of bright, shiny objects.

She'd get there. One day at a time.

[1] Rather like Jacarandas in Australia.

# Challenge #093: In Sense'd(1)

_1)_ <http://scienceisadesiretoknow.tumblr.com/post/141075139346>

2) Remember that mystical "sight" thing the humans have? Well my kid is apparently a fan and now they're trying to do it too.

"I keep telling you to invest in aluminium upgrades," Angie sighed, adding just enough coefficient friction to slide Trevor off of the wall mount for the knives. "Why do you keep going near that thing, anyway."

"I couldn't find the paprika."

"We're out. I told you to get more."

Trevor looked blankly at her.

"Last week? I put it in your memo file?"

"Uuuuuuhhhh..." said Trevor. He got that constipated expression that meant he was searching his files. "I... don't have... a memo file?"

These were the things that made her life painful. "Of fucking course. You got your _head stuck on the knife block. UGH! I should just get rid of that thing and get a wooden one!"

Which gave Trevor a bright idea. "Hey, I could make a new memo file and put it on the list with the paprika."

"Just do me a favour and do that far, far away from any magnets?"

# Challenge #094: In Sense'd(2)

_1)_ <http://scienceisadesiretoknow.tumblr.com/post/141075139346>

2) Remember that mystical "sight" thing the humans have? Well my kid is apparently a fan and now they're trying to do it too.

There was a cluster of junior Crystates and Pterops and some hushed conversation. The object of their interest was concealed by their furry bodies. Captain K'rik didn't much hold with children aboard a starship, but the new regulations were the law...

He endeavoured to be companionable.

"What are you pups up to? Nothing dangerous, I trust?"

The crowd flustered themselves into a line, and the apparent leaders quickly moved something behind their back. "No sir," squeaked a smaller female Crystate. "Nothing dangerous, we checked."

A slightly larger Pterops chirped, "T'tal!" in a reproachful tone.

They had to be the ringleaders. Children were far less effective at hiding their tells. K'rik didn't need the ships' human to read them with hir mystical 'sight' when these pups were practically shouting that they were up to something.

"Well if it's not dangerous, you can certainly stop trying to hide it," chuckled K'rik.

The assembled pups rustled uncertainly. Chirping doubtfully amongst themselves. "Er," said T'tal. "Our parentals don't like us talking about this..." she had a peculiar headdress behind her back. Rather like Lt-cmdr Jain's glasses. Only far thicker and with an assortment of technological aids. And... K'rik had to note... pup-sized.

With sinking certainty that he knew what the answer would be, K'rik asked, "And what is this?"

"It's a sight assistance device," gushed T'tal. Evidently proud of herself. "I've been asking Lt-cmdr Jain all about hir vision and ze's been helping us come up with this." She put it on and giggled. "It uses our vestigial occular capabilities and enhances the input from outside. And with practice, we're starting to tell _colours_ apart! It's really amazing what Jain can perceive. Even though ze says... this... is... justafraction... ofwhat's... possible?" The little pup cowered in her place and eventually took the device off.

"It's really amazing, sir," said a pre-teen Pterops. "You should try one. We've been making them for all the crew when we're not in class? Only we want to get it right before presenting them? And we tried getting our parentals involved? But..." the pre-teen scratched nervously at the floor. "Um. Mam said it's heretical."

"We're in space, meeting life forms that are direct contradictions to the Holy texts," said K'rik. "I would think a little heresy is warranted." He checked his schedule. "You get your prototypes up to conference room twelve and I'll drag Doctor M'koi in for a practical demonstration."

The pups were ecstatic. But what K'rik was thinking of was the look on the old country doctor's face when he learned that light was real.

#  Challenge #095: The Journals of Terry Six

 _http://soggywarmpockets.tumblr.com/post/141055057822/audiencecat-songofsunset-fireandwonder

that one with the regenerating species got more added - a misunderstanding with a much happier result

Taken from _Journal of Observations: Human reproduction_ :

There is an ancient Terran song, one of the ones that is hard to get out of the mind-space after it is introduced. There is a refrain within it, _Ob la dee, ob la da, life goes on, rah. La la, how the life goes on._

My name is P'terii'CH!altath'q'voqq Six. The humans of the vessel _Endeduanna Akkad_ have taken to calling me 'Terry Six' or 'P'terii' as an eke name. As I understand things, eke names are verbal tokens of friendship.

I am alone, but I have friends. I am lost, but I am finding much. I am learning new and startling things.

My previous incarnation learned much of the damage humans can endure and survive. The humans know of this and joke that they are 'space orcs'. My research into this subject has been... disturbing. I have put the dangerous material behind sufficient access locks, as time with the humans has toughened me.

My previous incarnation had learned of human death. They survive so long because they die completely. That is a hard lesson to learn in person, as my recent re-incarnation suggests.

Five was so traumatised by the learning... I was born.

I still have two best-humans. Unique and Bob. Mary Davinport, the former incarnation's third, had her body shipped home. The new hire is Danik el Fadil. I am told to call him Mister Dan.

Human eke names never cease to be confusing.

The female best-human Unique has been mating with Mister Dan. Frequently. There is no season for mating, no time, either. Their behaviours have been noted and logged in my archives and make for interesting perusal.

I have also learned the true meaning of 'private time', see Confusing Human Sayings Appendix IX.

Recently, Unique has made a sad announcement. She has six months to live. She has told me that she is having a baby without the laying of eggs. I have seen no signs of usual human trauma, which suggests that Mister Dan caused something internal with his aggressive touchings.

I am being especially kind to best-human Unique. She is still exhibiting mating behaviours with Mister Dan. And has told me to be kind to him as well. I will endeavour to be polite, at least. I am fond of Best-human Unique. I do not like to think of the hurting.

scene{*}

Suspicions of internal damages confirmed. Best-human Unique continues swelling in her soft abdomen. I theorise that the young will emerge from her body when that abdomen splits.

I do not know what to think of this.

The humans around Best-human Unique continue to behave as if this is a good event, when they are not behaving as if all is normal. They see I am disturbed and repeatedly offer to show me educational videos of the birth process.

I do not wish to see. I do not wish to know how the last hours of Best-human Unique will go. I know that it will cause much pain before the ending.

I do not understand why she is happy.

*

It is after the birth. I do not wish to meet Best-human Unique's replacing child. I do not wish to go to funeral. Oddly, the humans have not invited me to this. They have invited me to meet the new one.

Remaining Best-human Bob insists I go. Best-human Bob has offered to help me understand.

They keep telling me that they do not do what I do. It is hard to believe.

*

Humans most definitely do _not_ do what I do. Best-human Unique lives! Child is not replacing incarnation. Child is continuance of mixed genes. Gestation is internal, and birthing through prepared orifice.

I have since watched and attached the least-offensive educational video in Dangerous Knowledge Appendix CVIII. Birthing is not without discomfort and pain, but is something humans endure.

Attempts to convince humans that egg is much better convenience are met with merriment.

New humans are small and helpless. They do not have the strength to move about for themselves until much time following birth. They must learn many things, and must graduate towards true omnivorism via a series of nutrient concoctions. It begins with natural lactate from the birthing parental, through soft pastes, to fine chunks, and finally to more mainstream selections.

Humans must be licensed to reproduce in enclosed environments like stations and vessels. Why they are not licensed on planets is a question that eludes an answer. Surely, adequate training and assessment is vital for fragile baby humans to survive.

I asked, but all I got was agreement.

#  Challenge #096: About a Monumental Hypocrisy

_Another "Satan Reacts":_  http://www.rawstory.com/2014/01/satanic-temple-unveils-7-foot-goat-headed-baphomet-statue-for-oklahoma-capitol/

[AN - a note for my Theistic followers in the YHWH section of the stadium. LaVeyan Satanists are actually a group of atheists who are hell-bent (sorry) on exposing Xtian hypocrisy when it comes to separation of Church and State in the US. They are Satanists in name only. The same way most Xtians are Xtian in name only, especially when it comes to teachings like "love thy neighbour" or "love the sinner" or "forgive the trespasses of others" or "judge not"]

Lucifer was walking in circles with his hands over his head, again. Judging by the incoherence of his ramblings, he had been having this particular tizzy for some extended time.

Lilith sighed, "Is it those Satanists, again?"

"You wanna know what I just learned? I just learned that they're not really worshippers! They don't follow me at all! They don't follow anyone!"

"So?"

"So they're acting under my name, erecting monuments for my cause... and they don't believe in me?"

Lilith wrapped him up in a soothing embrace. "There now. It's not that bad... Just think about how many of the other lot don't really follow your father."

"Yes, but that lot are more on my side, spreading hate and misery... and narrow-mindedness. And spite. They're making the world worse in His name. And I know He has to hate _that_."

"Mmm?" prompted Lilith. "So this group are...?"

"They're almost a nul-sum game. They're exposing wickedness, which is His department, and they're also promoting me. But they're doing it for mischief, rather than good intent... But they don't _believe_..."

"Lawful Neutral," said Lilith. "You could probably lead them down a path of wickedness if you so chose..."

"That's the easy part. Getting them to believe in something... that's more difficult."

# Challenge #097: She Looks Up to Him

 http://ectoimp.tumblr.com/post/141134922979/smallangrybean-shitsquiettime-i-think-its

Little and Large is a great dynamic.

[AN: I really had enough of Lewis and Vivi for now, so... ROBOTS!And for the sake of clarity, I am emphasising some height differences]

She was small, for a robot. The first one in Walter Manor who Hatchy had to look down at in order to meet her eyes. Not that there was much of a chance at that. She was painfully shy. And equally painfully afraid of everything.

Steve technically owned her, since he was the one to salvage her from a crate delivered by the Lost Letters Office. But she stayed at the manor where all the tools and equipment was.

Hatchy knew what it was like to be re-introduced to a world that had changed whilst he had been quietly mouldering. He knew how terrifying everything had been. The trick, he remembered, was being allowed to approach things at his own speed.

Therefore, he allowed her to approach him at her own speed. And it didn't take long after that for him and her to become fast friends.

Her name was Bitzer. And her creator had made her out of spare parts. Her clockwork mechanisms were all the small, tiny gears of watches. Apparently purchased wholesale. But the rest of her makeup was... eclectic.

But that didn't matter, in the end. He had someone he could talk to about the changes in the world. And she just had someone she could talk to. And boy, was she enthusiastic when she emerged from her shy shell. It was as if she was not merely short, but also concentrated.

She was _intense_.

The problem started with rehearsals. Bitzer followed in his wake, initially excited to see a show, and did her usual blending into the scenery because she was literally below notice.

At least until, in a moment of casual cameraderie, Rabbit let loose a friendly insult.

That was when Bitzer's intensity turned up to eleven and a hidden ferocity came to the fore. She'd never had weapons as part of her construction, but she made everyone present believe that she could breathe fire. No, she could breathe plasma.

She had Rabbit bailed up in a corner and fearing for her life before Hatchy came to the rescue, carrying Bitzer away by draping her over his shoulder.

"I can literally take you apart," Bitzer yelled from her perch. "I know how! I could do it with a screwdriver!"

Hatchy kept her from running back into the fray by the simple expedient of holding her feet off the floor. "Now, now," he cooed. "Rab-bit did-n't mean an-y-thing by that."

"Rabbit?" From rage to shock in an instant. She really didn't have the capacity for more than 0.1 emotion at a time. She stretched to peek past his shoulder. "C'est n'est pas mon cousine Lapin. She-she-she-she looked like a boy, the last time."

It was at that moment that Hatchy realised that Bitzer always hid whenever anyone else was around. Apart from himself, Steve, and Pete the sixth, nobody else got more of a glimpse of her. And she never met anyone else.

"When was the last time?"

"Nineteen eighty-eight. Why?"

Oh boy. Hatchy patiently explained that Rabbit had been recently restored from recovered blueprints. Colonel Peter Walter's original plans. Which, oddly enough, made the smaller automaton fume.

"I still-still don't know whether to hug-to hug her or smack her," Bitzer confessed. "Those were the plans Maman used to make me. And then I kept them safe. She never sent a thank-you note."

# Challenge #098: Never Hurts to Help

 http://mareliini.tumblr.com/post/141201232172/lolshtus-how-i-joined-a-gang-by-accident

Sylvia had, once again, made the mistake of looking away from Wander for more than five consecutive seconds. Which meant that he was now missing without a trace.

How had that fuzzy orange weirdo _survived_ before she'd met him?

Meanwhile, Wander was making friends. It didn't matter that they were mean-looking, or in a rough-around-the-edges neighbourhood. All that mattered was that strangers were friends that he'd not yet had the pleasure of meeting.

And right now, he did what he always did. Help.

The smaller version of most of the denizens here was struggling with their burden. Clearly more than they could carry.

"Hi there, friend. Let me help you carry those."

His new friend looked skeptical. "What's the catch?"

"No catch at all. Like I tell my friend Sylvia -oh, you should meet Sylvia- it never hurts to help. How far have you got to go, friend?"

"I ain't your friend. And I can do this by myself."

"Well, then I'll walk with you... Company always makes a tough task lighter."

He hadn't gone five more steps before the heaviest of the bags became his to carry. Wander chattered whilst his friend was more guarded. Talking about the sights and experiences without a frame of reference or time scale. He had, after all, been wandering for quite a while.

His new friend was called Max, and they were taking the week's food home before someone else used the money. People had a knack for using money when they never had enough of it. Wander could understand their plight. But he knew better, by now, than to just uplift them to the level of their dreams.

Better to help in small ways, there.

They were almost to Max's crowded place when a brace of local toughs approached them.

_More new friends!_ Wander smiled. "Hey there! Nice day for it."

"You take these bags off'a my bro?" growled the biggest and meanest-looking of the gang.

"Oh no such thing. I was helping him take them home."

"'S right, G," said Max. "Weirdo was doing a good deed."

"You all right, weirdo."

"Call me Wander. Lots of people do."

He spent an educational ten minutes learning their handshake, and another twenty doing little odd jobs, here and there. Then Sylvia turned up.

She was in her usual state of panic, and landed on him in a hug. "Wander... please stop giving me heart trouble, buddy?"

"What's the trouble? I was just making some new friends?"

"Weirdo-bro's all right," said Max's big sister. "You ever need our help, just call. K?"

"Are you kidding? With the Greebo-keth?" Sylvia raved. "That's the roughest, toughest, meanest gang in the entire star system!"

Wander was certain they were folks just trying to protect them and theirs from a harsh universe. He did try to teach Sylvia. But she was still learning how to let go and be friendly all the time. At least she got to have a good tea party with Max.

#  Challenge #099: Close Encounter of the Petting Kind

 http://iopele.tumblr.com/post/141217786307/cosmictuesdays-trynottodrown-zooophagous

The problem was that there were humans on this planet, too. The bigger problem was that there were more of them than there were charges in Braxxyx's stunner.

The only plus side was that the humans didn't know this. Or that the stunner was non-lethal. Humans were dangerous to begin with. They were aggressive if they thought you were deadly.

Do not shoot at humans, they are dangerous when offended.

Braxxyx pointed her stunner at any human who got too close. They kept displaying their phalanges at her. Their songs were not something she could understand, but it might have been an attempt to soothe.

And there were too many to hold off indefinitely. Braxxyx backed into one of them, who immediately reached out... and smoothed her fur with hir phalanges.

Not rough. Not to harm. But gentle and reassuring and oddly pleasant.

More hands joined. Braxxyx leaned into the more soothingly pleasurable caresses, all thoughts of violence escaping her mind. She holstered the stunner and attempted a return caress.

Who knew that humans could communicate with touch?

It was quite the educational encounter. And, after a couple of false starts, lead to trade.

# Challenge #100: Revenge on Holiday

Nemesis, the Goddess of Retribution is having a 'Human Day off' sort of. what happens next?

She was discovering many things. First among them was that Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain were to be enjoyed separately. Second was that Pina Coladas weren't all that enjoyable for deities. Third... the world loved a generous tipper.

But without her working on her job, there was an interesting change in humanity.

She watched, idly sipping something rainbow-coloured and highly alcoholic. The man at the table was the sort of bootstrap-believing idiot who wrote "get a real job" in the tip section of his bill. But tonight...

Tonight was different.

Tonight, he did not harrass the waitstaff. Tonight, he remembered his manners. Tonight, he calculated the state-mandated minimum wage and, because they deserved it, rounded up to the next ten dollars per hour. And he gave them a real monetary tip. Not one of the fake bills that declared the waitstaff's true reward was in heaven if they accepted Jesus.

She watched him leave and thank everyone. And then give a fifty to the bum in the alleyway.

Nemesis left a generous tip and wandered along the New York streets. Everywhere she looked, people were being... nice. The usual New York traffic jams were conducted, not in a hail of honking and curses, but polite and genteel vehicle piloting. She even saw one man pay his cabbie, give a tip, and commence walking faster than the cars.

Nobody was angry with anyone else. Even the people on angry conservative talkback radio were seeing other people's points of view, today.

The world was a much nicer place.

Maybe the others had been right. She had been overdoing it.

# Challlenge #101: I'll Tell You a Tale

Wander Over Yonder, anything inspired by the latest episode - "The Legend" (latest at time of prompting anyway)

"...and the second-cousin twice removed is none other than his very own faithful steed!"

"Nuh-uh," said Angela.

"Stop interrupting," said Melodie. "You're ruining my storytelling."

"...gettin' it wrong," murmured Angela.

Melodie vented a growl of frustration. "Seriously? Of course I have everything right. I worked it out."

"'S wrong," insisted Angela.

"Mo-o-o-o-o-o-om! Angela won't let me tell her a story!"

Their mother vented a very similar grown of frustration. "Then let Angela tell a story. Yours go on for way too long, anyway. And for the record, everybody is not actually related to everybody else."

"Urgh, you're stifling my creativity," whined Melodie.

"I just think it's time you gave Angela a chance to talk, that's all."

"Fine," growled Melodie. "It's your turn. Where is the hero and why didn't he save us?"

"...he did save us," Angela played with her stuffed Zbornak toy. "...doesn't look like a hero," she added.

"Seriously? that orange goofball in the silly hat? _That_ was the hero?"

"...'es."

" _How_?"

Angela took a deep breath...

They called him Wander, now. He had had many names. Tumbleweed, Jumping Bean, Fidget, and on one occasion, Kitty. Nobody knew how long he had had the hat, but it contained whatever he needed at the time. And, sometimes, himself.

He had to be smarter than he seemed to be, because he had a knack for escaping any given situation with little more than a banjo, silliness, and a song. And wherever he went, he had to spread joy and wonder. Even in those who had seemingly lost track of their own.

His gift - if he had one - was finding the good in the bad. And then bringing that good to come to the fore. It had worked for his friend, steed, and occasional muscle, Sylvia. It was just beginning to work on Lord Hater.

Whether it would work on Dominator was something that had to be seen. But if there was any good in her at all, even the tiniest speck, Wander would find it, and help it to grow.

"The end," said Angela.

"...stoopidest story I ever heard," growled Melodie.

"I think it's lovely," said their mother.

"You have to," argued Melodie. "You're our Mom."

# Challenge #102: The Eternal Soldier

 http://jewliesparks.tumblr.com/post/131527892833/wwii-era-vampires

He should have been 4F because he was 'allergic to sunlight' on his forms. But he told them that if he coated his exposed skin in zinc oxide, and wore sunglasses, he could deal. They gave him gloves to wear. And the fellows in the 40th Foot called him Warpaint. The enemy came to know him as The Ghost, owing to the fact that most of his sunscreen was white-only.

He could pass for twenty. And there was plenty of blood in war. At night, in the trenches, he could nip off to the lavvy and then fly out to the enemy. Take his fill there and wait for news of a mystery illness that was sweeping the Jerries' trenches.

He only needed to do it once a month, really. But a well-fed vampire didn't need so much sun protection. So he 'mysteriously sickened' the Jerries once a fortnight.

He found Emma - the name she was using back then \- in one of the field hospitals. Dragging his best friend in from an ambush. An ambush that he and Carl were the only ones to survive. Him, because regular, mortal weapons could not kill a vampire, and Carl because Tom had been protecting him.

Both of them were covered in blood.

Despite his best efforts to stop it, Carl was in bad shape. Tom had seen his fair share of mortal death and more... but this one. _Not this one._ He had known Carl since he was a boy. Carl knew what he was and didn't flinch. He didn't get weird or fetishist, either. Friends like that were rare.

Emma took him away and gave his blood type without looking at Carl's dog tags. That was Tom's first clue. She took Tom away from the rushing medical staff and helped him wash, and acquire new fatigues that didn't look like he should be dead seventy times over.

His second clue came with her saying, "How long have you been eighteen?"

"Four hundred years," he said. "And you? How long have you been nineteen?"

She smiled mysteriously. "Don't you know it's rude to ask a lady how old she is?" She put his condition down as 'shell shock', which let him stay with Carl. And she also gently broke it to him that, despite the best that medicine could offer, Carl might not make it through the week.

Tom sat on the bed next to his friend. They had been friends for fifteen years. Fifteen years was a blink for a vampire well over four hundred. But here and now, it was not enough time. Tom clasped Carl's hand while he woke up. "I can help you," Tom whispered. "Let me help you. You can join me. Forever."

Carl shook his head. "...i'm not made for forever," he croaked.

Those were his last words.

Time creates distance. Tom married Emma, and took in orphans for forty years before they moved on and reset their ages with new names. Wars came and went. They always did. Soon enough, there were wars that were not worth fighting.

Life continued.

White vampires had to move every ten years. It helped that he and Em were black. They could stay for longer.

But he still came to the memorials. The biggest, clearest war where there were good guys and bad guys. He stood on the sides and saluted the old men as they tried to march past. And every year, there were less old men who had been there and children or grandchildren who marched in their place.

One such veteran pulled up short. Staring up from his wheelchair at Tom's face. "You look a hell of a lot like Tommy Blakelowe..."

"That's my grandfather," Tom lied. "I was named after him."

"Damn, that boy had some strong genes. You're the living spit of him. You should march."

"No. It's not my place." And because, if he took that old uniform out of mothballs, he would look _exactly_ like Tommy Blakelowe. But that Tommy had 'died' some long years ago.

Too many awkward questions were a bad thing for a vampire.

# Challenge #103: Pax Haptis

There was more added to the petting post from earlier

" _we were going to blow them up, but they engaged in an oddly pleasing patting ritual and, well, it was nice."_

They had charged into a human nest that had already been abandoned. Some fired at stationary vehicles. Some fired at mannequins. Some fired because they feared for their lives. But when nothing fired back, the troup took their fingers off their triggers and looked around.

Somehow, the humans had detected them coming and left the area.

Hoxx tread softly through the empty streets. Trying to divine meaning from the alien structures. Humans certainly loved right-angles. It was creepy.

An alert went off. Mandatory sustenance time. He hid in an alley, behind another container for refuse. Under a grid and some boxes that at least felt like a proper burrow. Only there, with the illusion of safety, did Hoxx feel secure enough to eat his rations.

His HUD told him that other members of the troup were doing similar things. There was nothing on his scanners big enough to be a threat. Animals. Some Terran ones, domesticated and left behind, or native ones come to investigate the nutritional content of the refuse containers.

Hoxx concentrated on his food. Best to eat as fast as he could so he and his troup could get on with clearing this area. He ignored the animal on his HUD, directly above his position. All his focus was on his food.

Which was why Hoxx didn't notice that he was being soothingly touched until the toucher started scratching. Firm keratin digging into his itchiest places definitely got his attention.

And there were none of his nest-mates with him.

Hoxx looked up. The animal was not an animal, but a human child. Barely past the infancy stage. Grubby, of course. Perhaps it, too, had been scavenging like the animals.

"Kitty," said the human.

Hoxx stayed very still, chewing his last mouthful. _The most dangerous species in the known universe is grooming me._ He un-huddled and inspected the box that the human juvenile was in. And the human with it.

The human took this opportunity to use both hands. It was different from nesting, but eminently pleasing. And almost lulled Hoxx to sleep.

The rest of his troup were very shocked to see him carrying a human. It clung to his arm like a squippet, and made a strange noise that seemed to be an indicator of enjoyment.

It sounded something like, _giggle giggle giggle_.

Hoxx assured his troop that this human meant no harm, and showed them it's 'petting' ritual. They passed the human around, all enjoying the grooming and scratching.

*

"Alpha One. Come in."

David took up the comms. "Alpha one sentry reporting. I have eyes on the hostiles, sir, but... They're not hostile. Not any more."

"What? Explain!"

"You remember that kid that was unaccounted for? Well, um. She's currently petting the enemy, sir."

There was a long pause.

"Evac base, do you copy?"

"Yeah, I copy, I just don't believe it. I'm sending one scout with comms on to investigate and attempt communication."

"Roger that." David sat, watching, during the most tense and terrifying hour he had ever lived. It was true that four-year-olds were fearless. And this tiny scrap of a kid, a foster child with a knack for running off and hiding at exactly the wrong moments, had done it right, this time.

Like it or not, a small child named Bell had become an ambassador by wanting to pet the kitties. And the Tigrids obviously liked her.

# Challenge #104: Statuesque(1)

_1)_  http://nonasuch.tumblr.com/post/141566220050/having-grown-up-in-dc-statues-of-various-dead _The statues that come to life_

2) Pick another statue, ideally in a different country

Everyone had agreed that it was the right wings' turn. Well. Everyone _in power_ agreed that it was the right wings' turn. Nobody had listened to the common throng since the last revolution. And since then, those in power had successfully made certain that they would remain in power with a well-paid, well-armed, private militia.

What happened next, though, gave them pause.

The statues of Justice, blindfolded and wielding her two-edged sword, usually found in front of every courthouse, vanished from her plinths. The stone lions outside of libraries and government buildings vanished with her.

One by one, statues of great men and women disappeared. All of them were idols for ideals that all should aspire to.

And finally, the grandest of them all, the guardian and gatekeeper of the nation, the one that was so immense that it could theoretically house hundreds... stepped off her base.

She was too huge to ignore. Striding slowly and carefully between the traces of the civilisation that made her. After it was clear that she was headed to the capital, the other statues came out of hiding. A trotting cavalry of bronze horses and their mounts. Flanked by infantry regiments of Justice. Joined on foot by an assortment of great men and women. Writers, poets, lawmakers and lawbreakers alike.

Those in power had forgotten that they could do this. They certainly remembered, now.

The capital came to a standstill. Statues from all over the nation clogged the streets. Many of them were armed. They ringed the leader's residence like battalions. Silent. Staring. _Angry_.

He was the first leader in that century to resign. And when the one that the _people_ elected took his place... the statues all saluted him, and returned to their places.

# Challenge #105: Statuesque(2)

_1)_  http://nonasuch.tumblr.com/post/141566220050/having-grown-up-in-dc-statues-of-various-dead _The statues that come to life_

2) Pick another statue, ideally in a different country

Meanwhile, in Australia...

The Prime Minister looked out at the parliament lawn. "Ogleby... why the hell did we have to have so bloody many Queen Victorias?"

"Ancient patriotism?"

She sighed. "Anyway, they are not amused. Again. Who's the best florid speaker we've got?"

"Um. Papalovakis managed to win them over, last time. Oh, and Davies has some experience with Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare's too old. Tudor era. Way before Victoria. Think _Sense and Sensibility_ , will you?"

Ogleby gawped in realisation. "Oooooohhh... Riiiiiight. Yeah. Um. Yeah, I'll look up the ones who're into Steampunk."

"On our side, please. I'm trying to give every Aussie citizen a fair deal, here."

Ogleby sucked his teeth. "Oooh, that's gonna be a hard sell. She's a racist old cow."

"Well, maybe, but we don't wanna tell _her_ that. Tell Papalovakis to give the bitch the old Razzle Dazzle. Good of the empire, blah blah blah. All that rot."

"Right-oh." Ogleby left on his mission.

And, once alone, the Prime Minister had another Tim Tam. It was that kind of day.

#  Challenge #106: It'll Be All Right on the Night

The issues of having a head that is not technically attached to one's body

Walter Workers were scrambling around like mad things. Lots of boxes were being searched. And Hatchworth was stumbling around without his head.

"This always happens, every time we t-travel by freight!" Rabbit complained. She wasn't so much helping as contributing to the overall mess by throwing the rejects over her shoulder.

"Shut up, it was cheaper." Steve was rapidly working on his phone like he wished he could smash it into a million pieces. "Stay cool, okay? I'm trying to track where it went."

The Spine, busily sorting Rabbit's rejections as fast as she could throw them, muttered, "Don't you make me slap him, come the concert. He's clearly been through enough."

"Well don't slip a cog and go into Japanese mode, then." Tap tap tap tap tap tap "FUCK!"

One of the Walter Workers stopped in her tracks. "Bad news?"

"Is there any other k-kind?" smirked Rabbit.

"Uh," said Steve. "How do you feel about Hatchworth... performing without his head."

The other two robots looked at each other.

"We c-could do it," said Rabbit. "It'd c-c-cut down on a lot of our b-banter."

"Can't talk about life on the range," said The Spine. "I can't hang Hatchy if he doesn't have a head."

"Lotsa gag p-potential. Could say he's g-gotta snuggle-buddy?"

"How's that, Rabbit?"

"He's obviously lost his head over s-s-somebody."

Even without his head, Hatchworth managed to glare at his clockwork sibling.

Rabbit opened the next box. "Why's this one full'a books?"

There was a distant scream from the merchant's room.

"Found it," chorused the robots.

#  Challenge #107: Self-fulfilling Prophet

From a human to a pre-industrial sophont (fantasy realm? With a bit of tweaking, might work for Shayde):

My people fought an apocalyptic war that only ended when the impossibly ancient still-warm remnants of a star's death were used to destroy whole cities in a more final way than simply sacking and burning them - or even salting all their fields as well - to stop things like this. Then, we spent generations trying to stop ourselves from continuing it. Turn away now.

(If Shayde, perhaps changing "spent generations trying to stop ourselves" to "when I left, we were still trying to finally stop doing it entirely" or something?)

Captured by the Uruk. Bound to their horses with no way out, including the mage's demon, who was like that anyway.

Liah the Paladin flinched under a blow. His armour was on a different horse, and could not protect him.

"See?" said the demon. "If I'd'a been free, I'd have stopped this."

"Enough of your lies, demon," Liah snarled reflexively.

"No talk," growled one of the Uruk.

The demon took offense. "Or what? Yer goin' tae hit us again? Ye ken well that does'nae work on me. I just use yer strength against ye."

This Uruk was sharper than most. "You no talk. Or Grak hurt puny one."

"Don't even think about it," the demon menaced. "You've no idea of the hell you'll unleash from me if ye dare."

This was hilarious to the Uruk. "Spin tale, blackskin. Make Grak laugh."

"My kind are well used tae war. We spent centuries fightin' each other. One war, we fought it over a dot[1]. And all the time, we had th' smartest of us come up wi' new ways tae make destruction. Bombs the likes of which would terrify ye. And one... the worst one... we used the still-warm remains of dead stars tae not only lay waste tae cities and poison the ground, but also poison the people as survived it. Fer a thousand generations and a thousand more, the place where it once was could kill a man should he dare tae walk that ground."

The Uruk around the demon had decided to guard other prisoners. All but Grak, who was held captive by her glowing stare.

"That was almost fifty years ago," singsonged the demon. "Ere I came here, two great nations were makin' more, and more, and more o' those bombs. Enough tae poison all the lands and set their castles on fire, and turn all th' people in'tae shadows on the ground. All ready tae use 'em on each other and their allies and their enemies alike. A war th' likes of which nobody could win because there'd be nowt alive tae declare victory. _That's_ where I'm from, pal. And that's where yer goin' if you dare tae threaten my friends again."

There was an extended silence filled only with the clop of horses' hooves and the gentle patter of Grak's urine running to the ground from his moist saddle. Grak did not say a word. Just spurred his horse a little faster so he could get away from the demon.

Carbuncle, otherwise known as 'the puny one' broke the silence. "That was impressive. I've never seen anyone turned aside with words, before."

All her ferocity died like a fire hit with a flood. "Aye. I keep tellin' ye, kid. There's more'n one way tae get people to do as ye wish." A briefly red glare at Liah. "Sommat I'm still tryin' tae teach others."

"The creature boasts," said Liah. "If it wanted to use such powers, why has it not stopped me chastising you, Carbuncle?"

Carbuncle turned to the demon. "Yes. Why?"

"Because yer allegedly a force fer good. And even heroes have a lot tae learn. And should we survive this," she added, "I could use my powers tae teach you some very important lessons ye will'nae forget. If you really want me to."

It was the first time Carbuncle had seen his lord grow both pale and thoughtful.

"I... will... endeavour to apply some lessons you have already dictated," said Liah. "Upon our survival. You have my solemn word."

Now the demon grinned, showing her sharp, white teeth. "Awright then. 'Ere. Mysterio. Permission tae break me bonds and have at the enemy?"

Carbuncle knew that Mysterio's real name was Tragyk. And why the mage flinched at every time the demon used it. It was a joke. At least to the demon.

"Permission so granted," grated Mysterio.

The demon known as Shayde ran her clows through the rope, which pulled apart like raw fleece.

The Uruk would now have cause to _really_ regret taking them prisoner. Just as the demon foretold.

[1] Humanity really did fight for three _hundred_ years over the placement of a dot above a letter.

#  Challenge #108: In-a Museum, With-a Doctor, While-a Crisis Unfolds

When will people learn that the only good Cyberman/Dalek is one that's been totally disembowelled and checked every day?

The cavernous space echoed with their footfalls. The exhibits were corpses, or empty armour. Relics of things that destroyed. All within glass cases. All on little plinths. All with informative plaques with information about what they were and where or when they had come from.

The Doctor knew them all.

He added random information to the displays. Telling stories to Hope, who seemed less impressed with it. Even the singular Minotaur nanobot, displayed under magnification, did not impress.

"Now my question is," said the Doctor. "How did they get all of this?"

"We followed you," said a new speaker. It was a figure so unassuming that most who passed them assumed that they were one with the wallpaper. Bland and beige, all over. So dull and boring that they didn't seem to have a gender. "As far as the exhibits are concerned, you are our greatest source of potential material."

"I'm not sure I like that honour."

"Who're you?" said Hope, who had left finger marks all over a cases labelled _Do not touch!_

"I'm the Curator," said the bland one. "My purpose is to ensure that all exhibits remain inert."

The Doctor turned to look back at all the glass cases. "Them? They're dead. I killed a lot of them. And your job is to make sure?"

"Yes," said the Curator. "Some of your own history dictates that it is better to make sure they are dead. Many of these constructs contain devices both subtle and gross to ensure their continued operation."

Realisation dawned. "Oh yes. A lot of them do. Why, it might just be a matter of time before one of them figures out how to siphon energy from an active scanner."

The bland face of the Curator looked slightly worried. "If I was stupid," they said, "I would deny all possibility of such happening. And display how secure everything is." They produced a scanner from their robes. "But around you, stupid people die."

"'S right," said Hope. "Seen it loads."

The Doctor was busily analysing the scanner with his sonic screwdriver. "You know... it's very refreshing to meet someone who's actually clever."

"That a dig?" asked Hope.

"Not in the slightest. You're one of the clever ones, too." He peered at the screwdriver, frowning at the results. "Now. Let's see what's making trouble."

# Challenge #109: Family Comfort

Pick a squad pose

 http://croxovergoddess.tumblr.com/post/141221250180/croxovergoddess-my-draw-the-squad-memes-so

[AN: This is very much not my strong area. And I'm not drawing anything, I'm writing it. I chose pose #9]

The Spine preferred to malfunction in private. He didn't like his robotic siblings see him fail. He was the sensible one. Their guardian, when things got strange. He kept Rabbit from flying off into her fantasies... mostly... and introduced Hatchy to the world that had changed around him while he was in the vault.

So he kept everything under control. Except...

When his own systems...

Went bad.

He could sense them coming, which usually gave him enough time to find an empty room in the Manor and -as quietly as he could- fail and reboot. And then clean up the mess and resume business as normal.

That was the way it had gone since 1973, after they were recovered from Vietnam.

But now... something had changed.

He woke muzzily from his systems check. Systems green. Until the next time. He felt too wan to try moving just yet. It was always tough to pick himself up and begin cleaning up after an episode.

Except... somehow his torso was already upright. He opened his eyes and found himself identifying wall rather than ceiling. There was something wrapped around his torso.

Someone.

Rabbit.

"...wh't?" he managed.

"It's okay. W-w-we g-got'cha, dummins."

"...we?" Something heavy on his head. A glimpse of bronze and red to his left.

"I am watch-ing the door-way," said Hatchy, somewhere above him. "If some-one comes, we will pre-tend we were fight-ing."

He could not process this information with circuits that were still figuring out how to blink. "... _wh't?_ "

"Y-y-you think we w-wouldn't find out-t-t-t?" Rabbit's inescapable grip tightened, briefly. "D-don't scare us li-like that again. G-g-got it?"

Somehow... this didn't feel as bad as recovery when he was alone. Forty-three years, and he'd been doing this all wrong. "...s're th'ng, r'bb't."

# Challenge #110: Unlikely Angels

Betcha Wander's licensed to perform weddings – Anon Guest

There were a lot more refugees, these days. Seas of people from all sorts of planets, all walks of life. Many of them were camped in line to get enough Orbble Juice to skip to the next galaxy. Some were hoping for enough to just get to the next planet.

Wander was not handling it well. The worst thing in the world was being just as helpless as all the others desperately waiting for some kind of chance. Sure, he could do little things, and he had been busy at lots of them. But the big thing that needed fixing -Dominator and her relentless destruction of the galaxy- could not be fixed as easily as re-uniting family members, retrieving lost articles, or tying people's shoes.

But finally, there was the most heart-breaking event. A bride and groom, each having to leave on separate ships. Dominator had disrupted their wedding, and there was a chance they would never see each other again. One ship was headed to a different haven than the other.

"I can help!" Wander shouted, suddenly in the midst of the grieving wedding party. "I have an official marryin' license. I can't do much about the other stuff, but I can see to it that you're officially spouses before you gotta go."

He made Sylvia hold an immense tome that he pulled out of his hat and flipped to a page somewhere in the middle. Wander cleared his throat and adopted a beatific expression.

"Marriage," he said.

Just the way he said it indicated that this was going to go on for a bit.

"Marriage is a dream within a dream. The dream of love, wrapped withing the greater dream of everlasting rest..."

"Wander," said Sylvia. "The ship's about to take off in less than an hour. Could you skip to the important bits?"

Wander pouted a little and sighed. "Fine. Glypnoxx. Do you agree to love and cherish Klabblaz for the rest of your days?"

"Oh yes," said Glypnoxx.

"Klabblaz. Do _you_ agree to love and cherish Glypnoxx for the rest of your days?"

"Yes."

"Then, by the power vested in me, I introduce you to the state of matrimony. Let no-one or no thing separate what true love has brought together, this day. Y'all can kiss."

Cheers all around. And more than a few tears as well. It may not have been the first wedding dance to be accompanied by banjo, but it was certainly the most emotional. Both bride and groom clung to each other as if it was their last chance to touch.

Finally, the wealthy shipmate who had hogged the executive suite stepped forward. "Here. Gimmie your ticket, fella. You and your bride deserve a first-class trip. Together."

Sylvia wondered, not for the first time, if Wander's songs and lyrics had magical properties. She'd thought nothing would budge the heart of that sour old skinflint. And yet, there he was. Moist-eyed and gentling from his rough, gruff, acidic personality.

But then again, even she had a wobbly lip from the proceedings.

# Challenge #111: Funny in Context

Someone could have been seriously hurt... But they weren't, so it's funny – Anon Guest

Rael had could not recall, exactly, why they were in locks and docks. The gravity there was less than reliable in most places, and Shayde was one who seemed to use it to her advantage without any effort whatsoever. Rael had significantly more faith in the safety tether than his own ability to "hang on in time".

Almost all of the humans who worked there for extended periods of time had found that the safety tether was an impediment rather than a feature towards their expedient work. This from members of a species who had coined the phrase, "Better safe than sorry."

But then again, this was the same species that regularly climbed mountains hazardous to their health, too high to recover bodies from, so successive climbers use the bodies of the dead as landmarks on their own way to the summit. All this, they did for the right to brag about it.

He could never watch the dockers at work without wondering how they made it through the day alive, let alone unscathed.

It looked like poetry in motion mixed with Parkour and a heavy helping of suicidal intent. With a dash of last-instant changes of heart and seemingly miraculous self-rescues.

One trainee - Rael could tell because of the rebounding padding on their torso and arms, missed their next catch and hurtled into the larger stream of huge containers heading station-up and station-down in four regular streams.

Rael stopped his slow and careful progress along the public access-way to watch in horror as the teenager ricocheted between freight containers like a pinball. Only with less musical ringing and more solid and unnerving thuds. The kid did have all his safety gear on, save the tether, but the rapid bouncing had to be disorienting.

An elderly docker, possibly the kid's grandmother, dove into the streams from five stories above and bounced their way down to intercept the teenage trainee mid-bounce, and then exit a mere three stories below. She used the low gravity to bounce back up to the level Rael was on and then set them both in a pool of higher gravity.

There was no blood. Just a pattern of blooming bruises on their exposed skin. And a rising blush.

It was at this point that Shayde burst out laughing. And so did most of the humans who had watched the events. There was even some scattered applause. The trainee, now blushing from head to foot and pressing ice to their bruises, clumsily bowed to their audience.

"Why?" said Rael. "That could have been a disaster."

"Aye, it wasn't. So it's funny."

_Humans_....

# Challenge #112: Little and Fierce

 http://squigglydigg.tumblr.com/post/141864716252/squigglydigg-control-yourself

Lewis was relatively easy to calm down. What there was of his fury ebbed quickly and his rational mind prevailed. And Vivi could always restrain him until he saw logic and reason.

Arthur lost count of the number of times that Vivi stopped Lewis from turning some unthinking lout without a brain-to-mouth bypass into grease.

She would begin with physically restraining him. Holding him back from the kind of confrontation that would end with a murder charge. There would be a few phrases, of course. Based on the relative worth of the lout, whether or not they had time for trouble, and the vast number of things that were more important than smacking a lout around.

And it would always end with hand-holding and sighs of relief.

And on one occasion, the lout in question decided that insulting Lewis was more fun than insulting Vivi. Shortly after witnessing the previous exchange. That lout really should have known.

Always watch out for the little ones.

Arthur was glad he only saw it once. Vivi went from 'calm down, he isn't important' to 'raging ball of unrestrained fury' in less than a fraction of a second. It was pure luck on the lout's side that Lewis was able to seize her by the elbows and literally hold her off from attacking. And the invective that spewed from her mouth would make the bystanders believe she could also breathe fire.

Forget grease. Vivi was well capable of beating that loudmouth into _vapour_.

Arthur, meanwhile, took advantage of the distraction and did what he could to sabotage the lout's tech. Nobody talked smack about his friends and got away with it.

# Challenge #113: The Battered Knight

 http://kelpls.tumblr.com/post/121675020089/i-really-like-the-idea-of-enchanted-suits-of

Every time she passed that one suit of armour in the hallway, there was always the smell of Rosemary. Princess Marille had inspected it, once or twice, in her youth. There was not a single scrap of Rosemary anywhere near or inside the shell of that battered old knight.

She had asked her tutors, once, why her family kept that scarred and dented armour when all the other suits of armour were so much prettier and shiny. What she got for an answer was a fairytale about a great knight who fought for the safety of the Crown. In the hour of greatest need, he would rise again and keep the kingdom safe.

It was a servant's duty, on an anniversary of a particular victory, to 'feed' the ancient knight a sprig or a posy of Rosemary by pushing it into his visor. No trace of the herb would be found by the following day.

On the day she reached her official majority, Princess Marille was a scrawny weed of a thing with only her dresses and her long, golden hair to announce that she was actually a princess. But by then, the kingdom was in great trouble. Enemies were on all sides. Gobbling up outlying villages and defeating the Royal Forces and the peasant militia alike.

They 'fed' the battered knight every day, but he had yet to stir.

By the time they reached the capital, Princess Marille had chopped her hair short and donned a pair of britches. Her diamonds had been sold long ago, and now her only jewellery was a pair of onyx sleepers. Mourning jewellery. And indeed she felt like she should mourn, because the Crown was in peril.

She glared at the battered knight. "You were supposed to be fighting for us ages ago," she chided it. "What's the use of keeping you around if you don't _do_ anything?"

And the answer came with the overwhelming odour of Rosemary flowers. _Wear me..._ said a voice. The voice of a thousand fallen soldiers. _Royal blood will not be spilled._

She had no aides. She only had the guidance of watching her father don his armour. But the spirits of ancient squires seemed to help her with the padding, buckles, and heavy plate. All of it, and the mighty sword, felt light to her. Light as a feather. Strong as a flood.

_What would you have me do?_ whispered the old soldiers.

"Save the kingdom. Find a peace that will not cause a river of tears," she said.

Half the enemy quailed when they saw the battered knight out on the field. They had heard the old stories, too. When Princess Marille gave orders, the spirits of a thousand fallen generals lent authority to her words.

The tide of war turned. Peasants captured by the enemy turned against them. Forces broke to fighting amongst themselves. Armies crossed the field to follow the battered knight's red banner.

And inside the ancient suit, Marille's womanhood flowered and flowed more red into the field. Royal blood spilled, but not through any wound. It seemed to create a great fury in the old soldiers, and renewed their power to fight.

And it was her fight to stop them once she re-established the previous borders. It would be so _easy_ to conquer those who had tried to conquer her kingdom. But easy was not always the best. She struggled to hold aloft the white banner of parley. Fought to greet the enemy on an impromptu field of peace.

The Count of Tingari was shocked to see a princess inside the armour. He fell over himself to provide a feast, pillows, and some silks to adorn her dented shell.

"I need none of those," she said, ignoring the howls of old soldiers. "I need to know what your grievance was and why you thought you could harm the crown. We have known a hundred years' of peace."

"One hundred years of subterfuge," confessed the Count. "My great-great grandfather, following his loss, thought that he and his descendants might wait until your line forgot how the Battered Knight worked."

Marille had to slap her right arm down so it would not reach for her sword.

The man had the nerve to smile. "I see you are having difficulty controlling it, all the same."

"I've come into my womanhood, and I am bleeding," she announced. "They swore that royal blood would not spill, yet it is spilling into your expensive silk cushions. The old soldiers are angry, Count Tingari. Anything could cause them to fly into a rage."

She could see the moment that realisation sunk in. The Count went pale, and the hair on his head fluffed as it stood on end.

"I surrender," he said, "name your terms."

The old soldiers grumbled, but relaxed. Good. And she had the beginnings of a new peace. Even better. Even so, she would not shed this armour until all soldiers were off the field.

# Challenge #114: That Which is Left

The Sedlec ossuary of Kutna Hora

_(if you're interested, there's a gallery of photos here (not for the faint of heart I suppose, but it's clean bones)_ <https://imgur.com/gallery/QZE8a>_)_

Logical solutions can look disturbing in retrospect. Take a small area with a large population. Arable land has to be kept clear for farming, so the living can eat. There is not enough fuel to burn the corpses, but just enough to cook. Therefore, the buried dead are exhumed after a year of allowing the flesh to return to the soil. The place where they lay is used for another. Or more than one, because room is at a premium.

And, sometimes, the well-turned and enriched soil is swapped for poorer soil because nothing can be wasted.

There is nowhere to leave the bones. The living recognise the dead as important. They can not be disposed of like garbage.

But there is a need for building materials... And there has been a great deal of time devoted to fitting bones together in different ways. With a little bit of mortar, and some other chemicals to preserve the structure, it is possible to make housing out of the dead.

But humans didn't leave it there. They got...decorative. Rib chandeliers, scapula sconces, phalange features... it went on and on.

All the buildings had been left, along with several thousand artefacts, when the humans who had lived there had evacuated to escape some disaster that had long since passed. Wherever they had gone, they did not want to go back to a place where they had to make buildings out of the dead. Dust had settled on everything. Weeds had begun to encroach the infrastructure.

T'kelis crept silently through the buildings. Documenting everything. Trying to calculate how many had lived and died to dictate the construction of buildings or extensions like this. And, of course, paused at the ones that were too small to be adults. Those seemed to be universally placed in some kind of shrine. Articulated in a position of repose, or wrapped in pseudo-swaddling and always, no matter what, surrounded with dried flowers.

They felt the loss of their young more harshly than they felt the loss of an adult.

For all of the chaos implied by the things left behind, there were signs that they had planned the evacuation. Things left behind were left in ordered stacks. Food that would spoil was routinely left outdoors. Little remained of it bar the occasional container or remnant too tough for the local wildlife to ingest. And there were no colonies caused by abandoning pets to their fate.

And - unfortunately for T'kelis and her advisors \- no hint of where they had gone. They had taken all their maps with them. None had been left with convenient marks to show their proposed destination.

The crops left in the fields had either died or gone feral, reverting to a gene set far more primitive and robust than their civilised or tamed counterparts. And it wasn't as if the Kresshki could use them.

"Anything?" said the mission commander K'tol.

"Negative," said T'kelis. "Signs of an orderly departure. No sign of where. It's a big planet. There's a chance we would never find them. There is a chance that they might find us."

"Noted. We'll mark this location as 'do not disturb'. If there's one thing people have in common, it's respect for the dead."

And they might look favourably on a people that respected their dead. Even if they were used to make buildings. When your people are stuck on a planet with humans, it's always for the best to try to play nice with them.

"Acknowledged," said T'kelis. She left a fresh flower on the bone altar that was at her last point of investigation. "Returning to the scout craft."

# Challenge #115: The Daydreaming Ape

We've all done it, been handed a phone in a business office for the case handler, or we sit and wait, and wait, and wait in a government office while time passes like frozen molasses. Someone gets creative with this time, nothing that will get them 'escorted' off the premises.

[AN: I hope I corrected this prompt accurately. If not, let me know and I'll fix it]

What many people don't know is... waiting rooms are an enormous social experiment. Possibly conducted by minds far more intelligent than our own. Watching us. Weighing us in the balance... and finding us strange.

There are some who, no matter the class of the environment, cannot sit still. They drum. They fidget. They touch every last thing in the room. They look at all the pictures and inspect the plants to see if they are real. And sometimes, in desperation, they check the couch for change.

Others will read dilapidated and defoliated magazines from a bygone era. Feigning interest in fashions long past and offers no longer available. Checking the already-solved puzzles for accuracy or penmanship. Sighing at the absent pages and carefully reading articles written by long-dead hands.

Some seem perfectly capable of doing nothing. Sitting politely, and immobile form, staring into infinity until such time as the infinite stares back. Vacant and vacuous. An empty vessel that makes no noise. Leave them too long, you might imagine, and they might blend in with the wallpaper.

Others unearth their phones and either browse content via an app, or play games until such time as notice is granted from the office officiator.

But the worst ones of all are the ones who make use of their time. They immediately unearth a notebook from their bags or pockets and set to work with pen or pencil. Making faces, muttering to themselves, and occasionally cackling. They are, of course, completely unaware of what they are doing. Their entire mind is in the reality they press between those small pages. These are the inventive ones. The ones who have interesting collections of knowledge because they have to keep looking things up. The ones who can invent. The ones who think about things way too much. The ones who ask all the wrong questions.

The observers have done what they can to suppress them. Discourage them. Enhancing the idea that the only work worth doing is that which is done under another's rule. That which raises a sweat. That which cricks the neck. That which burns the eye under a fluorescent glare. That which locks a body inside a little box with no windows and measures productivity by the forms filled and the reports filed. That which recites by rote. Phrases like, "working hard or hardly working" or, "thank god it's friday" or, "a bad case of the mondays" said with mock joviality that melts the brain.

But despite their best efforts, the dreamers persist. They always have a notebook. Or a pencil. Or a file on their device. Something that makes a window. Something that peeks beyond the accepted reality. Something that makes its own escape.

If they could crush those types, they know, they could win.

#  Challenge #116: Through the Multiverse(1)

Adventuring around the Multiverse, starring Stanford Pines! (If you have not seen Gravity Falls up to Not What He Seems, please replace Stanford with another character)

_1. With Wander and Sylvia_ _2. In the last TV show, comic or game universe you encountered_

In his continued adventures through realities, Ford learned a lot of things. Not the least of which was the inherent value of a paperclip. Another was the extreme importance of prestidigitation. Something for which his six fingers were extremely handy. No pun intended.

And having a pretty good knowledge of strategy and tactics helped more than he could believe.

Take... this place. He had arrived with nothing but what he had on him. And then he went from street magician to slightly-stunned leader of an intragalactic army that had managed to conquer over fifty planets and therefore gain a place on the leader board.

Most of this had happened before he worked out what was going on. He was just, sort of biding his time until and opportunity to head home presented itself. And being a benevolent dictator wasn't that hard in a universe apparently populated by idiots.

And one... really annoying guy in a funny hat.

He came with a gift basket, a banjo, and a Zbornak with a temper. He welcomed them with cakes and ginger ale. Had a good old chat about what the heck was going on in this reality. About who the major players were, who the real threat was, and what could be done about it.

"But in the end?" he said. "I just want to go home."

Which lead to information about the planetary conjunction, the cosmic being, and time Orbbles.

"So what about this mighty magic at your command?" growled Sylvia.

"I have no idea," Ford confessed. "I started doing card and coin tricks on Gullaibur Seven, and the next thing I knew, I was in command of a fleet."

"Oh. Yeah. They're easily impressed over that way," said Wander.

"Not for much longer. I've been doing something about their educational system in my spare time."

"So..." said Sylvia. "You're _not_ evil."

"I don't think so. I've just been trying to help out while waiting for an opportunity."

Wander and Sylvia shrugged at each other, and gave him the location of Time Orbbles.

When he met up with Wander at the temple, he got a sandwich with mustard while Wander distracted the evil hordes with his shenanigans. Ford had spent some time formulating a wish that wouldn't backfire, and uttered it.

And just like that, he was into another universe.

#  Challenge #117: Through the Multiverse(2)

Adventuring around the Multiverse, starring Stanford Pines! (If you have not seen Gravity Falls up to Not What He Seems, please replace Stanford with another character)

_1. With Wander and Sylvia_ _2. In the last TV show, comic or game universe you encountered_

It was not... quite... the Earth he knew. For a start, all the people he met had ridiculous exaggerations to their faces. Another key difference was the ability to solve puzzles to help people.

They held a great value for the ability to resolve a conundrum, and it wasn't long before he found himself elevated to a position of fame. He had a luxury airship to explore the world, and he was halfway tempted to call her the _Stan o' War_. But because he was a nerd, it was a toss-up between _Enterprise_ and _Bucephalus_. But both of those were taken, so he settled for _Intrepid_.

Sufficiently advanced technology existed in this semi-steampunk reality, so he collected as much as he could before he had enough of it for his purposes.

And then he left everything that belonged in this reality to that newcomer, Herschel Layton. He was a good kid with a sound future.

# Challenge #118: Talking it Out

Therapy ghosts!

AN: This prompt harkens back to the second half of story #01176, [Free Spirits. But you know I'm not going to go further with that one]

Someone was in his usual hiding spot. One of the more corporeal monsters. A skeleton. A tiny little kid. And they were crying to themself.

Happstablook remained invisible as he crept closer. This kid was crying. Not the loud crying that demanded attention, but the silent kind that would not go away, no matter how much the cryer wanted it to. He... knew... that kind of pain.

The kid leaned one way, and then another. Swaying in time to the music coming from the echo flowers.

Happ's music. He came here to hide and sing and dream of a better future than just farming snails with not enough customers to go anywhere or do anything. It was the only way he could practice. Away from criticism. Away from people telling him that his dreams would never come true.

Nobody would smooch a ghost.

Happ faded into view. Just inside the skeleton kid's field of view. And as soon as the kid noticed him, they immediately began making urgent motions to keep quiet.

"You like my music?" Happ blurted.

And the flowers took his voice and repeated it ad infinitum. Melody forgotten.

"NO! Why did you do that? That music's the only good thing there is down here and you _ruined_ it!"

The only good thing? Why would anyone say– oh. Oh, of course. Happ had only heard about it, but a human had fallen into the Underground and almost made it all the way through Hotland before the Royal Guard collected their soul. Hundreds of skeletons had... 'fallen down'.

"I'm sorry," said Happ. "Give me a moment..." He shut his eyes and thought about a new song. About the hope in tomorrow, and the angel that would one day come. About how, very soon, there would be seven powerful souls to break the barrier and they would all see the sunlight. About how, while there was life, there was hope.

The look of awe-filled realisation on the kid's face was... it was amazing. He gestured the kid out of the nook and into a more public area where the flowers recited gibberish. "See?" he said. "For everything that's lost, there's something waiting to be found."

"...my whole family went away..." said the kid. "I don't think you can find anything good outta that, miss."

Miss. Ugh. For all that that word stung, Happ wanted to help this kid. "Call me Hap," he said. "It's cold and damp, here. Not a place for little kids. You can talk to my cousin and I where it's warmer. Would you like that?"

"I'm Pap," said the kid. And once he was warm and dry, the story poured out. The figure in the night and waking up to a house coated in dust. To a town covered in dust. All the houses and buildings were empty. Meals half-eaten. Furniture left untidily. Beds half-made. The lights left on, but nobody was home.

And, days later, the other skeleton. He said he would take Pap home. But they never went back to that skeleton town. They went to Snowdin. Where the people were nice, and there was a tidy little house with just enough room for two.

The other skeleton was kind enough, Pap guessed. He was older, and his name was Sans. He worked with the Royal Scientist most of the time, and brought home whatever meals he could buy. And he lied. He called Pap 'bro' or 'brother' but Pap couldn't remember him in his home.

He could barely remember his home, any more.

And this morning, he realised that he couldn't remember what his parents looked like. Sans wouldn't let him go back to skeleton town to get anything. He said it was too dangerous. Pap had tried, once or twice, to find the way... but there was no way back. Not one that he could find.

Blooky had joined them, by then. They could not fix what had gone wrong with Pap's world, but they could make him feel a little better about the way it was.

And when his 'brother' Sans turned up, haggard with worry and down to his last HP from stress, Pap took one look at him and said, "I'm sorry, brother. I only wanted to listen to the flowers sing."

Sans just hugged him tight and sighed, "Don't scare me like that again..."

"You're scared of everyone going away, too?"

"Of course I am. I have nightmares about it all the time."

And just like that, Pap understood a little more about the sad world of the monsters. Everyone knew Sans. He was a joker and a punster and never, ever, opened up about what was going on in his head. All to spare a little kid from knowing about it.

Happ was secretly pleased about that. The fact that he had one fan was... something else. His cousin may be gone, but he had found an audience.

#  Challenge #119: Don't Send Me an Angel

 http://khaleesijade.tumblr.com/post/142561344474/what-do-angels-actually-look-like-per-the-bible

Angel: "FEAR NOT."

Shepherds: screaming

Angel: "I SAID FEAR NOT."

Shepherds: screaming LOUDER

Angel: "WHAT PART OF FEAR NOT ARE YOU NOT UNDERSTANDING?"

[AN: The link supplied contains images that might be disturbing to those who don't read biblical accounts of what angels look like]

From the Expurgated Gospel of Tebol the Shepherd:

And the Lord sent an Angel unto Tebol, and the Angel had unto itself twelve wings, half of them like unto a bat, and half of them like unto a bird. And the angel had unto itself twenty eyes. And each wing had an eye upon it. And each of the four faces of the Angel had two eyes. And all the eyes burned with holy fire. And the robe of the Angel was like unto the very stars in the sky.

And lo, the Angel of the Lord spake thusly, "FEAR NOT!"

And Tebol was sore afraid. He made a great cry to the Lord for help. And he ran from the Angel. And he ran after his flock, which had scattered in fear.

And lo, the Angel of the Lord spake thusly, "I SAYETH UNTO THEE, FEAR NOT!"

And Tebol did soil his clothing, for his fear was mighty. And Tebol did scream until he could scream no more. And Tebol quivered from head to toe. And Tebol did attempt to burrow into the mountainside by using his shoulderblades.

And lo, the Angel of the Lord spake thusly, " _DUDE_ , LIKE... WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?"

And Tebol sayeth unto the Angel of the Lord, "Have you _looked_ in a _mirror_?"

There's a reason why this gospel never made it to the big book.

#  Challenge #120: Silver Spoon, Muck Manners

Just a moment. I have a multitude of extravagant ways of saying "no" to this, and I need to decide on one.

It had been the third time that this particularly unpleasant example had decided to interrupt an otherwise pleasant conversation. "No" was not in his vocabulary. Neither was "No, thank you." Both of those simple statements had been ignored.

So Lutetia said, "Just a moment. I have a multitude of extravagant ways of saying"no" to this, and I need to decide on one."

He boggled at her like she was a new species of leech that had been devouring his blue blood against his will. "I do beg your pardon, madame, I was attempting to compliment your deportment."

Lutetia reviewed their conversations in her head. He had so far compared her to a thoroughbred, and indicated that he wished to test her stamina by riding all night. The next, he had indicated that her dress would look much better when laid on his bedroom carpeting. Neither of these simplistic observations had waited for her attention. And he had completely ignored poor Emmaline. Currently hiding behind her fan.

Birthright may have made him a Lord, but his manners currently transformed him into an oik.

"Really?" said Lutetia. "I was not given that impression at all. Seeing as you first neglected to introduce yourself, excuse your already numerous interruptions, or say your piece in a civil manner. It was therefore easier to assume you were a more boorish member of the common public and therefore beneath my notice."

Emmaline was now using her fan to block his view of her face, which was gurning busily at Lutetia.

"And yet I perceive you smiling for me," said the oik.

"I do smile, sir, but I do not smile for you. My smiles are for my dear friend, with whom I would much rather prefer to converse. Her deportment is much finer, her overall appearance more pleasant, and so, çur, are her _manners_."

"I was not aware I was at a dog show," he said. "You are very clearly a fine bitch of pedigree."

"Indeed," she singsonged. "Clearly, even my fleas have better breeding than you do."

He finally dismissed himself. Red-faced and looking like a smacked bottom.

Emmaline finally emerged from the cover of her fan. "Do you have any _idea_ who you just dismissed, darling?"

"Sweetheart... if he acts like a gibbon, I shall name him the same. Besides, if he was gentlemanly enough to enquire, he'd soon find out we're married."

"He takes residence in _Buckingham_ , darling."

"So does their sweep."

# Challenge #121: Not Under My Roof

There's the problem! You weren't thinking! Now you've made a pre-teen a nuclear power!

"In my defense," began Sara.

"You keep your big mouth shut," demanded Jaquelline.

"Will the both of you please be quiet?" asked Sam. "Do I need to bring out the talking stick?"

"There's no point. It doesn't work," said Sara. "Mother just rages off on a topic if someone says a hot word."

"Do you _see_ the insolence of this child, Samuel? The things I have to put up with..."

Sara rolled her eyes. Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jaqui..."

"Don't you 'Jaqui' me! This is a disaster! She built a _nuclear reactor_ , Sam. It could blow all of Bayville sky high!"

"Actually," began Sara.

"You shut up! You shut up and stop talking! You built a bomb, you don't get to talk."

"Jaquelline..." pleaded Sam. "Please let her talk."

"It isn't a bomb and it isn't a nuclear reactor. Not exactly."

"Then what _exactly_ is it?" Jaquelline mocked.

"It's tepid fusion," said Sara. "Not nuclear. Well... not a lot of nuclear."

"Tepid. Fusion," repeated Sam. He didn't understand, but he wanted to.

Meanwhile, Jaquelline clearly did not understand and didn't want to. "It's more of her ridiculous nonsense! She's clearly demented. We need to lock her up for her own good."

Sam ignored her. "What is tepid fusion, Sara?"

"Well... I was reading up on cold fusion and the work with plasma and all that stuff in the physics magazines you got." Not exactly magazines. They were academic papers he was checking on an intellectual property case he'd been working on. "And I realised that cold fusion is bound to fail because the physics is only intellectually plausible. If it was just a little warmer... Um. And then I remembered about a guy who tried to make a reactor in his shed? So I got all the precautions in before I started messing around with fire alarms."

"Fire alarms," Sam repeated. He recognised Sara's rapid-fire talking as an attempt to get as much information across in as little time as she could.

"It turns out that it can be self-sustaining, after a while. The fissionable material also fuels the fusion reaction. You don't even need heavy water! Just the regular stuff from the tap will do. Even the gold that comes out isn't radioactive, it's amazing." Her happy smile faded. "I'm still working out the math, sadly."

"Gold," echoed Jaquelline. Going straight for the one thing that could change her mind. "You're making... gold."

"I posit that it's the heaviest stable atom that's viable at the temperatures I have it at. I have three ounces, so far. Well. Three and a half, by now. I get something like a millilitre of molten gold out of the reactor per day, and–"

"SHOW ME WHERE THE GOLD IS," demanded Jaquelline.

"Can I see the reactor?" asked Sam. "And your math?"

Sara giggled and blushed. "You remember that power plant I got for a dollar? I've... been working on it. And in it."

The building was more dangerous than the reactor, and Sara had evidently hired crews to make it safer than it started. Renovations were still underway. The reactor itself would have easily filled a squash court, and it ran all the lights in the building.

"I anticipated access difficulties," Sara's unique way of saying she knew she was going to get grounded and not maintain the machine for extended periods of time. "So I automated the entire process. Rainwater gathers on the roof and feeds into the overhead drip to the reactor. And just in case of drought, there's a pump that runs only when the water falls below a certain level. The cooling system runs a double-reserve steam engine and the waste steam goes back into the system. It's super efficient."

A drop of white-hot metal fell into a container. That set off a weight detector, that turned on a conveyor belt that ferried out the old mould and supplanted it with a new one. The old mould went directly into a safe. Through a hole too small for a human hand.

Sara opened it with a keycode. Eight eights.

"That's a ludicrous security code," scoffed Jaquelline.

"Oh, that's just where it's up to in Pi. It changes to the next eight digits after I close it again." She broke the moulds in the safe and lined up the ingots in a neat stack. Then changed her mind and took them out. "Does this pay for my emancipation, Daddy?"

Sam sighed. "I'm fairly certain that your mother will be kinder to you from now on. Especially given that you've turned a dollar into a literal gold mine."

And, indeed, Jaquelline was busily recalculating her options. She turned startlingly sweet and singsonged, "How do you make it make gold faster, dear?"

# Challenge #122: Curses!

:when a person who has been living with their curse for some time decides to stand up for the abused, and Sanctioned Mages try to put them down:

Spell slinging against a cursed one and a legendary sword. How hard can it be?

The words had come in anger and magic. Latching onto her soul. Devouring her destiny with simple words, " _You will fail at every one of your stated goals_."

It hadn't meant much, at first. Her goals had been simple and easy to fox. People had not been cruel to her about it. But the Sorceress Malevolentia's minions knew who their mistress had cursed and they _were_ cruel about it.

They made young Dahlia promise them things that were easy to achieve, and punished her when she inevitably failed. And they laughed.

But what they didn't know was that Dahlia was clever. She went wandering, seeking out things that might help her curse. And then, when it became clear that her curse was unbreakable, she learned something important. Only the words she said mattered.

So whenever Dahlia stated her intent... she lied.

"If I were to explore that dungeon, I would leave the legendary sword where it lies. I only wish to see it." And of course she came away with the sword of legend.

"I have no desire to fight," and of course she emerged from the battlefield victorious.

"I cannot promise victory," and of course victory came.

And, after a battle she promised to fight to a stalemate, after breaching the castle she promised not to attack, after slaughtering the guards she promised to spare, Dahlia confronted Malevolentia.

"I've no desire to have my curse lifted," said Dahlia.

"Good," said Malevolentia. "I've no desire to lift it." She laughed. "They call you the Queen of Lies, now, little barmaid. That's quite an appellation. But did you honestly think that I would be included in your curse?"

"Did you honestly think I'd leave it at that? Fight me, then. See what I have."

And what she had was other curses. Other mages, outraged by her lies, had cursed her. They had cursed her well. And every single one of them could be used in her favour if she just thought about it.

And she also had a magic sword with no other purpose to strike into the heart of evil.

Dahlia had another appellation. The Cursed Queen. And she lived with that for the rest of her days.

# Challenge #123: A Big, Wet, Sloppy... Hug?

Just a snippet from a very enjoyable story, stripped of gender-specific terms:

..." _I will hug you," they threatened, spreading their arms..._

"It's impossible to swim through the Glunk and survive!"

Exhibit A, still dripping an pungent, unidentifiable goop, said, "Desperate times, all th' wards I could muster, an' some bluidy good air pockets, ye ken."

Rael, summoned to the scene, hadn't recognised her until she spoke. "Ambassador Shayde?"

She saluted him. But carefully, so that none of the glop adhering to her sprayed anywhere else in the emergency decon cordon surrounding the scene. "I know what yer thinkin'," she said. "Why, right?"

"Generally, yes. There were more curse words attached."

That earned laughter. "Well, there was this real persistent fella, ye ken. Chased me all over on sundry. Would'nae take 'fook off' fer an answer, ye ken."

"So instead of calling in Security..."

"They were reet busy wi' the cargo pirates. And this fooker had enough tae pay any fines on th' spot."

The beleagured Security trainee, assigned to record and log events for more experienced minds to sift, nodded. "Regretably accurate," they said.

"They got recordings at the other end," said Shayde.

Rael brought it up on his viewer. Shayde moving her hands around herself as she 'wove her wards'. And then playing up the melodrama as she 'dove to her death' rather than live with this particular example of manhood following her everywhere.

It was classic theatre. Designed to play to the dim and the unobservant alike. Then she dove in like she was rescuing an orphan, leaving the man to boggle down the hole after her. He did not, Rael noted, attempt to rescue her at all.

"I assume you're pressing charges?"

"Every charge I can press," said Shayde. "While doin' me own time in Solitary, ye ken."

Of course. So she could forcibly keep her distance.

"But first... I want tae hug him. While I'm like this."

Of course she did.

#  Challenge #124: The Truth About Dragons

<http://crescentmoondemon.tumblr.com/post/142716976033> _– Anon Guest_

They say that dragons are terrifying beasts. They say that their appetites know no bounds. They say that they thrive on fear. They say that they hoard things just to keep them from mortal hands. They say a lot of things, really. Especially after they've had a few pints, down at the local pub.

Eve knew differently.

For starters, Dragons are more than fine with a sheep or a cow once a month. And can even be convinced to hunt mountain lions, crocodiles, and other predators that made life a little more risky for her fellow villagers..

Secondly, Dragons don't really care what they hoard. Brightscale was completely happy with a collection of milky quartz from the quarry, because it was shiny and it glittered and he could really rub the itches out with it.

Sharp enough rocks were almost like catnip for a Dragon.

Thirdly, all it took was one scratch behind an ear or between their shoulder blades and they'd follow you forever.

At least until Eve convinced Brightscale that the little cave by the ocean that she'd carefully stocked with the aforementioned quartz was a better idea than disturbing the horses and cattle at her little farm and pasture.

Fourth, Dragons were very clever. After recognising that Eve feared mountain lions, crocodiles and wolves, Brightscale took to landing with dead ones between his mighty jaws. Right in the middle of the city centre, and evidently very proud of himself.

Eve never had to pay for an aged ewe after the fourth mountain lion. And some villagers took to feeding him cooked treats or scratching him with brushes made of flint arrows. But Brightscale always looked to Eve for his official, "Good boy!"

The only real problem was the occasional knight attempting to rescue her from Brightscale's "foul clutches". Those knights always got a lecture about the true nature of Dragons. For hours on end, or until they gave up and went away. Whichever happened first.

# Challenge #125: A Return Visit

<http://www.internutter.org/challenge-01072-b340/>

_He keeps coming back... – Anon Guest_ Arthur saw him two weeks after his initial visit. He calmly collected the mail and, once inside, said something about it. "Hey, Lewis. You remember that cam guy who broke in a while back?"

"Yeah, he was trying to communicate with a Deadbeat. Why?"

"He's lurking in the foliage and watching the house."

Lewis, in the middle of a complicated recipe, groaned to himself. "If he's still there in half an hour, invite him in for tea. And... tell Vivi I said 'don't beat him up'."

"Right."

_Half an hour later_...

"I was always worried that I was seeing things, you know?" said the cam guy. Better known as Brinkley. "I could always see and hear things that other people swore weren't real. And there's some history of insanity so... I had to check. I'm sorry I freaked out."

"Not a problem," said Lewis. He was wearing his human guise. "I get that a lot."

Brinkley's hands shook as he sipped his tea. "Do you... get a lot of break-ins?"

"No, not that many. Word gets around after the first few," breezed Vivi. "Arthur keeps one of the Deadbeats in his science shed."

"Yup," said Arthur. "It's amazing how much thefts have gone down since that started."

One of the smaller Deadbeats had long since lounged against Brinkley's lap, where it purred like a vaguely musical cat. Brinkley petted it tentatively. "So... I know I'm not crazy. Now what?"

"Actually, we know a guy who can help. Lives near New York, somewhere..." said Lewis.

"Salem," said Vivi.

# Challenge #126: Executive Decisions

I see you have complaints about out Giant Robot Spider help program, We apologies for any Inconvenience this may have caused you.

Do to your complaint the following actions have been taken: Giant Robot Spiders have been dispatched to your location.

We know you had a choice of Aid providers and we thank you for your continued support.

Say what you will about the robot rescue spiders, and many citizens frequently did, but they were extremely effective. They saved hundreds of lives. Spared many houses.

Well. They spared many living spaces. They tended to do a number on the roofs, and the roads. And the omnibusses. And the buildings that they were rescuing people from.

On the other hand, fire didn't get a chance to spread and cause trouble for the neighbours. Loss of life was at a comparably favourable low. But only when compared to the deaths from Cholera, Dysentery, Typhoid, Measles, Mumps, and Chicken Pox combined. And, to be completely fair, the giant robot spiders put way less people inside the hospitals than the disasters would have.

And then the government, in their infinite wisdom and deep desire to serve the public with the least amount of expenditure and effort, decided to use the giant robot spiders for everything. Including repairing the damage caused by giant robot spiders.

They boasted that the city and its citizens have never been safer. And many f them were. They were the ones who could afford to live in manor houses outside the city limits.

# Challenge #127: Phrases of Doom

Person #1: Do not worry! I will fix it...

Person #2: You know, [Name], there are certain phrases in our language - such as that one - that simply cannot imply a good outcome. Do you know what I mean?

Person #1: Wow! This really DOES bond skin instantly!

Person #2: Good example.

Certain phrases imply impending doom. Whenever someone says, "What else can go wrong?" the universe is likely to answer with a supremely painful example.

Whenever a human says, "Hey, watch this," or, "check this out," you know that something spectacular and painful is going to happen to either them or an innocent bystander.

Trader Ax'and'l is known to wince and flinch whenever his human companion Hwell Barrow says, "I have an idea."

And in the case of the Salvage Vessel _Numbat_ , the crew busts out their safety gear whenever Lower Technician Dave Rimmer utters the words, "I've got a tool for that that I've wanted to try..." or, "Oooh! I have a _thing_ for that..."

Certain people join the United Fellowship of Terran Planet's fleet of service vessels with stars in their eyes, dreams in their hearts, and the overall competency of a dead whelk. The UFTP fleet administrators test them for Luck, of course, and then try to put them where they'll do the most good. Or, failing that, where they'll do the least harm.

Such is the fate of the UFTP salvage vessel Numbat. Placed in a stellar sargasso where not even the most incompetent, inept, uncoordinated, or just plain unthinking crewmember could possibly screw up to the point where someone dies.

This is the ship where trainee doctors go, after their ten years' nursing, to see if they can cut it in the big leagues. Because the _Numbat_ is the vessel with the highest rates of the most interesting injuries known to human kind.

And woe betide them if Lower Technician Dave Rimmer is feeling helpful.

Doctor Mame looked down at the mess. LT Rimmer's hand was stuck in the middle of it but, in his words, "at least we stopped the bleeding." She readied the solvents.

"What did I tell you about medicine and the practice thereof?" she chanted.

"Not in an emergency?" guessed Rimmer. "This was an emergency. Tolo's guts were coming out."

"The other thing," Mame prompted.

"...uuuuhhhhh..."

"Ductape and superglue..." she began.

"...uuuuhhhhh..."

"Don't fix everything."

"...oh..." Rimmer looked down at the mess of bloody intestines, his own hand, and patches of ductape. "Ohyeah! Should I have used a _thing_?"

Given the vast collection of LT Rimmer's _things_ and the damage they could cause, there was only one safe answer. " _NO!_ "

#  Challenge #128: Known Behavioural Patterns

:[Name] thinks while hiding and sneaking with new-found allies from and around old enemies:

[Name] started a mental drinking game for the disgusted comments about how this was not running a search pattern, and the amount of things it couldn't find, but gave up when they realized they'd mentally gotten alcohol poisoning.

This had to be the biggest collection of obligatory stupid guards and bad base planning since someone let a three-year-old play _Fortress Defence Jr_. Jain had already stopped cataloguing their rookie mistakes into a drinking game after she had mentally given herself alcohol poisoning.

"It's going to be easy. Why are you waiting?" Karol had long since stopped whispering. The guards were evidently blind and deaf.

"Because," said Jain, "There has to be a catch. Nothing is this easy."

"They're Havenworlders, they don't know any better. Remember how the prison was made out of sugar?"

"Yes, but they're also Havenworlders who tried to keep humans prisoner. Either they're that stupid... or this is some kind of strategy."

Meanwhile, in the Faa'ree fortress...

"What's taking them so long?" whined the chief.

"According to all our reports, they should have already stolen that deadly artefact."

"How hard is it to get a human to pick up a weapon of mass destruction?"

Tol'tol, watching the humans by remote, sighed. "Do you think we made it too obvious?"

K'kal looked around at the "No Humans" pictograms and the assorted hazard signs, the arrows with skulls pointing in the direction of the artefact, the imposing-looking doors and other means by which any idiot would know that this was the place were all the cool stuff was... and shook hir head. "No. Not really. I think we may have fallen on the subtle side."

#  Challenge #129: Retrospective Introspective

Meanwhile, in the past...

Rael didn't need to subscribe to the _On This Day_ info feed. He was surrounded by hobby historians who would gleefully inform him of any significant events as they met him. If he was lucky, they would only infodump the interesting bits.

People had work to get to, after all. And limited time meant that people only passed on the information that they deemed important. Which lead to a skewed view of history, and an equally skewed view of Terrans and Earth in general.

For example, today was the Terran anniversary of the day that a sandwich changed the way that the world was run. One sandwich in the hands of a man with a gun and a bee in his bonnet, that had him at the right place in the right time to start a war.

But the person who usually told him such trivia had not given it to him. Ambassador Shayde was conspicuous by her absence.

He found her in one of the larger observation windows. Halfway curled up, and halfway slumped against the frame in a way only she could achieve. Looking out into otherwise featureless blackness at the distant points of light.

Her posture said everything. This was a day of disaster in another way.

Ambassador Shayde had many peculiarities, but chief among them was keeping a calendar inside her head that measured time with the days she lived. And it was, roughly speaking, five hundred years out of date. And completely out of sync with the current Terran Calendar.

She could not possibly see the faintest pinprick of light that was her home star. Not from here. Her star was barely visible when one was just outside its own system. Finding it from another star's influence was nearly impossible.

"Homesick?" he guessed. She got this way, sometimes. On the anniversary of her brother's birth. Or during Easter, Thanksgiving, or Christmas. Rael hoped she would not need therapeutic embraces from him.

"Could'a, Would'a, Should'a," said Shayde. An irritating brevity that meant she was going through an era of past regret. "Thinkin' about what could'a been. What I would'a done. What I should'a done. Don't spend any time wi' me. I'm a wet blanket, today."

Which meant that the last thing she needed was to be left alone. Rael took a more prim and proper seat inside the window and said, "Talk about it?"

"Twelve years ago, now," she said. "Twelve years ago, this day... I was walkin' tae me doom. Unaware."

He could see her, thanks to Shayde's storytelling glamour. Young and with a plan that was about to be foiled. Carefully choosing her attire to appear professional without appearing in the slightest bit attractive. Cursing at her red ringlets as they formed against her will. Being ready to expose her hated, plagiarist professor for the fraud that he was.

He could also see her playing with time. Glimpsing into a different reality where she had never been selected. That Katie walker barely made it out alive. Burned and scarred. Impaired in her movements. But victorious against her nemesis. She spent the rest of her life with a military budget. And she changed the world. Humanity reached the stars so much sooner under her calculations. Colonies in the solar system. Colonies across the stars, once she worked out what one-way wormholes were about.

Good for humanity. Bad for the rest of the galaxy. The story of humans spun beyond her life. How the balanced and sane colonies never wanted to meet aliens on equal terms. How humans became an unstoppable plague in the universe. How the dream that inspired her caused its opposite.

Shayde let the light show fade out. "I miss what I had. I know I cannae get it back. But... Am I better off? Are we better off?"

Rael had no answer. "Define better," he said.

# Challenge #130: Monster in my Room(1)

_1)_  http://haberdashing.tumblr.com/post/142984148989/hot-bunns-3-am-thoughts

2) Branching off the above prompt - Pick a fandom and set one character as the monster under the bed/in the wardrobe

Every child gets a monster. An ancient contract, written in blood. Paid in teeth. They stay until the child is strong enough to care for themselves.

Some... never leave.

They are the monsters for the people who are particularly vulnerable. The people with one foot each in two worlds. The people who are open to specific influences. The people who sense slightly more than the average person on the street. The people with a little bit of magic inside them... but not enough to protect themselves from the things that would prey on them.

Monsters keep the faeries at bay.

Humans have everything backwards, of course. They've forgotten the old tales. Bent and warped them beyond recognition, turning the fae into friendly things just because they are pretty. But if you look deeply into the old takes, the ones with the blood still in them... you will learn.

_Faeries are glamorous, they create glamours._ _Faeries are wonderful, they make wonders._ _Faeries are terrific, they beget terror._

Children tell other children without ever knowing what they're passing on. In ancient rhymes and silly games.

_My mother said I never should_ _Play with the faeries in the wood..._

People forget. Rhymes never do. And the monsters have not forgotten, either. They are the reason why the people have forgotten. They are the guardian in the dark. Steadfast and silent. Watching. Waiting. Making certain that those who would come to steal and use never do.

They are the things that go bump in the night. And they are there for your protection. If you hear them, or see them moving doors without you... feel free to thank them.

A little thanks goes a long way.

# Challenge #131: Monster in my Room(2)

_1)_  http://haberdashing.tumblr.com/post/142984148989/hot-bunns-3-am-thoughts

2) Branching off the above prompt - Pick a fandom and set one character as the monster under the bed/in the wardrobe

Frisk woke in the middle of the night to their wardrobe door creaking. The sudden adrenaline rush triggered some nightmarish memories... but the smell soon banished those. They were no longer in the Home. The redolent perfume of bakery was better than incense and chanting for dispelling those demons.

But all the same... _something was in their room._

Frisk, pretending to be asleep, rolled over and cracked an eyelid to scan their room for intruders. The windows were shut. The curtains didn't rustle. Everything was put away neat and tidy. The night lights lent enough illumination to see where everything was. And nothing initially seemed amiss.

Except for the wardrobe door.

It was, as Sans might say, not a door any more. Because it was ajar. And as Frisk watched, it edged closed, just a little bit.

Frisk quit pretending to be asleep. They crept up to the wardrobe door and thrust it open to discover a monster.

"Have no fear, Human," said Papyrus. "I, the Great Papyrus, am guarding over your dreams tonight! You will have the soundest of slumber, and the sweetest of dreams! I guarantee it!"

Frisk sighed, rolled their eyes, and went back to bed. Monsters had a way of solving the wrong problems completely backwards, but also the exact right way. Before they got comfortable, they signed, _Announce yourself, next time. You scared the beans out of me._

A gloved hand gave them a thumb's up.

# Challenge #132: No Way Out

:From a former loose cannon/maverick's inner monologue:

But they were in a position of authority now, and for some reason that meant they didn't get to have their way anymore.

Blaize Hartley hadn't meant to become a hero. It just sort of happened that way. She leaped in where angels would fear to hear about and winged it from there. She had an extreme knack for getting herself both into and out of the most ridiculous of pickles.

Including a trip down a one-way wormhole remnant to a system of interconnected planetary systems that were isolated from the greater Galactic Alliance. They had a set of really interesting problems that Blaize just kind of barged through.

And since she had nowhere else to go for a Galactic decade, she had to stick around to sort out the mess. Songs were sung, stories were told, dramatisations were made.

And, not knowing exactly how it happened, Blaize Hartley wound up... in charge. She, who regularly thumbed her nose at Authority... had become one. There was no real warning. No way to prepare. She came back from another wild session of daring do to discover a mountain of paperwork to fill out.

And an administrative staff wanting her decisions.

She tried to delegate. Finding people who were really great at their jobs, and then politely requesting they do her job for her. But it never stuck. Every time she thought she had a window of opportunity for one more adventure, the staff found her, dragged her back to her office, and sat more paperwork in front of her.

The Authorities, she found out, were not fun people because they never got to have any.

# Challenge #133: "Again"?

" _I hate to be 'that guy' but I've glued myself to the ceiling again..."_

There is a place for everyone in the UFTP stellar fleet! All volunteers for the stellar services are tested for their strengths and places where they can perform at their best! Join today! – UFTP Stellar Fleet recruitment flier.

Second Technician Kevin Maladroit checked the maintenence schedule before he got out of bed. Slow day. Which meant it was a bad one. The crew of the _Numbat_ had their own, unique ways of dealing with slow days. Ways that meant that he would very soon be picking up the mess.

The crew of the _Numbat_ made their own entertainment when they were bored. And when they played, as an ancient song said, they tend to leave a trail a mile wide. And then they left it for people like Kevin to clean up, despite the fact that he and others like him were not invited to join the festivities.

Kevin was deep in the maintenance tubes when a rhythmic thumping indicated that Davries had turned on their music. Kevin sighed and got on with his work. Sooner started, sooner–

His comms rang. Kevin picked up the call with a simple, "Yo. What up?"

"Did I pocket-dial someone? Great! Don't hang up. _Please_ don't hang up?"

It was the 'please' that got him. So very few people ever used it when asking him to do things. "I'm listening," he said.

"Uhm. Yeah. This is a bit embarrassing? I hate to be 'that guy'... but I've glued myself to the ceiling again..."

Kevin was dumbstruck. How in the living hell could anyone possibly...?

"Are you still there?"

"Yeah," he said. "How the heck–?"

"It's a long story. And a complete accident, this time, I swear."

Which implied that there were other times when it _wasn't_ an accident. Kevin quietly boggled to himself as he completed his allotted work. "I can be there in five, tops. Where are you?"

The luckless crewmate gave their location and the keycode to the door. Not a problem to get to, even if the conga line had started up again. People tended to be glad when he turned up sooner than his generic ETA.

"Right. Be with you soon. Hang in there."

Peals of laughter. "Yeah, I'll definitely stick around."

Kevin had a few rare giggles for them. There was so little to laugh about on this ship. "And I'll _adhere_ to protocol."

They swapped glue-related puns for three minutes before Kevin got to their room to free them. And that was how he found love in the worst ship in the Galactic Alliance.

#  Challenge #134: One Random Encounter Inside Walter Manor.

Sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

Sufficiently analyzed magic is indistinguishable from technology.

... _and then there's that thing in the corner._

"Bonjour," said the thing. It seemed cheerful enough. It seemed human enough, provided that one was sufficiently myopic and without their glasses. It's heart was definitely not in the right place, given that it was both outside its clothing and sparkling with its own inner lights.

"What is it doing here?" said Lorraine. The Walter Worker assigned to her just shrugged.

"Je cherché pour Maman," said the thing. It produced a black card from its corset. "Ici? C'est Maman."

"I... don't speak french..."

The thing startled. "Oh! Oh, neither do I. I just- I just glitch less when I use-use-use it."

_Rrrrrriiiiiiiight..._ Lorraine turned to the Walter Worker. "Is she one of yours?"

The Walter Worker signed, _I'm pretty sure that's not a Walterbot._

"Quoi?" said the thing.

There was a chain around it's neck. Lorraine gently lifted it up and found a small pocketwatch and a little tag.

_If found, notify Steve Negrete._ And some of his contact details.

Somewhere in the mansion, there was going to be a very, very, very unlucky dragon.

# Challenge #135: So This is How I Die

 http://haberdashing.tumblr.com/post/143039331394/memeufacturing-human-after-being-stabbed-four

There are games the mind plays in extremis. One of its favourites is Hallucinations. But when the imagination is lacking or the mind is sufficiently aware of reality, the mind defaults to Good News, Bad News.

Good News, there is still air.

Bad News, it is filling with smoke.

Good News, there is still gravity.

Bad News, I am on my back.

Q'riikix, known to the humans in the crew as "Queasy", rattled a deep sigh. "So. This is how I die."

Another voice in the half-lit gloom. "That you, Queasy?"

Good News! A human! They could turn her over onto her feet in nothing flat! "Yes! Please assist! I am on my back."

"Well, shit," said the human. "I'm kind of pinned to the wall. Through my intestines."

Bad news, they were also in a fatal pickle.

"Hang on. I can still use one arm..."

Good news? A human with one arm free to use could -ha!- single-handedly accomplish anything.

The gloom pierced by a light. Bad News, the place was a wreck and the gravity was upside-down. Only the Nae-hyn and old-timers would be at home with the disorientation. Would there be any who could help?

"Okay," panted the human. "I think I can jiggle some of the wreckage closer to you. Look out..."

A jangling cacophony of falling debris, and something pipe-like fell close, but not onto Q'riikix. Leaving her to reach out and right herself. Good News, the human had saved her.

Bad News, this left Q'riikix as the only one available to save the human. Who had been pierced through seven times.

The human coughed something close to a laugh. "How are you with power tools and ductape?"

# Challenge #136: Humorous Revelation

Human's reaction on realising they share a vessel with Captain K'rik, Doctor M'koi, and Ensign Ch'koff (is there a Lieutenant Spukk too?)

[AN: I had been wondering when someone would clue in. And for the record, Jain holds the position of Spock]

If there was one stereotypical behaviour that belonged to humans - besides their suicidal combination of curiosity and insanity - it would have to be their love of gadgets.

Doctor M'Koi watched with growing skepticism as the human purchased thing after useless thing from a Pterops trader's junk collection. Giggling all the way.

They seemed to be nothing more than rectangles to M'Koi. Some with cables attached. Most without.

"Is this more 'art'?" he finally growled.

"Sort of. Entertainment art. Archival stuff. If even half of this works, then the Archivaas will love me forever. And in the meantime, I get to test and watch."

M'Koi got an education simply by hanging around and letting the human provide exposition. In ancient human history, when the Terrans started exploiting their abundance of one-way wormholes, they didn't pay much attention to who took what with them. And the colonists didn't pay much attention to what they should keep when storage space became an issue.

Humans called it the Shattering. And bits of the cultural history were presumed lost forever until some miracle rescued them from the sands of time. And since many of the data storage disks were unlabelled, the playback set-up had to cope with all known forms of media.

And after days of testing and swearing, it was ready. The young aboard the ship flocked to it, all wearing their 'sight goggles' and emitting hushed chirps of glee.

M'Koi had only watched a small sample. The goggles gave him headaches. And he thought no more of it.

Not until the day the Human giggled a lot. "M'koi," ze snorted. "K'rik," ze chortled. "Lusu," chuckle chuckle. "Ch'koff..."

This finally sawed through M'Koi's last nerve and he hollered, "What the hell has got up your nose, you blunt-eared troll?"

Snert-ch-ch-ch-ch... "Sorry, Doc. Just amazed at the co-incidence."

_Humans_...

# Challenge #137: A Strange Visitor

" _What could be worse than a sixty Minutes News van waiting on the footpath?"_

" _How about a large Blue box, and people are taking selfies." – Anon Guest_

Carol looked out the other window in her tiny flat. The view was blurry, because it was the bathroom window, but there was, indeed, a familiar shape in the street. Either the BBC had deigned to acknowledge Australia as a filming location... or someone was playing silly buggers.

She texted the other top five nerds in her nerd club to see if -somehow- she had miraculously managed to miss any news on the subject. And it was virtually impossible to miss any news about Who because she had feeds from the sources.

Meanwhile, she strolled out onto the criminally narrow alleged walkway to join the rest of the gawkers to see what was going on. Sixty Minutes was there. A few other news cameras. Someone attempting to do a "local colour" piece with an unfortunate bystander who happened to be wearing a fez. The reporter in question was ignoring the bold, yellow _QUEENSLAND_ across the red fabric in a valiant attempt to make fandoms look like idiots who just needed to grow up.

Carol was wisely wearing something indecipherable to the Media as she sauntered down to ground level to join the queue of people fondling and then taking a selfie next to the box.

Whoever had put it there had gone in for all the details. There were even hints of battle damage, seemingly left there for the character of it.

And when she finally touched it... it purred. Or hummed. It was hard to tell. But it was like finding a cat in the dark. Just one touch was all it took to know that it was alive.

_What the hell?_ Carol moved out of the way of the rest of the horde. Watching in puzzlement and filming a few people to try and get the sound that the box made. Alas, her phone was not up to the task.

This was something... else.

Carol and the rest of her nerd herd set up camp at the cafe across the road. Watching as the Media got bored with the spectacle, and then the people did, too.

Only then, when all was quiet, did someone exit the box. He looked... strange. As if someone had put together a selection of perfectly normal things without checking that they went together and decided that was a good fashion choice. He took out a small instrument and waved it around like someone trying to get a signal on their phone. Then he peered at it and muttered, "Bugger."

They played rock-paper-scissors to go talk to the guy. They'd seen enough of the show to know the potential for danger. Carol lost.

"Can you be helped?" she said.

"I'm in the wrong bloody dimension again, aren't I?"

"Er. Probably?"

"Huh," said the stranger. "And you know who I am. I can see it in your face."

Carol couldn't resist the smirk. "Very much," she said.

"Don't suppose you want to go on an adventure?" he offered. "Thrills of a lifetime, safety not guaranteed?"

Carol bit her lip. For the first time in her life, she didn't know what to say.

# Challenge #138: Offensive Material

_Last "Satan Reacts" for now:_  http://www.rawstory.com/2014/09/bible-pushing-christians-open-the-door-for-satanic-activity-books-in-florida-schools/

_(pdf of the book_  here _. I encourage you to look at it. If that's down, most of the pages are shown in this news article. Please take note of the words in the jumble and word search, and then consider Satan)_

Obviously, the scene was staged. Whoever did the staging wanted it to seem like the local chapter of LaVeyan Satanists had done the deed. They had littered the landscape with satanic material from that church... but had neglected to crack open the covers.

Lucifer had to chuckle. They'd used lots of material aimed at children. Sure, they'd dressed up the covers a bit. And one particularly evil-looking tome was one hundred copies of a big bumper fun book for very little kiddies. He paged through the issue with the least amount of blood on it. Giggling.

Chloe Decker rolled her eyes at him and growled under her breath. "Must you?" she sighed.

"Oh I wouldn't worry. They used stage blood on this one. It's all about the smell." flip, flip, flip. "You know what bothers me most about the LaVeyan Satanists?"

"Other than that they're not really Satanists?"

"They're doing good things in my name. It's not fair. They say they're spending their lives in my service and then they end up going to my Father. They're doing more for tolerance, patience, peace, love, and mung beans than any of _his_ followers..." he sighed and closed the tome. "The only plus side is that it must also be annoying Him at the same time."

All this earned him was her typical look of exasperated disbelief. "Really," she deadpanned.

Lucifer surrendered at this point, and ferried one of the alleged tomes of evil to a CSI documenting evidence. "I'm particularly taken with the colouring-in panel on page thirty-five. And as for the covers, it's amazing what you can do with the right materials. I'd be looking for someone with some experience in stagecrafts. Ameteur dramatics, cosplay, prop manufacture... that sort of thing. Oh, and someone not fond of doing their homework."

The techie taking photos flipped the book open and found nothing associated with the more traditional satanic rituals. "They only gave Cerberus one head..."

"See?" said Lucifer. "Nobody does their homework any more."

# Challenge #139: Slice of Life(1)

_1)_ <http://bechnokid.tumblr.com/post/109646112332>

2) It smells fantastic. It does not taste fantastic.

It had been a dark and stormy night. Now that it was a quiet and star-lit evening, Vivi had the job of helping Lewis calm down.

He never had liked thunder or lightning. And now that he was ectoplasm, he liked it even less.

Therefore, Vivi wandered the halls of their haunted house. She periodically stopped in her meanderings and said, "Are there any ghosts in here?"

At least until Lewis lied, "No."

This was where the book came into play. "Are there any ghosts that just need to escape life's troubles and read some Nancy Drew with me?"

Nancy Drew had always been his favourite. Though hardly anyone dared comment on his choice of reading material. Lewis had learned fast that a seven-foot teen with muscles like grapefruit and hands bigger than most people's heads could do whatever they liked without much fear of peer pressure.

The lure worked. Lewis edged out of his hiding place between the walls. He still looked terrified about the general state of affairs.

Vivi smiled. "I'll start. Then you can do the next chapter."

It wasn't long before they were snuggling and reading together. Storm long since forgotten.

# Challenge #140: Slice of Life(2)

_1)_ <http://bechnokid.tumblr.com/post/109646112332>

2) It smells fantastic. It does not taste fantastic.

3AM.

Vivi glared blearily at the clock. Awful things happened at 3AM. Most of them being associated with herself not getting enough in the way of sleep.

One side of her bed was empty, and the other had Lewis hovering vaguely over it. The sheets had fallen through him again. Okay. Two things. Arthur couldn't sleep... and he was about to get into trouble.

Except... something smelled _delicious_.

Vivi decided to spare him certain death just for the smell, and journeyed down to the kitchen to see what was happening.

Arthur usually wasn't allowed to cook. Lewis said he just didn't know how to do it properly, but Vivi held the secret opinion that he'd probably overclock the toaster and make a robot out of the oven.

This time, he had actually cooked something.

"Why are you cooking at three in the morning?" she croaked.

"I had an idea," grinned Arthur. This would be the only explanation she could comprehend before her brain kicked into gear. And it was way too early for anything like that.

"Uhuh? Is this one of those ideas that bite you in the ass or a Holy Shit idea?"

"Uhmmmm... you know I have trouble telling."

O crap. "It's too early in the morning for this," she croaked.

"Just try one of these and see if I'm right."

It was brown, lumpish, and looked vaguely like a cookie. It smelled like Heaven on a really superlative day. Vivi risked a bite.

Unfortunately, it tasted like a big mistake. The unholy progeny of a camel turd and an ashtray.

"Ur yuck," she whined. "Why?"

"Remember those kids who egged the house after we gave them candy?"

O yeah. "They'd deserve these," she mumbled, discretely spitting out her mouthful into the trash. "Serves the little bastards right."

# Challenge #141: Legends and Truth

" _Oh! You don't get what you want. You get what you need." – Anon Guest._

There is a nomad who wanders the lands. He is no mendicant, nor particularly poor. He bows to no king and calls no land his home. They say he did the Fae a favour and they gave him a magic sack. Some claim it is a magic hat.

And, typical of all Fae gifts, it comes with a snag.

"What do you mean, it doesn't work like that?"

The nomad shrugged and smiled. "Exactly what I said, ma'am. I can't just pull any old thing out of my hat. It only gives me what I need. And right now, it thinks you need a time-out."

"Killbot 86 is after us, pal. How in the flarf narbling kraxx is anyone supposed to get out of this by settling down with a hot cocoa and a blankie?"

"Try it," said the nomad. "It can't actually hurt."

She kept one weapon drawn as she sat. Let the nomad wrap her about with the snuggly blanket and ply her other hand with hot cocoa. Outside their cavern shelter, the snowstorm turned into a blizzard. Killbot 97 would have a hard time even getting his bearings in that lot.

She sipped the cocoa. "O my grop. This is the best frakkin cocoa I've ever tasted."

"You're welcome," said the nomad. He'd taken a banjo out of his hat and played a simple, yet calming melody.

She swigged the brew and relaxed. How long had it been since she treated herself like this? It seemed like way too long. And with the snow outside, there was no particular place to go.

She snorted briefly awake to see the nomad tucking her in. This _was_ a trap!

He put both his hands up and made a great show of stepping back into her field of vision. Ugh. Why did he have to be so... _friendly_? "Ugh. The sooner I get you to Major Threat, the better off I'll be."

"Does he need some cocoa too? You know, I tried to get some to him, but he just would. Not. Accept. That man is so angry..."

And before she knew it, she was gossiping with the nomad. Contract forgotten. The nomad may or may not be dangerous, he certainly seemed harmless enough, but the way Major Threat acted, it was as if he was murdering grandmothers or something.

By the time the storm finally ended, she had made a friend... and changed her life for the better.

# Challenge #142: Strange on a Train

<http://simonbitdiddle.vaul-tec.net/post/143205168842>

Ah crap. Once again, the only seat on the train home was the Weirdo Seat. The ones where all the mentally disturbed just _had_ to sit. And anyone unlucky enough to have to sit next to them had to endure their madness by osmosis.

Euphoria Jones weighed her options. It was a long-ass ride home. Her feet were already killing her from hours chasing after idiot customer requests. Including numerous trips into "the back" to check that, once again, the store that gave her employ had never, ever, stocked the thing that the idiot customer was looking for.

Then there was the hardy perennial idiot looking for clothes in the soup aisle. And the other hardy perennial idiot who seemed to mistake a grocery store for literally anything else. Up to and including a restaurant or a no-tell motel. Moms changing a baby's pants, she could tolerate. That was a mission of urgency and mercy combined. Adults changing their pants... not so much.

And since it was that or land on the leg of a douchebro manspreading all over three seats, thus prompting him to grope her for daring to invade his more-than-ample space... she sat next to the weirdo.

Ow. God. Why did her feet hate her more when she gave them a break?

"You're very brave to sit there."

"I'm very tired to sit here," said Euphoria, desperately attempting to untangle her headphones.

"I'm a _vampire_."

"Congratulations." The things a pocket could do to anything boggled the minds of man. No matter how orderly the headphones were when they went away, they always came out as the modern answer to the Gordian Knot.

"I could kill you if I wanted."

Oh for _fuck's_ sake... Euphoria snapped. "So fucking _what_? So could those guys over there. So could any other human on the street. So could a dog. So could a dedicated _duck_. You. Aren't. Special." She finally found all three ends and plugged them in.

Just before the music drowned out everything, she heard the alleged vampire say, "Jeez, the weirdoes you meet on the train."

# Challenge #143: Harrying the Harmful

" _They turned me into a newt!"_

"... _You're a salamander."_

" _I got better."_

[AN: A little tip of the hat-rack to Monty Python?]

The Swamps of Misdirection. The only way to escape them, once inside, was to follow confusing, convoluted, "can't miss it" directions to somewhere else. And worse - most of the animals in it were capable of speech.

"Beware, traveller! Beware! Dangerous sorcerers roam this swamp." The speaker was a small amphibian. Mostly black, but with interestingly bright speckles that declared that it was poisonous.

Kolvoth the Adventurer found a stable spot of land to stop on and said, "How dangerous are they?"

"When they asked me for directions, they used dire magic on me when they came back around. Not my fault they took a wrong turn, but what did they do? They turned me into a newt!"

Kolvoth peered a little closer at the small, lizard-like form. "You're a salamander."

"I got better."

The sorcerers obviously didn't know about this place. "Well. I'd do well to avoid them, little friend. Is there a path that leads away from the direction they seek?" And, because it never hurt to be kind to talking Animals, offered the little creature a crumb of honeycomb from his pack.

"Sure," cooed the salamander, and proceeded to give the kind of confusing, convoluted, "can't miss it" directions that would mean that Kolvoth would likely overtake his quarry. Not only that, but he would also be well-rested and ready for battle.

It helped to listen to the bards in the pubs.

# Challenge #144: Read Before Signing

I accidentally summoned a demon

Belphagor looked around. It was a dusty old book shop. One of those poky little places that almost, but not quite, lead to another reality. The shopkeepers certainly seemed like they had once lived in one, and never quite got the hang of the new reality.

Facing him was an art student. They had to be an art student because the homeless tended to consume way less coffee. And your average bum tended to care a little more about their appearance.

"Holy shit," said the art student. "I didn't expect it to _work_."

"For what it's worth, I didn't expect to be summoned," said Belphagor. "What is your wish?"

"Ah crap. I only get one?"

Belphagor shrugged. "I dunno. I didn't read the waiver I signed."

"Shit," the art student looked into the tome they were holding. "Uh.... it's not exactly clear what I get out of this, either? Um. Are you, like, bound until whatever conditions are completed?"

Belphagor shrugged again. "I dunno. I didn't read–"

"The waiver. Yeah yeah." They sipped their coffee. "Says here that you're under my command until I make a wish that would forfeit my soul. Um. Does that count if you're an atheist?"

Another shrug. "I dunno. I–"

"Didn't read the waiver. Crap. Um. Okay. Do you know, like, _any_ of the rules?"

Belphagor could only shake his head.

"Well this is fun. I'm guessing the kind of shit that would never happen is the kind of shit that gets me damned, right?"

"Oh yes," said Belphagor. "That's standard."

"Probably going there anyway. According to my entire family, it's what I get for being trans/pan/poly-sexual."

Belphagor winced. "Tough break. Hi. I'm Belphagor. Your wish is my command."

"Call me Sandy. Despite appearances, I'm really a girl."

Sandy bought the book, and a few other random tomes for a project. Nobody seemed to notice Belphagor. But this was a nook bookshop from another reality that was currently next to an art college in Portland. Weird was no longer something that stood out.

"Should warn you," said Sandy, "I'm not the type to wish for anything. You and I are going to be stuck together for a while."

Belphagor thought of his Master and the trouble he'd be in for this summoning. "I think I can be okay with that."

"Great. Let's discuss wording... Say I wanted to find a hot babe..."

"You would discover an abandoned baby with a fever."

This earned a grin. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

# Challenge #145: New Tricks

I accidentally summoned a demon and have won the last 4 rounds of poker against it.

Sandy sighed and said, "You're not supposed to show me the cards and ask, 'how do I win?', Belphagor."

"You keep changing the rules," grumbled the demon.

"No, I keep telling you the same rules and you keep getting confused. Let's try again," Sandy reclaimed the cards and shuffled. "I thought the demons of hell were all about sinful stuff."

The demon brightened. "Oh yes! We dishonour our parents and covet our neighbours chattels all the time!"

"What, no cigarettes and whisky and wild, wild women?" Four cards each. Two down on the table, face up. "Remember, you're trying to make the best hand out of what you've got and what you can see. You get one chance to swap out the bad cards."

Belphagor put all of his cards towards Sandy. "Four, please."

Sandy sighed and turned over his cards. "You had half a straight flush with this lot, what the heck?"

"They don't match."

And given his trouble with Snap, there were obvious reasons why she shouldn't have tried teaching him poker. "Ugh. We both suck at this..."

# Challenge #146: Useful Pretty

 http://sinnamon-skull.tumblr.com/post/143302850386/villyre-headcanon-ford-got-out-of-90-of-his

(comic has gravity falls spoilers after "not what he seems")

On one hand, it was a little bit tiresome. On the other, it was damned convenient. All he had to do was make sure his glasses were in his pocket before they bundled him up for delivery and...

They tossed him onto his knees.

"So," said a soft voice. "This is the creature that Cipher wishes to eliminate? Huh."

Yep. Right on cue. The high commander or whatever they called themselves stepped up and removed the obligatory cowl.

Ford did his best not to squint in the new light. Or show any reaction to the physical nature of his -er- host. Someone, somewhere, had a thing for slimy-looking Liana beasts. Including other Liana beasts. Their eyes were like an insects and it chittered uncertainly.

Ford knew that look. No matter how the face was put together, he knew that look. "Majesty," he said, "I'm sure we can come to an understanding."

He would never, ever, tell his brother Stanley that some of his alien captors turned romantic dalliances were male.

#  Challenge #147: Confused in Translation

 http://haberdashing.tumblr.com/post/143298955329/motorizedduck-translating-is-hard-work-even

"It is... ah... what is word? A means of communicating when no longer present. Wisdom to be passing down from generations. Time... pressed...into formats for sharing."

"That," said M'llix, "Sounds rather impressive."

"No. Not being impressive. Is much common," said the human. "So everywhere that is ignored. People using for profession considered not having real profession. Is basis for all entertainments, but overlooked. Children is learning from young age, mastery of such."

"We too know of the adaptability of youth," said M'llix. "They can learn much that adults would struggle with."

"Is no struggle. Is practice and performance. Is..."

The other human, usually silent, said something in Human, but with one Kaltraaxi word. It was "Writing."

"Yes. Being much silly. Forgetting word. Writing. Is talk of writing."

It was going to be a long and steep learning curve.

# Challenge #148: Morning People

 http://kenzyshipseverything.tumblr.com/post/126911368896/nicckpetricca-this-video-is-actually-my

Imagine your otp – Anon Guest

Music was playing. Something ancient from the Vault, shared on something called a 'mix tape' by Ambassador Shayde into Lyr's personal file collection. Whatever it was, it was too jumpy to be morning music.

Jule attempted to burrow under the covers without moving much. Why his best-beloved had to be so darn frenetic on the mornings of her holidays was a mystery. This was their mutual time off. They should be doing as much nothing as they could get away with.

Lyr started jumping on the bed, shaking him as she sang along. Vaulting over him to jump about in her pyjamas and otherwise cavort like she was a teenager.

Twenty years of togetherness and three kids hadn't changed a darned thing.

Jule Marken emerged from the pillows long enough to glare at the chronometer by the bedside. Five in the morning. The sun had only just begun to paint the sky in colours no artist would voluntarily choose.

Same thing. Every year.

He would smile at her for it later, when he could appreciate it. For now, he mumbled The Line. "Can you bottle some of that and give it to me intravenously?"

Which stopped her dancing with raucous laughter.

Good. He had about four more minutes before she'd try to cook.

#  Challenge #149: Temptations Bakery Origin Story

 http://cuppykin.tumblr.com/post/127886086419/how-nightmare-demon-met-his-gf

_"How Nightmare Demon met his GF_

Demon:MORTAL, you are a lucky one, I HAVE CHOSEN YOU TO BE MY DINNER FOR THIS EVENING, BEG IF YOU WANT BUT I'M TAKING YOUR SOUL AND BODY

Tiny GF:Oh, you're hungry? Well I just ate dinner by myself but I am making dessert.

Demon:Well I think you missed the point but-

Demon:I smell sweets

Tiny GF:They're fudge brownies, I usually eat them by myself but-

_Demon:I'll help you in fact I can help you eat whatever you're making how long can I stay?"_

Callie considered the large, imposing figure in front of her. Nanna had always said her cooking could cause Angels to fall, but this was the first time she'd had anything close actually happen. "Well," she allowed, "If you don't catch my crochet on fire, I guess you can stay as long as you like."

The demon quenched his fires. "Whoops. It's an appearance thing. Intimidate my -uh- victims." His speech ended in a mumble.

Either it was because he was now aware that he was talking to his former meal, or because Callie had just laid a fresh batch of Brownies right in front of him. It was hard to tell.

But wasn't he pretty when he was flustered?

Callie let him have a corner piece with ice cream and spray cream, and sat opposite him with her own bowl. Watched his face with delight as he practically melted.

"Good?" she said.

"I don't- I can't- there's never–" he made an inchoate garble and then fell to the floor, inching his way around to her on his knees. "TELL ME YOUR DARK SECRETS! I WOULD TRADE AWAY MY EXISTENCE FOR THE KNOWLEDGE OF YOUR POWERS!"

Well. If she ever saw Nanna again, she could tell her that her cooking could also make demons reform.

It would be two weeks before Callie and Nilhomet ("Call me Niles") began their own bakery. And they cheated, of course, by using his hellfire instead of paying for a gas or electric bill. And the Devils' Food Cake was to die for.

# Challenge #150: Angels Well Aware

Sleazy Televangelist of the "Give me your money! And God will Love you!" variety gets an angel.

"...what does it mean when God sends an Angel? It means something momentous. It means that God himself has a mission for you. It means that the almighty architect of this glorious earth has selected _you_. Personally. To be His agent on this sorry world. And you'd better behave yourself because HE! IS! WATCHING!"

'Reverend' Tommy Thompson watched his broadcast. Making notes for his staff. _Looking too red in the face,_ he wrote. _I should look filled with the holy spirit, not 70000 chille peppers._

"Now we all know we get one guaranteed angel. The angel of death comes to all. But if we get more than that, we are blessed! And you can become like an angel for all those that our church is helping out. We have schools in Africa. We have missions in the Reservations. We are helping unwashed heathens all over the globe to come into the light of the Lord, and it ain't cheap. We need all the money you can spare. If you got a hundred left over, give us a hundred. You can be an angel to those poor, suffering folks... so when _your_ angel comes, and your tallied up in the book of life, you can honestly say,"

The audience joined in, arms held high. "I WAS AN ANGEL ON EARTH!"

"And God loves all of his angels, big or small."

Tommy turned the screen off to type a solid diatribe about the lighting. They were picking up his perspirations and pit stains. That was never good. But he was derailed from his intended mission by another face reflected in the screen.

"It doesn't work like that," said a voice. Calm and neutral.

Tommy turned, ready to rain hellfire and damnation down on this invader. But something stopped his tongue.

The stranger was difficult to gauge. Neither definitively male nor female. Inscrutable. And something was slightly off about their face. There was something slightly off about their entire self. Their clothing was simple and uncomplicated. A kaftan and loose trousers underneath. Simple sandals. All natural and all unadorned by any kind of fancy work.

He finally settled on, "How did you get in?"

"Be not afraid," said the invader. "You have been chosen to deliver a new word. Or should I say, The word."

"I don't need to fear _you_ , I always have a gun," said Tommy. "Who are you, what do you want, and how did you get past my security?"

"I'm your extra angel, Thomas Jericho Thompson." And then... it _unfolded_. There were lots of wings, and not a lot of them had feathers. Lots of eyes, from the entire gamut of eyes available. And heads. The bull's head had insect eyes. The human's had goat eyes. The sheep's had dog eyes. And he was certain one pair was supposed to be on fire.

Of course he wet himself.

"It is far easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter heaven," said the Angel, "Do you know why that is, Thomas Jericho Thompson?"

"...please don't hurt me?"

"It is because the love of money is the root of all evil, Thomas Jericho Thompson." The voice from somewhere inside the miss-match of parts was still calm. Still measured. Still patient. "You have been chosen to deliver unto your followers the True Words. The real word of God."

"Anything," he whimpered. "Anything. I swear I'll do it. Just don't hurt me."

"Tell the truth. Give away all your possessions and all your money. Help those in need who are all around you. Encourage others to do the same."

Tommy gave up gibbering for a few consecutive minutes. "What? All of it?"

The Angel resumed its slightly-not-human guise. "All of it. Close your bank account. Withdraw the funds you have in Switzerland, Bermuda, and the Caymans. Sell your mansions. Sell your yachts. Sell your cars. Sell your Armani Suits. Sell your expensive shoes."

"My wife will kill me!"

"Your fifth wife," said the Angel. "You, who cry over the sanctity of marriage without following a single one of the Laws. You, who have refused to care for your children... you have many sins, Thomas Jericho Thompson. You must start redressing that or face the consequences."

"Why me?" he wailed. "There's so many men like me. Telling people what they want to believe about heaven and God..."

"They are, for the most part, beyond redemption. You, Thomas Jericho Thompson, actually keep your word to your flock. So it is time to begin telling them the True Word." Now, the creature smiled. Tommy would have nightmares about that smile for the rest of his life. "And I will be watching and guiding you on your journey."

"...oh jesus..." he whispered.

"Yes," said the Angel. "He sent me."

#  Challenge #151: Slice of Life With a Demon(1)

1) "Ignoring the severed heads in the closet does not make for a good relationship. It makes for an unsanitary closet and possible accessory charges."

2) How to Train Your Hellhound

"NIIIIIIIIILLLLSSS!" That was not the come-here-I-am-in-trouble shriek. That was the come-here- _you_ -are-in-trouble shriek. As a demon in the pits of Hell, he had feared little but the wrath of his master. Now on the Earth, little ever scared him more than the thought of Callie being angry with him.

Nilhomet slunk into the cold stores, where Callie was standing on a step stool and pointing to a plastic box.

"These," she said in calm, crisp, and patient tones, "had better be bread."

The objects in the box appeared to be heads, faces, and random limbs. "Er. Some of them are sculpted pork bellies," he offered.

"And the rest?"

He never liked to admit it out loud. "They're bread. With minced bacon and blood sausage inside."

"...eeeeuuuuwww... Nils, _why_?"

"I _am_ a demon. I have needs."

Callie nodded. This had been one among many of their early spats. Solved with substitutes and, she must have believed, weaned away. "And why do so many of them look like our landlady?"

Nilhomet couldn't help but rant. "She's just so... _annoying_! She's always on my case about the music and I check it with a decibel meter and I have timers that turn it off one minute before the time and half an hour after the time I'm allowed, but she's always 'just reminding me' about the music times and volume allowed. And she's on my case about how I should obey the law."

"You did choose to look vaguely hispanic, love. And the locs don't help."

"I have to hide my head-serpents _somehow_... And then she talks about the roof garden and how legal all the plants are! We've had the police come and look at the tomatoes five times this week! And it's only Wednesday! She's a nuisance and a racist bitch and I want to eat her head."

Callie sighed. "Fine. But we're labelling this so no mistakes are made." She whipped out her trusty marker pen and scribbled, _Nils' experiments. NOT FOR SALE!!!_ across the side. She climbed down from her perch and took his hand in hers. "Next day off, I'm teaching you the art of passive-aggressive gift-giving."

#  Challenge #152: Slice of Life With a Demon(2)

1) "Ignoring the severed heads in the closet does not make for a good relationship. It makes for an unsanitary closet and possible accessory charges."

2) How to Train Your Hellhound

Callie always got the impression that Mrs Nesbit, their landlord, was vaguely upset that Nils wasn't a criminal mastermind. That did not stop her lecturing her, Nils, or anyone unlucky enough to stop for a minute that there were Rules that had to be followed. She could call the law down on any single one of them at any minute.

"Are you ready for them to inspect you, Mrs Nesbit?" said Nils innocently. "I read in the news that the police are going to start investigating the people who make too many complaints to their offices. They might confiscate your lovely pet."

Nils had long since mastered the art of false witness. Everyone in the flats knew that Mrs Nesbit's little doggy was an ill-tempered force for entropy that thought it was a re-incarnated attack dog, and everyone who wasn't Mrs Nesbit was a terrorist after the President. It also laboured under the false impression that the entire world outside of Mrs Nesbit's house was its personal toilet.

Mrs Nesbit looked alarmed for all of five seconds before she 'remembered urgent business' and took her leave. And that was how everyone on the complex was allowed to keep one (1) pet, as long as it was clean and well trained. And how Fluffles remained inside Mrs Nesbit's for his own safety and the relief of everyone else.

And that was how Nils and Callie got a hell-puppy. Most of the time, it looked like a regular, black Lab. Those who had partaken of interestingly illegal substances would swear she had glowing red eyes and more than one mouth. She came to heel for Nils without a problem and acted -well- like a little angel.

They called her Spot. And she responded just as well to Callie's cooking as Nils did. And, according to Nils, she had a very special trick. Callie, however, had to carry a pocket-full of liver treats with her to get Spot to do anything. But it still counted as 'trained' by the numerous police called in to examine the otherwise sweet little hound.

A trick that Callie finally got to see one afternoon when Mrs Nesbit was clearly picking on both him and their dog. Callie had learned to tune out her racist, sexist, xenophobic ranting, but more than a few obnoxious keywords filtered through and made her nauseated. Clearly, Mrs Nesbit hated renting to 'those types' just as much as everyone hated paying rent to her.

Nils, a picture of Buddhist-like contemplation, said, "Spot? Scary-face."

Spot's head opened up like a banana, revealing too many teeth and tentacles that also had teeth.

Mrs Nesbit fainted dead away.

"Good girl," cooed Nils, scratching Spot behind her now-completely-normal ears. "Who's a good girl? You's a good girl!"

Nobody in authority would believe Mrs Nesbit about Spot ever again. Or, for that matter, anyone living in her flats.

# Challenge #153: Tired of the Same Ol'

" _But I'm tired of being the villain! I know the series needs a villain, why does it have to be me?" fed up character or actor stuck with "Bad person" roles._

"Why can't I actually conquer the galaxy? Would that really be so bad?"

Wander looked at the camera. Then he looked to Sylvia, who just shrugged. "Uh, probably?" said Sylvia. "Face it, Hater. If you were running things around here, everything would be terrible for everybody. Why'd you even want to rule the galaxy anyway?"

"So I could make lots of people love me and get all the pretty girls. DUH!"

"That's _it_?" both heroes chorused.

"Well of _course_ that's it. Isn't it why anyone does anything?"

"Uh. No," said Sylvia.

Wander let out his Zen side, "Those who seek to prosper for selfish reasons, do not gain in the end."

"You could try doing good," suggested Sylvia. "I promise it won't hurt."

It did, but not in the ways that Hater predicted.

# Challenge #154: Who's the Hero?

The super-villain who is an absolutely great parent

It began small, as it always does. A few disappearances. A few strangers with the wrong ID, turning up as suicides or deaths by cop.

But it wasn't until Senator Morganbaum took the public podium and changed before everyone's eyes into a latino woman of about the same height and weight that people realised something was up.

It was a very specific pattern. White cops who were on leave for shooting incidents found themselves waking up with vastly different skins. Elderly male senators deciding on the "protections" of women, found themselves with the very needs they were deciding on.

People who were arrested for going about their business while black... turned up in the courtrooms with dazzling white skin and Caucasian features. Only to return to their former natures at a later time.

And a discrete advertisement in every newspaper in the county.

_What would it take to change your life?_ and a toll-free number.

People who had previously had great trouble achieving their proper identities had a large number of barriers suddenly removed. They had the bodies of their dreams, and less paperwork and expense in their lives.

Someone was doing something. Someone had a machine that, through magic and technology combined, could change a person's physical nature in less than a heartbeat and only the briefest flash of light.

The people of Tollbrook county were scared. Well. The white, wealthy, well-off people of Tollbrook county were scared. And they had the ear of the mayor, and the mayor told Enforcerman to go find whoever was doing it, and stop them.

It was a long hunt finding him. Following the money was no good. The villain who called themselves The Leveller got donations of cash from the people who paid for his magical ray. The In-my-shoes gun, they called it. And it gave so many Types a new lease on life.

Enforcerman had had trouble from Types before. He had learned the right words, of course, to seem politically correct, but they were all Those Types inside his head. Those Types who wanted the world to follow the wrong laws. Those Types who wanted to invade the wrong bathrooms. Those Types who wanted to trick men. Those Types who wanted their unfair place in the world.

He never felt it happen, of course. There was a brief flash of light, and the body he knew wasn't his body any more. He came home with breasts. And darker skin. He came home as one of Those Types.

Business was good. Equality Inc saw all people who felt they were being misrepresented. It saw people who wanted their issues to be represented by one of their number. Equality Inc took donations from those who could afford it.

And overcharged those in power who had been "disadvantaged" by the In-my-shoes gun.

People who saw Mr Libra often wondered why his office was plastered with images of the supermodel Lucy Lowell. And one aging photo of a small, smiling child with short hair in a princess dress and holding a baseball mitt. Those who enquired... got a story.

Once upon a time, there was a man who had lost his wife. His son was the light of his life. And then, one day, his son announced that she was really his daughter. That one announcement, taken in welcome and patience, changed Mr Libra's life. He saw how hard it was. Knew how tough the fight was.

If only the people in power knew what it was like to live in another person's shoes...

So he spent quite a deal of money and time working on the solution. A mixture of magic and technology that, though first a booth, had been transformed into a rather small and accurate gun that could fit into a small valise.

Lucy had been the first. And she told all her transsexual friends. They flocked to Mr Libra and changed their lives for way less than it would cost for The Operation.

The machine could not change their height, or their weight. But it could change everything else. A retroactive flick of their genetics, and it would be as if they had always been that way.

And yet, the people in power persisted in being terrible to those they alleged to care for. So Mr Libra took up his gun, and donned a mask. And became The Leveller. Exposing people to their prejudices one bigot at a time.

Of course, he only changed their exterior. It wasn't Mr Libra's fault that, when facing life on the other side of the fence, they didn't want to live any more. Even the county hero, Enforcerman, couldn't see things from the other side.

So Mr Libra made him look.

It would cost him most of his millions to return to his previous physique. Just in time to market the In-my-shoes gun to the masses.

# Challenge #155: Dragon/Princess/Knight

Dragon rescues Princess from Knight

"EUGH! NO! Get. Off. Me!"

Trillwhistle gave off looking for the right kind of rocks to scrape off her old skin on and followed the sounds of feminine protest.

"Come on. It's only a kiss. It's my due."

In a clearing not far from the rough, rocky outcropping that Trillwhistle had been considering as a hide-scraper, there was... a Scene.

It looked like some of the pictures from the human books. A lovely glade, a knight in shining armour, and a maiden fair. The problem was that the maiden wasn't lavishing her love on the knight. In fact, she was holding him off with a burning brand from a nearby campfire.

Trillwhistle saw the torn dress. The blood and bruises. The fear in her eyes.

And pinned down the knight in one clean motion. "She said 'no', O allegedly noble one. She should not have to say it more than once."

He was very far from his sword. And his breeches were halfway untied. He had more on his mind than just a kiss. And they were miles away from any human help.

"Climb on my back," offered Trillwhistle. "I can take you anywhere you need to go."

She didn't need a second offer. The brand fell to the grass and snuffed out in a small plume of steam. She was light on Trillwhistle's back.

Trillwhistle would be uncomfortable for a little while longer, but it was always worth it to help another. "I am Trillwhistle," she said. "What's your name?"

"Amanda." She was breathless and most of her weight spread flat against Trillwhistle's neck. Hot wetness spilled where her face lay. "I thought nothing could be worse than Trolls. I was wrong."

The Princess Amanda didn't have any destination in mind, since her father was the one who sold her to the trolls in the hopes of getting her married. Trillwhistle took her to her own grotto where it turned out that Amanda was more than adept at helping a dragon to shed its skin. And that she didn't mind at all that they were both ladies in the middle of nowhere.

Amanda's father swore that she just needed to find the right man. Instead, the proper dragon found _her_.

#  Challenge #156: The Power of Knowledge

Princess Rescues Dragon

Sir Kevin the Persistent lived up to his name. He did not, alas, live up to some of the more important laws of chivalry. He had studied up on Dragons and knew the best time to attack Trillwhistle.

The fact that he waited for her next shedding season was telling indeed. He would strike when his opponent was weak. He would arm himself with everything he needed to use to destroy one in its strength, so he would be assured of victory.

Princess Amanda knew very well how low he could go. He had rescued her from the Trolls, only to turn out to be worse than her original captors.

What Sir Kevin didn't know was that Amanda had been growing outside the rigid borders of her own society. She had Dwarf-forged armour, now. And fighting lessons from the Berzerker Orcs of Fangspire. She'd learned magic from the Fae of Tanglebriar and picked up potion-making from the Alchemists of Anunnkai. She had sold her hair for the secrets of summoning to the Witch of Soulsuck Swamp.

She was, in short, a changed woman. And she was prepared for most things.

It had been a busy pair of years, with little in the way of travel time, because Dragons have a way of overcoming most obstacles in the world.

So when she found Sir Kevin fighting a weakened and blinded Trillwhistle, she launched herself at him without a further thought. She downed a potion of strength in quick gulps as he reeled from the shock of her attack. Waited for him to strike the one he claimed to love.

She did not have to wait long.

Amanda fought fiercely. Not like a lion, as the poets might write, but worse. She fought like a honey-badger. Dangerous, unstoppable, indomitable, and with hardly a care for herself beyond making certain she could land the next blow.

Sir Kevin had equipped himself with the best that his people could make. Amanda had the best in the entire world. It should have been no surprise that she won.

But he did not submit until he could no longer pull himself and his battered and ruined armour upright one more time.

"How dare you," he panted. "You are mine by right of conquest. I won you!"

"You talk of me like I'm a prize in a county fair. I am no thing for you to add to your list of chattels, Sir Kevin. Learn that of all women, or pay the consequences."

"You've unmanned me. What more could I lose but my life?"

She laughed at him. And cursed him in the True Tongue of the Fae. "May you speak the unbounded truth whenever you talk to a woman." And she let him live with that.

He would learn, in time, what a curse that was.

#  Challenge #157: A Friend for the Princess

Princess is Dragon

The tallest tower of the castle is the largest. The widest. The roomiest. And it has the largest windows. The Princess is held there, they say. They say that there's a dragon. They say that the Princess is the most beautiful creature that ever lived.

Toe had heard all the rumours, of course. How suitors came to see her, and often ran away. How some came with blades to conquer the beast of the tower. They went up, but they came down as rains of fine ash.

Toe was just a peasant. A kitchen Boy, whose job it was to take out the ashes, take in the deliveries, take the slops to the pigs, and take the blame. They let him sleep in the hearths and often used him to keep the chimneys clean. He spent his days in ashes and sacking and a constant rain of blows aimed at his head.

But in the nights... when everyone was asleep... he would climb the network of chimneys. Looking for the one that lead to the tower. He just wanted to see for himself. To take one, good look at the Princess. And to see what kind of dragon guarded her.

Toe always liked the storytellers. On the Sundays, when almost everyone was at church, he would listen to tale after tale about dragons. He liked the descriptions of them. How wide the wing. How long the tail. How shiny the scale. And he always cried for the dragon when it died. That was always a shame how the dragon had to die. It felt... wrong. What had the dragon ever done to anyone?

The one that some people say they saw in the night had never done anything. That was for sure. All it ever did was scare a few drunkards.

So whenever Toe had a hard time sleeping, he would climb the chimneys and look for the Princess' tower. Just to see a really real dragon.

Of course he got the fright of his life when he found it. Because he learned the secret that the King had been keeping from the entire country.

The dragon wasn't guarding the Princess. The dragon _was_ the Princess.

Her bed was made of hard gemstones, and she was bigger than the biggest horse that Toe had ever seen. Her claws and scales were sharp and shiny. So much like the gems she slept on. The rumours had one thing right. She _was_ the most beautiful creature that ever lived. Toe was probably around eight. Nobody had given him any birthdays, but he remembered five winters. That was good enough for him. He was probably eight, and he had fallen in love.

He forgot all about hiding and crept out of the soot to just see what her scales felt like.

She saw him before he left her hearth. "What are you?" she said. Her voice was sweet. Sweeter than honey. More melodious than an Elf.

He shrank back into the hearth, next to the smouldering embers. "Jus' Toe," he said. "'M a kitchen boy."

She turned about. She was so graceful and fluid. Her bones could have been quicksilver. Or magic. "Sure you aren't a soot demon, Toe the kitchen boy? You're black from head to foot."

"...like that anyway. They got me 'cause they said I wouldn't show th' dirt."

The scales of her snout were finer than seed pearls, and brighter than stained glass. And she sniffed at him. "I don't smell any weapons. You haven't come to defeat a dragon?"

"No, m'm. Not me, m'm. Killin' a dragon's the worst thing ever."

"And why is that?"

He couldn't help himself. He took the deepest breath he could and talked until he ran out of air to speak with, only to repeat the process over again. Dragons were just magnificent, of course. They could fly and live in volcanoes and be bigger and stronger than anything else and it was a crying shame that knights had nothing better to do than to kill dragons because if they killed all the dragons, there'd be none left and if they're all as pretty as Your Majesty, that'd make the world so sad because having no dragons would be way so much worser than having no unicorns or no elves or no fairies or no trolls. (gaaaaaaassssp) Dragons are way much more magic than any of the old fakers who come to the court. They only need to eat once a moon and they can go anywhere they want to but they choose to live near humans and who wouldn't want to see a dragon because they're all so graceful and he was just grateful for them existing at all.

The Princess caught him as he nearly passed out. And in her jewel-scaled arms, he told her everything he knew about Dragons because they were the best thing there was in the world.

It was the most he had ever spoken to anyone. It was the most he was allowed to say in his entire life. He wanted to share as much of his love for dragons as he could, despite the fear of a clip on his head or a stick to his legs.

The Princess Tarelli gave him a bath, and sent a maid for all the food that Toe could eat. She was only ten years old, and he couldn't believe it. She had a bathtub like a swimming hole and it could fill with water and soap and perfume and flower petals and milk and she could warm it with her own fire which was the best thing in the entire world and why couldn't knights just leave dragons alone because of this?

The maids were less at home with washing a filthy little kitchen boy, but he loved it. It was the first time he had ever had warm water to bathe in and the first time he hadn't instantly got mud on his feet. And the first time he had been dried by someone with a warm, fluffy towel. And they gave him real clothes like a courtier. Made of hemp instead of rough sacking twine. And fine, knitted hose and real shoes made out of leather when the best he could hope for as the Boy had been wooden clogs that someone else had grown out of.

Nobody in the kitchens cared that the Boy had gone missing. Nobody had really cared for Toe down there. They just sort of fed him because he was useful. But the Princess... she treasured his company. He brought her storytellers who nervously told their dragon tales, and books from the copymasters. And anything interesting from the markets.

During the days, he was her window to the world. And during the nights... on her back... he flew to anywhere their hearts could desire.

The King didn't much approve. It was not seemly to have a Princess love a kitchen Boy. But then, nobody else had won her heart like this child. And she needed a companion more than she needed a husband. And when he heard her talk about the world and the things that she and Toe had seen... he could not forbid it.

And the next time a knight came to slay the 'venomous beast plaguing the kingdom'... he was rode out of the kingdom on a rail, with tar and feathers for his raiment.

# Challenge #158: Happily Ever After

Princess marries Dragon and Knight

Another day, another quest. Trillwhistle and Amanda had both taken a liking to questing. They saw more of the world than they could have initially believed and the rewards were interesting. And educational.

Amanda stopped calling herself Princess Amanda and, thanks to an unkowing knighthood from a distant king, started going by Sir Dragonbourne. It helped that her armour covered her face and disguised her physique.

And it was safer to let everyone assume that both Trillwhistle _and_ Sir Dragonbourne were male. People got funny when either of them referred to each other as 'she' or 'her'. And some got so hilarious about it that they sent mighty armies after them.

And then came Princess Zigwe.

She had been abducted by some slighted sorceror and taken to a tall tower. The usual rigmarole. Unfortunately for Trillwhistle, her wing was injured in the finishing fight. So their journey back to the king's palace was incredibly slower than their departing journey.

Zigwe knew who they both were before the end of the second day. She was another bright woman trapped in the rigid role her society had left her. She had dreams and plans and more than a passing knowledge of magic, herself.

They fell in love in less than a week.

The Princess Zigwe convinced her father that marriage to Sir Dragonbourne was their due. And Amanda was able to add the stipulation that Trillwhistle be part of the ceremony and oath-taking as well.

King Machawa was happy to see his daughter married and off of his hands. He would never know that he had seen to it that three women married each other, that day.

But that trio did live, and live well, for all of their days together.

# Challenge #159: Sworn to Love

Princess Marries Dragon to Knight

"Why, beast? Why must you plague my every waking day with your invasions to my fair land."

The dragon rumbled and stopped what it was doing with boulders. It seemed to... sag. "I'm... a plague?"

"Of course you're a plague! You burn the lands, you foul the water, and you steal the cattle of the hardworking peasants."

"Um," said the Princess Carillion. "That would be the warlords neighbours? I haven't observed this dragon doing very much at all."

"Silence! This foul beast has obviously swayed your weak will with some sort of glamour."

"...fine," said the dragon. "You see if I help you any more." And then it flew away.

Sir Neville the Fortuitous didn't wonder what that meant. He just rescued the Princess and received gold and some chattels that he immediately gave to the poor. Seeking true love obliged him to refuse the hand of any maiden he'd met only days before.

But it was that day that his luck changed. The armies he was sent against were no longer weakened by firestorms from the heavens. The dungeons were chill and dank. The wonders of nature more fierce. And there were no more magical campsites, with the firewood stocked and a pit already lit, and with a pig or some other beast already on the spit.

It wasn't very long before he fell on rough times. Then hard times. Then bad times.

He still pursued his quests, but the wear was beginning to show. He lost weight, and his health declined. Before too long, he became a ragged, scruffy, shadow of a man taking shelter under his horse from the squalling rain. He prayed to the Gods for forgiveness. He must have offended one of them, but he couldn't remember how, or which one.

Finally, when he called on the Goddess of Love, a shadow cut off all the rain.

"I'm sorry," said a low, deep voice. The voice of the dragon. "I know you said to leave you alone, but I couldn't watch you like this. Let me help?"

Even his horse was too tired to be scared of a beast the size of a house. And besides, the shelter of its wings were welcome relief from the storm.

Sir Neville watched in amazement as the dragon cut down and tore asunder a massive tree, dislodging and slaughtering several small, edible animals in the process. The magical campsites were the dragon's hidden work. He recognised the pattern of their making.

How many times had he thanked the gods for the campsites? How often had he warmed himself by flames lit from this dragon's fire? How often had he eaten food cooked by a dragon?

Since the first time he roused her from her den, and invoked the gods to keep her from doing harm.

Now that he could see her, she didn't look that great, either. Half-fed and not as shiny as she usually was. Remnants of her last shed still clung to her in ragged tatters.

She'd always seemed bigger when he confronted her.

"Why are you doing this?" he said.

Her voice was smaller than an ant. "...because i fell in love..."

It had been quite the experience for both of them. Dragons, too, could become attracted to noble and honourable men. And now that Sir Neville knew she was never hostile, they became something of a team.

The both of them wound up working for the Princess Carillion, who had seen it from the first moment she saw both of them, and allowed Redscale the dragon to finish the dam she had been building to protect the flatlands from so many floods.

And the sight of a dragon fighting the warlords was enough to quell their banditry and make them thoroughly investigate the benefits of farming.

With Redscale by his side, he was once again truly fortuitous. Especially when it came to realising that true love had found _him_.

Which lead to a ceremony held in a courtyard. Redscale could not wear a wedding gown, but she was decorated with flowers and pennants for the ceremony.

And the Princess Carillion gave them a mountain to make Redscale's lair, and a host of oxen as a bridal gift. Redscale had no dowry, but she had a knack for finding jewels.

And Princess Carillion whispered, "I tried to tell you," to the groom as he awaited his bride.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in return.

"Dearly beloved, lords, ladies, and welcome guests," began the Princess. "We are gathered here to witness a bond forged in true love..."

# Challenge #160: Leave Me Alone!

 _http://cosmic-raes.tumblr.com/post/143671834576/editorincreeps-thelessercarpenter

The Humble Villager that was just trying to stop random adventurers stealing all their stuff

It began with a lucky shot. Tur the Peasant had had enough of adventurers stealing her things, and hucked a rock at the armoured figure going through Tur's sacks of meagre belongings.

They must have been at 1HP, because they fell and discorporated, leaving their swag behind them.

Tur spent a moment, dumbstruck, looking at the loot. Then she swept it up. There was some actual Silvers in the loot and she knew she would have to protect herself. Starting with the Adventurer's old armour.

Most of the money went on better locks and gates for her hut. And repairs on the armour. But she was able to trade in the old, rusted sword and some random items for a new sword and a few lessons on how to use it.

Lessons she needed, because no sooner had she got back to tending her pigs, than another adventurer came. Slightly better equipped. Hungry for loot. And they had a dog. But they didn't know how to use the animal properly, and their loot became hers. And so did the dog.

She trained the beast to guard the house, and outfitted him with armour as well. No sense in letting a good asset get slaughtered. Tur laid more than a few traps along her property, too. Making sure no adventurers got to what little she had. The copper coins that used to be her only wealth meant the difference between life and death, come winter.

More adventurers came. More died, leaving her their wealth. Before the snows ended, she had enough to make a fortified wall around her farm, and a cadre of mercenaries to make certain they stayed away. And more traps, dogs, and warding spells than she could have believed. Now she had silvers and a few golds to guard. And the most protected pigs on the planet.

Of course, selling them was a problem. The adventurers came in parties, now, and saw the pigs as a resource for her growing complex and attempted to attack them. After five or so parties, Tur's pigs headed to market in guarded, armoured wagons.

And after a couple of years, Tur didn't need to raise pigs at all. Now she was guarding her golds against a constant stream of Adventurers. And they were carrying gems and magical jewellery that could protect Tur and her teams from the inevitable further onslaughts.

Before she knew it, she was somehow an Evil Overlord. It didn't make sense. She fed and housed and armed and healed her troops. She hired many of the disenfranchised peasants who had lost their farms from Adventurer predation.

Tur the HeroSlayer, who never attacked a kingdom. Tur the Wicked, who never set out to do evil.

She'd only wished to protect what was hers.

# Challenge #161: Blood in the Boards

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OV3xp5ZXSYA>

Opera vampire

He tries very hard to be a baritone but he's a a countertenor (or possibly a contralto)

[AN: This is the guy referred to on the internet as "Gay Opera Dracula"]

Some appetites can not be ignored. Some can be... restrained. I learned that when a Master of Voices turned my best friend into a Castrati. That was a very, very long time ago.

I was turned into something else, myself. But that came later. A whisper in the night. A seduction dipped in fine perfume and coated pretty words. And two sharp teeth into my neck.

So very long ago, now.

I make some money as a roving Contralto. I never stay anywhere long enough for people to ask questions. And I make certain that I am never good enough to be truly famous.

But you see, I love Opera. I love the art, the discipline. It has kept me sane in decades when I feared I would go mad. And I despise those who treat it as a frivolity of a bygone era.

Those who slack, those who do not put in all their effort. Those who slip and do not care... they are my food.

And those who make an artist's life pain. The followers, the hangers-on, the people who have unfortunate cases of Erotomania, and the people who have unfortunate cases of not hearing the word 'no'. Those are also... dealt with.

Those who ignore my admittedly strong mental control become my meals also. I consider it a service to the Art.

And in the months when none of these examples present themselves... do not fret. It's quite possible to acquire deals with Kosher and Halal butchers. I do not starve, and I do not prey on the innocent. Well. Innocent enough, anyway. This _is_ opera. One expects a certain amount of drama in the opera houses.

The years have lead me to see patterns. Which, in turn, has lead me to give remarkable advice to those treading the same, well-worn paths of people in my past. And I'm seen as something of an expert on the history of Opera. I tell no-one that I lived most of it. That sort of thing has... repercussions.

And once in a while, I meet someone with... star quality. Those who would do so much good for the Art, had they the time. I offer, discretely, a chance to remain at their peak. I don't turn them without their consent. There are downsides to vampirism, after all.

No-one has taken me up on the offer. Not yet. For all the drama and emotion, Opera people can be remarkably pragmatic.

Yet I live in hope. Someday, somehow, someone will take me up on the offer.

And I won't be alone any more.

# Challenge #162: Vital Skills

There are things we need to be able to do to cope or succeed in Life. How to light a fire, cook a meal. Pick a Life skill and how it works.

Red alert roused Pel from unconsciousness, and, because it was an urgent alarm, she launched herself from her bunk and into her lifesuit before she had fully opened her eyes. It was a matter of course for a Spacer to be able to get into their emergency gear by feel and in a matter of seconds.

Sometimes, seconds was all one got.

It was why accommodations for children doubled as life-pods in emergencies. It was why the very young were locked into their pods for the night. And it was why there were bathroom facilities in children's sleep pods.

If you wanted to sleep in a grownup's bed, you had to be able to get out and hurl yourself into a lifesuit in a matter of seconds. Otherwise, it was the sleep/life pod for you.

The suit cleared Pel's eyes at a half-asleep gesture. Servos and sponges mimicking the motions of her gauntleted hands, outside the visor.

Next, rushing to her duty station. For an alert, it was all hands on deck. The suit, linked to the ship's strategic computers, injected the right amount of stims. The ship and all who depended on her needed Pel awake, alert, and able to perform.

Early experiments had shown that pure adrenaline was exactly the wrong thing to administer. Crew would spend a majority of their time puking, evacuating their bowels, and trembling too hard to perform. Now it was a cocktail of sugars, caffeine, adrenaline, and other substances to ensure that the brain would be in peak condition. Each tailored for the wearer.

The HUD gave Pel information as she pounded through the corridors. It was an impact emergency. Someone, somewhere, had missed an asteroid, or a rogue projectile had somehow passed through the ready arms of the Hungry Caterpillar, and caused trouble for everyone aboard.

A flashing _Hostiles_ sigil popped up on the map display. Pirates? They'd better be human pirates, or they were in for a short, sharp shock. Only the naïve or the terminally stupid willingly attacked a human vessel. Even the bigger, badder Deathworlders had learned not to mess with Terrans.

Pel grabbed a stunner from the emergency nook and held it ready, fumbling for a full charge to load it with because some unreasonable person decided that six shots was all that anyone needed to deal with an incursion[1]. The near-empty charge capsule went into the charger compartment at Pel's hip.

Cam feeds came in as she neared an area of invaders. O Powers, they weren't wearing suits. They had an MO that included piercing a hull and they didn't bother wearing lifesuits. How did they survive for longer than two seconds at this game?

They were humanoid, but not human. The other details were irrelevant as Pel and five other crewmen opened fire on the idiot invaders. The bad guys were down in seconds.

Pel was one of the volunteers to drag them off to the brig. Therefore she missed out on the fun news that the invading spearhead vessels were chained to a larger base that earned its keep by harpooning ships and stripping them of all resources.

And yes, they were new to the Galactic Scene. They hadn't found out about humans. They hadn't learned the futility of ground combat tactics in space.

They would learn. Thoroughly. And very quickly.

[1] It was the SPOEns.

# Challenge #163: Demonic Corruption

If you have encountered the Transcendence AU of gravity falls, please use it in today's challenge. (it's a great AU you'd love it and half of it was written long before it all came true in the show)

" _The idiots that read mysterious cave writing/old books aloud as they go or while they translate and accidentally summon things cough Alcor cough by being just that monumentally dense. Or, small children who still read by carefully sounding out syllables getting into the collection of rare books and yeah you see where this is going."_

[AN: Yeah, that's a pretty involved AU. Also: whoops, I accidentally did this now instead of 15 days from now. Derp]

Once upon a time, there was a dying demon. He tried to find shelter from his demise inside the mind of a mortal, without opening the doorways properly. Once upon a time, the demon died, and the mortal was never the same.

It was an old story. Told amongst the Pines as both family history and cautionary tale. How a twin brother and sister defeated the strongest demon in the mindscape, and how the brother paid the eternal price. Neither human nor demon, neither real nor unreal. And how knowing his true name could save your mind, body, and soul.

They were fairytales to Lalli. Old stories. Ever since the Angelic Intervention, demons had not been seen in the physical plane. They still taught Defense Against the Dark Masters in school, but hardly anyone took that seriously, any more.

Nevertheless, she loved the old books. The smell, the way the pages crackled as they turned. The weight of them. And the taste of the old words on her tongue as she painstakingly read them.

The Pines House was busy and crowded and nobody seemed to care that a small and quiet child was reading to herself in the library.

They would mind soon enough, because in the middle of the sweater patterns was a spell guaranteed to summon the family demon of legend.

He looked almost like a regular human in a top hat and tails. There was no sign of bat wings or fangs. And his smile was pleasant enough. The place to look, to see that he really was a demon, was his eyes. They were slotted like a cat's.

"Well, hello again, shooting star," he murmured. "It's been a long time."

Lalli should have been afraid. Demons were bad news, everyone said. But this one seemed... familiar. Like a dream she'd thought was forgotten. Or an old coat coming out of storage after months of summer. Words came out of her from that forgotten dream.

"Heya, Dippingsauce," she whispered.

The smile faded away into an expression of shock. He whispered, "Mabel..." and pressed a finger to her forehead.

Lalli's brain felt... itchy. Old dreams of past lives flitted through her head. Especially that one, long-ago summer when the world changed. Those echoes were the strongest, so Lalli reached out to boop a demon's nose. "Bwap," she giggled.

"Yeah. That's right," could a demon cry? This one had moisture in his eyes. "I'm gonna make sure you have a good life, kiddo. Free of charge. Just... be as you as you can."

"Okay," said Lalli, "but you gotta be good, too."

He offered his hand. She shook it.

And that was how a four-year-old began the long journey for a demon to become an angel.

# Challenge #164: Loss and Hope(1)

1) Australia's Eurovision entry this year

2) Pick a random Eurovision song - pre-2010

[AN: This takes the gap count down to 10. The two I used for inspiration are 1) <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ymFX91HwM0> and 2) <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C5VvsLEd1TI>]

She didn't understand what was happening. It had been something of a whirlwind and her processors were still trying to catch up. Spots of imagery burned themselves into her thoughts as she clung to the only portrait of Maman that she'd been able to keep for nearly one hundred years.

Bitzer huddled into the corner of the room. The last time she had seen so much space, it had been full of people and a carnival atmosphere and nobody cared that she was an automaton. But that had been 1988.

This space, in 2016, was dingy and grimy. Bare and depressing. If light came here, it came as an invader. Harsh. Revealing all secrets. And the people who came into the room to look at her or yell at her were angry.

So much so that the next person to enter the room, regardless of how carefully they did so, made her whimper and flinch.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't-I don't know what I did, but I'm-but I'm-but I'm-but I'm sorry. As soon-as soon as I know-know-know-know-know what-what it was, I'll stop it. I promise."

"You haven't done anything wrong," said the newest invader.

"Can I go home? I want to go home. Maman could have come back and she might have missed me." The grinding noise of the crane they had used to get her out of the cellar stuck in her mind and she flinched away from it. "I need-I need-I need-I need repairs."

Two noises as some things were added to the table. One container of water. One container of mechanical oil. Bright words on one side said that the oil was PREMIUM PROTECTION.

"They don't know what to do with you," said the newcomer. She was dark like Maman, but far too tall and far too wide to be anything else like her. And her hair was short. "There's quite the legal tangle, now."

"I'm sorry," said Bitzer automatically. "I don't-I don't want trouble. I could... I could go away?"

"That wouldn't solve anything." She sat at the table and opened a folder. "Ever since your pictures went out on the news, we've had people contacting us about you. What were you doing at Expo 88?"

Stories unfolded, as they do. Bitzer's grand day out and Sarge's vanishing. The current conundrum of a man who purchased the Arist house off of the last descendant, with a mind to turning it into a business... A man who had no idea that he had also purchased a huge volume of absently-stored antiquities and one mostly-clockwork, steam-powered automaton.

Her existence did not fit with his plans.

People wanted to take her apart and extract the gold and her opal heart. People wanted to take her apart to see how she worked. People wanted to take her apart and put better parts in her, and show her around like a performing animal.

Bitzer insisted that all they had to do was find Maman. Plaesir Gloria Arist. She would sort everything out. And everything would be better.

By the time the oil was gone, the police people put Bitzer in Holding. She wasn't people, so she didn't get a cell. She was a thing, so she got a patch of space on a shelf, and someone to make sure she got oil every day.

The dark and the quiet had no fears for her. What hurt the most was that there weren't any windows. There was no daylight. There were no children outside to sing songs to in the dark.

All she had was her photograph and the silence and the hope that Maman would still be able to find her.

# Challenge #164: Loss and Hope(2)

1) Australia's Eurovision entry this year

2) Pick a random Eurovision song - pre-2010

[AN: This takes the gap count down to 10. The two I used for inspiration are 1) <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ymFX91HwM0> and 2) <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C5VvsLEd1TI>]

Bitzer liked to be helpful. It wasn't long before she was allowed to roam Holding. She became familiar with the system, and the boxes and serial numbers. She often hovered over various Detectives' shoulders as they went through the things.

And sometimes, very rarely, she was helpful in solving a problem they had.

And then they brought in another automaton.

They were genderless, and very broken, and couldn't talk. They were made the size of a child, and had some funny holes that Bitzer lacked. And yet, the poor thing was still operational.

Bitzer gave the machine comfort. And made clothes to fit out of things that the Detectives said were okay. Especially underpants to cover over those strange, strange holes. And, when the Detectives said it was all right, helped repair the automaton child.

She read to them, of course, because reading to children was important. The funny and happy stories from confiscated books. Not the bad folios with the horrible pictures with lots of red paint[1].

The automaton child had never been made to have a voice, and spoke with their hands. A language Bitzer could never really get the hang of. Compromise came with an electronic tablet. Tickle - they communicated their name rather promptly - told stories of a bad owner who had done things with them that made them want to shut down forever.

Those times were over, now. Bitzer had not been ready to be a mother, but found that she was reasonably good at it. Even the Detectives filed them together on the shelves so that neither of them gave the poor night watchman the horrors by seeking the other out.

They had each other, and a surprising amount of things to read or play with. And they made their near-life in Holding so much better just by being there. It was another reason to keep going.

[1] The police didn't tell her it was blood.

# Challenge #166: Saving Mothman

<http://scienceisadesiretoknow.tumblr.com/post/144675700926>

" _The woman soaked several lengths of rope in a solution of red wine and sugar. She strung the wine ropes from the trees in her garden and then, around midnight, she came to check on her unusual trap. Sure enough, Mothman was swinging gleefully from the wine ropes, drunk and squealing with joy."_

Amberlaize Jones now owns and takes care of a colony of fifty 'mothmen', a former cryptid now known as the large, long-legged bat. They were fructivorous, and native to the area surrounding West Point, Virginia.

People come to interview her, and see one for themselves. 'Mothmen' aren't very active in the day time, so she always has one of the infants to show to the curious cameras that swarm her nature reserve.

The colony only gets sugar-wine as a treat, now. And most come when she calls them.

Miss Jones tries to teach them, while they are filming and cooing,that the large, long-legged bat is harmless. Most only grow to a maximum full height of four feet, but there are rare Sports that can reach six feet or more.

Those ones do not last long in the wild. They need to roam further afield than their usual range. Most are shot or attacked by dogs, but once in a great while, they reach the city and cause a panic. Just like one famous Sport did back in 1966.

Amberlaize hopes that education will help preserve them, since they are an endangered species. Those who roam beyond the nature reserve are more likely to be welcomed with chopped fruit and peanut butter than a short, sharp shower of hot lead.

And besides, the babies are unbelievably cute.

# Challenge #167: Going With the Flow

" _Such unfortunate words you use for the Old Magics... 'beyond your control'. Why do humans seek to control everything? It seems to me that unless humans are able to give something purpose, use or station, it has no value to you. It is troubling in a way."_

" _You find humanity wicked, do you?"_

" _No. I find humanity to be very young, and as any youngling, they are both brave and foolish, fearless yet unknowing. Which is why when I hear you say 'magic beyond my control', I can only respond by saying that magic by its very nature cannot be controlled, at least not in the way you envision it. It can be directed and studied and sometimes employed, but to completely control magic? You may also attempt to control the stars, with equally poor success, I'm afraid." – Anon Guest_

"So how might magic be used? What's it good for?"

The Immortal smiled. "It is the fabric of reality. It is all that is. And it is in all that is. A blacksmith can turn a collection of rusty metal into fine armour by knowing how to use the fire, the anvil, and the hammer. Is that any less magic than knowing how to turn back rust?"

"Can you do that?"

"Yes, but I find that the blacksmith is far better at it. You can not tame the ocean, can you?"

Oli blinked at this apparent change of subject. "Er. No."

"And making it water your fields would poison the land."

"Er. Yes?"

"Yet the works of nature take water from the oceans, purify it in the clouds, and bring rain to the fields. You do not control that, but you use it nonetheless."

Oli thought she got it. "I get it. We can't make the rain fall, but we use it when it does. Is that how magic works?"

"In a vague sense, yes. You can direct little portions of it to your will. Like a dam in a river or a cut channel."

"Or a screw to make water turn uphill."

Another enigmatic smile. "You'll find that the practice of that concept is harder than it seems. You can not make the screw. You have to be the screw. The effort might kill you. Best to allow a flow you can use."

Oli nodded. Water was a good concept for her to understand. "Are there places where magic is rare? Like... a desert?"

"Worse," said The Immortal. "There are places where the magic is so rich and so busy that you dare not use even the tiniest portion. It would crush you if you tried."

Oli's next lesson was about to begin. "How can more be bad?"

# Challenge #168: Bodyguard

<http://iztarshi.tumblr.com/post/145107805571>

On the flipside, when the space orcs want you safe, you are very safe – Anon Guest

There were times when Talil could swear that humans were made of determination and venom.

They were not, strictly speaking, toxic. Not completely. But their skin was host to ecologies of bacteria that made their lives possible, and had been weaponised against Havenworlders. Their guts were hosts to bacteria that were toxic even to them. Their bites could fester and overwhelm any living thing they decided to pierce.

And, fortunately for Talil, they were also the easiest to pack-bond, and the fiercest protectors of their pack.

Alas, unfortunately for Talil, that protection could be hindering.

Humans were seemingly tireless. They could operate for a majority of the Standard Day, taking shift after shift of duty. Wherever Talil went, a human would follow her.

Most of the time, it was the one called Be'ti. Four times Talil's height, easily eight times Talil's mass. The human spent most of their time in Talil's company checking on Talil's presence and visually scanning for potential hazards.

She was one of the more alarming humans, with ink injected into her skin and holes put through her flesh for an assortment of jewelry. She carried her registered weapon as casually as any other cogniscent might carry their shopping.

And Talil was thoroughly sick of her warning cry.

"Ut ut! That's too heavy for you. Let me."

"I'm perfectly capable of adding it to my autocart."

"You strained yourself, last time. You were a week getting over it."

And humans were _really_ good at remembering bad events. "It was a week that taught me to strengthen myself. I am not as I once was." But by then, the item was in the autocart anyway.

Talil was about to resume their shopping, but another, "Ut ut!" stopped her.

The tall human had spotted a threat. Her stunner was drawn. "To the left. Quick as you can." Be'ti kept Talil in her peripheral vision (another human advantage) as she watched the threat.

Everyone knew that humans fled in zigzags. Even the humans. Be'ti had an evasive pattern of three lefts and two rights. Followed by a random number of straights. And then ducking into a food shop where Be'ti could watch out the window and Talil could refresh her blood sugar.

Talil could swear the human wasn't paying attention to her when the food arrived, but Be'ti still murmured, "Careful, it's hot."

Talil sighed. "You are aware that I am an adult of my species."

"And your species is on the cusp of living amongst humans without a lifesuit. Your point?"

"What was the threat?"

"Pokines. They were looking for something to eat and you resemble their favourite prey."

This was why Talil had hired humans in the first place. On the edge space, many cogniscents acted as they pleased. Including breaking the taboo of cogniphagia. Eating other intelligent lifeforms. Be'ti had spotted them before they had spotted Talil, and hurried her out of the risk zone.

Human pattern recognition still amazed Galactic Society. It worked when their visual acuity failed. Talil had not been aware of the danger.

Talil froze, looking out the window. A gigantic Pokine, snuffling and sniffing the air. He had lost the trail, true, but he was bound to find it again.

"It's all right," whispered Be'ti. "They serve coffee here." And a steaming cup arrived at her elbow. She blew the vapours towards the open door.

It took a minute, but the Pokine snorted and wiped his eyes. He had just detected a deadly poison. And then he fled back the way he had come.

Be'ti sipped her steaming theobromine solution. "Better than a red herring, any day."

Talil remembered to keep calm. Yes, this was one of the most dangerous, deadly, and mercurial species in the world... but this one had bonded to Talil. Be'ti would literally die before any harm came to Talil.

And humans were hard to kill.

#  Challenge #169: Magic, and Dragons, and Watchmen – Oh My!

Prompt:

The Doctor gets blipped to Ankh-Morpork. You must include all three of the title refs in the story.

Sam Vimes didn't trust the things that people normally thought of as trustworthy. He knew damn well that Von Lipwig, up at the Post Office, was a liar and a thief. But he had an honest face and a ready smile and a firm handshake... because that was what people trusted.

And then there was this fellow. He dressed like a nob, but one who had fallen backwards through his wardrobe in the dark. He had the kind of boots that could last several lifetimes and, by the looks of them, already had.

And, chief in Vime's little collection of red flags, this man had run _towards_ the screaming. He flashed a little white card in a little black wallet at everyone and somehow got through the cordon guarding the Scene.

Vimes lit his cigar. "And what's that little white card got to do with you barging in where you're not welcome?" he challenged. But he was careful to do so in a way that only the stranger could hear.

He put the card and its wallet away. "I'm the Doctor, I'm a very nosy person and I like to help. What's going on?"

Sam indicated the Scene. An otherwise ordinary cobbled street of Ankh-Morepork. Except that about twenty people were halfway submerged in the cobbles, and ten more were halfway through the walls. And very... very dead. "You tell me," said Sam.

He wasn't a Wizard, because Wizards were naturally attracted to shiny things and dressed like a somewhat smaller version of a parade float. Yet he had some kind of glowing, buzzing wand that he used to wave all over every one of the bodies.

"Looks like quantum displacement and temporary flux in the phase reality," the Doctor said. "That's nowhere near your tech level."

Sam Vimes was unimpressed. "So how did you do it?"

"Are you going to be one of Them?" said the Doctor. "That obstinate figure in authority who ends up being the one who ignores all good advice and suspects the person who's trying to warn them?"

"I don't have proof you didn't do it, I don't know you, and the people who help the Watch in tricky situations usually do it so they can see where they slipped up." Sam took a drag, blowing smoke rings down the grizzly alleyway. They turned peculiar shapes as they went. "And I got no proof that you aren't that type, Mister. But I'll take any warnings you might have. What _is_ going on?"

The Doctor had gone ashen. The shapes the smoke was making had clearly alarmed him. "Something wicked," he whispered. "The Draconin are coming here."

"We already dealt with dragons," said Sam. "That book is safely far away from anyone who might read it."

Sigh. "No. Not them. Well, not quite them. Rather a lot like them, actually. Just... try and picture a dragon with all the vile nature you see every day, with a natural instinct for evil and a general disregard for anyone who isn't themselves. And they have a fire that can evaporate stone."

Sam sucked air in through his teeth. Winced audibly in the way of all workmen about to face something very expensive. "We're not equipped to deal with them, are we?"

"You have magic here, instead of technology, right?"

"Er. Yes. But it's bloody dangerous and nobody trusts it."

"Eldrich horrors in a dark place? Soul-sucking, tentacles and other Lovecraftian nonsense?"

"Most of that, yes."

The Doctor clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. He was a man about to enjoy his work. And, according to Sam, that was the scariest look of joy one could get with angry eyebrows.

"Right," the Doctor said, cracking his knuckles. "Let's see what we've got to work with..."

Sam didn't know whether to be terrified of these Draconin... or _for_ them.

# Challenge #170: Old Friends

When you were much younger there was a book, a show, a series that was Magic! You loved it, it lit up your life. Years later you find it again and the magic has gone and it's bland. But if you're lucky, you find it again. Sit down and re-visit and the Magic is still there.

"I found it! It wasn't a dream!"

_Uh oh..._ Mel sighed. "Let me guess. This is the thing you used to love once upon a time?"

Del was already squealing and dancing with the DVD. If she wasn't so goshdarn cute when she did that, Mel might be embarrassed. As it was, she had to slow her down with a hug just so she could focus on the cover.

H.R. Puffinstuff.

Oh boy. "I missed out on all that Croft stuff." And then Mel said the fatal words. "Is it any good?"

Del was already in Hyper Mode and the following infodump came out at a high speed gabble that only practice and patience could understand. And lipreading helped. Of course H.R. filled Del's every childhood morning and she had once dreamed of going to Living Island. Her parents used to have a stack of VCR cassettes that Del had worn out during her early childhood.

So of course they got the entire set.

Del set up the Binge. Popcorn and way too much candy and far too many sweet treats and homemade smores. All lined up around the pillow fort like guardians to the gateway of youth. She was jumping around too much to reliably put the discs into the machine, so Mel did her that favour before she settled in.

Wow. This was what they did before CGI when cartooning was too expensive. They had some serious dedication to fabricate everything like that. Sure, some of it was on the hokey side, but that's what you got with kids' shows. And they actually hired talented people to do the singing and dancing.

Seen through the eyes of an adult, it was... silly. But one look at Del was all she needed. Her best-beloved was right back in that early-morning childhood pillow fort with too much sugary cereal and way too much enthusiasm. Singing along and dancing in her seat and otherwise being in the moment.

And it was rare to find media where the comedy held up without being problematic.

Mel started singing along with the intro.

#  Challenge #171: He's Just a Softie, Really

 http://iopele.tumblr.com/post/145552354602/iamacutetiger-cosmictuesdays-pilgrimkitty

Captain Steve and his horgler – Anon Guest

Humans will pet anything. It is a fact as true as their renowned insanity. They get reward through tactile contact and it is part of their pack-bonding process. Almost nothing, short of losing their arm on contact, will stop them.

The only thing that has stopped them in the past is knowledge of the frailty of the thing they wish to touch.

Humans stopped by planetary station Kro'Chenpotyl, and heard about the Hor'gla. The most ferocious, dangerous, toxic and venomous creature on the benighted planet. They did two things.

First, they instantly called it the _Horgler_. And second - one of them tamed a beast.

The Prennik didn't witness the procedure, but then, the Prennik were smart enough to stay well away from anything hazardous. Humans went where even Level Six Deathworlders would fear to tread. They went with adventure in mind, if they had anything in mind at all beyond _to see why_.

Nevertheless, the one called Captain Steve returned from the toxic jungles with a Hor'gla scuttling behind him like a dog. It would sit, or deposit a majority of its abdomen on the ground. It would roll over, voluntarily exposing its underbelly before righting itself. It would stand on two of its six legs. All on the word of Captain Steve and a reasonable supply of treats.

The Hor'gla would do anything for bacon bits.

Captain Steve could stroke its fuzzy exterior without fear of its 'fuzz' breaching his skin and causing a hypertoxic reaction. When not in his quarters, the pet Hor'gla would wear a special suit so as not to cause trouble amongst the Prennik crew.

The most alarming thing was witnessing Captain Steve sharing his bed with the beast, on the rare occasions that Captain Steve slept.

Well, it _was_ the most alarming thing, until the current ground crew encountered a band of raiders whilst they were in the middle of mining. The raiders got in a lucky shot, wounding Captain Steve and sending him, temporarily, into a prone position.

It was at that moment that the Hor'gla, known to Captain Steve as Fluffy, refused to revert to its instincts and devour Captain Steve. Instead, it turned against the raiders and killed three before the remaining five fled for safety.

By that time, Captain Steve had stopped the flow of his iron-rich blood and patched his wound. He was cursing, and still injecting himself with things, but the HUD displays regarding his health were giving a positive prognosis.

Fluffy returned to his side and 'sat'.

Captain Steve fed him a small handful of bacon bits, and cooed, "Oozagooboyden? Ooozagooboy? Yoozagooboy! Essyoo'ah. Essyoo'ah!" He cleaned his hands before resuming the petting ritual, scratching the hazardous beast in a series of places that had the Hor'gla in paroxysms of apparent ecstasy.

It was the most terrifying thing the Prennik had witnessed.

# Challenge #172: Nothing to See Here

Your challenge today is to write your entire oneshot without using the word "the"

[AN: and one of my favourite words, too]

They never came to Barabindaru, a tiny little town that used to have its glory days in years of steam, when coal and water were vital to moving. They did not settle in Farmer Tarlee's paddock and wander around for up to half an hour before Kid Tarlee paddled over to have a chat.

There was some extended difficulties, because nobody spoke each other's language. Pantomime helped a little, and some symbols are universal. Things progressed significantly when Kid Tarlee (now aged 23, but nicknames stick) drew necks on his symbolic people shapes.

Symbolic people shapes are beheaded when they don't have necks. That sort of thing can be really disturbing on a sigil for 'hotel'.

Waste disposal was another problem. Stee'gorath had four genders, none of which applied to traditional human gender roles. Kid Tarlee explained those by bringing his wife up to them and showing them symbols for male and female.

They, in turn, displayed examples of their four genders and symbols to match.

That was a bit of a problem, solved by two renta-dunnies added on either side of public toilets at Barabindaru park.

Other problems would surface much, much later. When people at Barabindaru discovered exactly what alien waste did to septic systems. Fatburgs weren't in it.

And most certainly, People at Barabindaru did not hold a massive, bring-a-plate barbecue party to honour their Stee'gorath visitors. Where alien selections of offerings rekindled an ongoing Feud between Sandy Ethilton and Mari Carrawonga. It's a sad day indeed when even _aliens_ won't try your organic, gluten-free lemon bars.

Nobody thought to alert any army bases. Nobody, especially Stee'gorath, brought out weaponry. And that was probably why Barabindaru is now Australia's answer to Silicon Valley, only much, much more advanced.

# Challenge #173: Don't Make Her Angry

Sara Louise Adrian gate-crashes group of wanna-be Queen Bees. Chaos ensues. Sara can be any age.

Dangerous things happened when Sara got bored. At the moment, according to her mother, she was 'between schools' and 'trying to find her place in life'.

She could hear them from the top of the stairs. All that ego and no real audience. The younger voices thought that they were the absolute best that humanity had to offer. And her mother was agreeing with them, trying to gain their favour. Which meant that they were from the next two steps up the social ladder, at least.

And from the general thrust of the conversation, Sara could guess that Mother was trying to help them to comport themselves like Proper Ladies. Jaquelline was trying to tell them that their current means of becoming popular was not the good way.

Sara returned to her computer and brought up their Facebook pages. Then their Twitter accounts. Then their Pintrest.

Yikes. Even though they were fairly high up on the social scale, they were aiming to become famous by providing soft porn for the entire world. Even if Sara showed the maximum amount of skin, she would never get that many notes. Or likes. Or whatever.

Sara next image-searched the darker parts of the web to see where these ladies' pictures were shared. Double yikes.

It didn't take much technical prowess to paste these girls' faces on to porn star bodies.

Sara crept down the stairs and entered their sanctuary. Of course Mother was holding her lessons in the Pink Room. Where Most of Sara's most recent accomplishments were "too strange" to join the altar of faded glory.

"Oh grooooossss..." said one of them, performing a perfect sneer. "You're _that_ kid's mom?"

Of course, certain circles had become to know Sara as ' _that_ kid'. _That_ kid, who pulled fantastic stunts to get kicked out of school. _That_ kid, who was always up to something weird. _That_ kid, who somehow managed to know everyone's full names, and was prepared to use them.

Sara could gauge by all their sneering that they hadn't learned to be afraid of her weirdness, yet. They probably might, eventually, but they seemed like really slow learners.

"Mother," she said. "You aren't getting through to them, so I thought I might help. Can I use the television, please?"

The sneers converted to eye-rolls and giggles. None of these girls had reached their fifteenth year, and yet they all had breasts. And weren't afraid to use them.

They would be.

Mother had a similar eye-roll. "Is this going to be one of your moral cartoons?" Translation: am I about to be embarrassed in front of these nice people?

Sara bit down hard on yet another lecture on the difference between parody and documentary. Instead of launching that, she said, "No, Mother. This is all about these ladies. It's... something of a tribute. To their amazing skills on the social networks."

The sneers stopped cold. Expressions wavering between surprise and delight began to bloom on their painted faces. "Let her show us, Mrs Adrien. I'd love to see what your little girl can do."

Sara could _feel_ her mother attempting to find the politest way to say, _No you wouldn't._ So she took over the television while the four young ladies were busily pleading to see it. Sara smirked the instant they couldn't see her face. Appealing to vainglory had to be the easiest bait in town.

The screen lit up. There was a montage of some of their least-risque vanity shots. Music played over the images as they became increasingly daring.

Sara stepped out of their view. The young ladies were riveted by their own beauty. One was pinkie-applauding.

The words, _What happens after they "like" you?_ appeared after the screen and the music changed to _Hall of the Mountain King_.

Sara knew it was a deluge of straight-up pornography, and the comments from the sites stayed up longer, so they could read them.

Nobody was smiling now. Least of all Mother, who had been trying to educate these ladies in a manner by which they would easily ignore her. They couldn't nod and smile at this. They couldn't ignore this.

"I'm deleting my accounts," said one of them, after the screen went blank.

"Yes, you could do that," said Sara, "But they still have _all_ the pictures you posted. And all the pictures they've made. And all of the pictures their friends have made. They have enough of your facial expressions to animate your head on anyone else's body for a movie, if they have the time and the inclination. They can make money off of all of that for quite some time. Anything you share with the internet can last forever."

_Now_ there was a wailing and a gnashing of teeth. _Now_ there was a hue and cry. _Now_ there was regret.

"I could still help you," Sara offered. "I can attach a Trojan virus to -say- a new picture of two of you kissing. Not only will it send all the porn they have to the nearest authorities, but it will send information about the entire family, deduce the most likely suspects, and if they try to delete any evidence? It will distribute _their_ picture across the internet with a full confession about how much of a pedophile they are."

"...pay... dough... file?" echoed one of the young ladies.

"People who want to have sex with someone before that someone reaches the age of consent," said Sara. "Kiddie fiddlers. While you all haven't done anything... overt... the people who made those pictures are guilty of distributing child pornography. And I," she smiled like the Devil, "want to _burn_ them. For a little extra, I can make the Trojan trash any website it's posted on."

"I knew you were going to bring _money_ into this," snapped Mother.

"Oh, you mistake me, Mother. I meant... a little extra for _you_. Surely all these ladies and their families can... help you, somehow? Perhaps, recommend a few places, here and there? Help you meet the right people? Just a display of gratitude. That's all."

It was the biggest Pedophile bust in history. And it went nationwide. Shortly before it went global. Even some news stations credited the hacker known only as _Miss Mytzlplk_ , who came and went like a shooting star.

The FBI wanted to find _Miss Mytzlplk_ , aka Sara Louise Adrien, but that was not really anything new. She was used to it.

#  Challenge #174: One Heart-Pounding Speech Somewhere in the Southern States

_**If you do have to put up with someone waffling on try knitting where they can see you. The "Click" drives them nuts. Pick a person who deserves this, have fun. – Anon Guest_

[AN - any resemblance between the characters in today's story and real political people are purely co-incidental. Stop looking at me like that]

Don Alkrump loved to play to the front row. Veterans and patriots, all of them. They knew what this country needed and it was _him_.

"I say we're gonna build that wall," he said. "We're going to build it with American know-how, American technology, and good, old-fashioned American grit. We know that the filthy foreigners are to blame for all the diseases and the alphabet soups going around."

In the front row, a little old lady dug something out of her bag. Knitting needles and a big ball of yarn.

"We never had ADHD, ODD, ASD, or LGBT in the good old days. The only letters we ever needed were USA!"

The little old lady was casting on, seemingly oblivious to the chanting all around her. She wasn't smiling, she wasn't even nodding. She seemed to be indifferent to the patriotic words he had to say.

"We get rid of _all_ these unclean invaders, send 'em back home. We cut up their green cards and we don't issue none _no_ more!"

Click, click, click went the needles.

"We send home, uh," he checked his notes, "anchor... babies... We send home... all the ay-rabs."

Click, click, click, click... she was counting to herself.

"...and ship the... thugs... back... to Africa..."

The rest of the front row had gone silent. A couple of people on either side of the little old lady had gained fascination with her project.

_Sir?_ said a voice in his ear. Don cleared his throat and attempted to resume his speech. "And -uh- round up... all them -er- sexual deviants... that are -um- spreading... AIDS... and... put them in..." shit, he'd lost his place in his prompt cards. "Hang on..." shuffle shuffle, "Camps. Yeah. Camps. Where they... either learn to be -um- normal? Or -uh- pay... the price?"

No cheering. The crowd looked confused. Most of the veterans looked... judgmental.

"As for... the -uh- alphabet..."

Click, click, click, clicketty click. The little old lady nodded as if to say, _You go on, don't mind me._

"...soups... Um. We turn... the jails... into assylums. Andum... stop... them breeding... weakness... into strong... American blood."

A cold wind blew. There was no cheering. No chanting. No rising of the blood amongst the crowds. He'd lost them. He knew he'd lost them.

And a little old lady with her knitting had done it. Don got some of his men to bring her up on stage. At least that stopped her knitting a little. She held it in her hands like a security blanket.

"Hello, darling," he said. "What worries you about the state of America?"

"Sorry, I haven't got my hearing aids turned on," she said. "I always have them turned off when you're talking, it's a habit."

And the entire stadium heard her. They laughed.

So he laughed too. "I'm not worried," he said. A blatant lie. This tiny grandmother could ruin his entire political run. He waited until she was done with her hearing aids. "So what _does_ worry you about the state of the Union, ma'am?"

"That people like you will be allowed to run rampant with your fascist policies." She pulled up a sleeve and showed the cameras an old, tattooed number. "I survived a despot like you once, and I'll do it again. Just because I'm in your electorate doesn't mean I have to vote for you. Down with Dictators! Freedom Lives!"

The crowd took up her words as Security dragged her away.

Don backed slowly away from the podium. Men who, in their eighties, could still kick his ass so hard that his grandchildren would bear the imprint... all suddenly remembered what they had been fighting for.

Any others who still followed his policies were judging him hard on how he and his men treated a little old granny lady with her knitting.

It was the beginning of the end.

#  Challenge #175: Magnificent Man Returns

The glory days when superhero du jour would nick into the nearest phone booth. It's all cell/mobiles today and most of them are smart phones.

Nobody had seen Magnificent Man since the early eighties, when the Time Tripper had tricked him into consuming one of his Magic Mushroom Pies. Magnificent Man had vanished without a trace.

Thankfully, the Magnificent Friends had stopped the Time Tripper, and installed a memorial in the place where the hero had disappeared.

Life went on.

Technology changed.

The Magnificent Friends broke up, died, revived, had children, lost their children, and finally went on space adventures. Leaving the Earth to pickle in its own juices.

The artistic fence around the 'on this spot' plaque memorializing Magnificent Man's presumed death had long since been ruined. A truck crashed into it in '95, and some chain link put up until funding for a replacement could be found. People sabotaged the fence, over the years, until the cost of putting up replacements outweighed the need to have it there. The last time there was a fence, it was a half-hearted plastic kettle fence, erected on a Sunday in 2001, and then torn apart by vandals on the following Monday. Kids skateboard over the place where a hero was foiled.

Lightning came out of a clear sky and struck the spot. The air filled with Kirby Dots and zip-a-tone. The skateboarders scattered, hiding behind graffito'd benches to record what they saw for YouTube.

"–ou foul fiend!" said the hero. Magnificent Man had returned to Supermegatropolis.

And since he was wearing a _1980's_ superhero costume, the kids immediately burst out laughing.

Magnificent Man took to the air. The skyline had changed. The Magnificent Tower was gone. Of the buildings he recognized, most of them bore an animated advertisement.

"This isn't a problem," he muttered to himself. "I'll just find a phone booth and return to my secret identity. Ask around. Or head to the library to catch up."

It was a good plan. Except that phone booths had become extinct. Even the police telephones were gone. Now there were lots and lots of places that sold coffee and... "Free whiffy?" he read one aloud.

There were no officers walking the streets. He finally found one on traffic control and made himself known.

"Your pardon, officer..."

Their response was instantaneous and confusing. They whipped out their side-arm and hollered, "Get down! Stop resisting!" a bare second before they opened fire.

And since this was a public space and full of innocent civilians(most of them were already fleeing for safety), Magnificent Man had to catch all the ricochets. He handed the spent bullets back to the confused cop. "I am not resisting, officer. I only require some information, if you please." The pleasant smile that used to work... didn't.

And the confused cop finally found one of his weaknesses when they brought out their taser.

He woke up in a featureless white room, in paper pyjamas that left his butt hanging out. There was a clear barrier between him and someone in a long, white coat who had a rectangular device in their hands.

"Good morning," she said. "I'm Doctor Whyte. I'm here for your competency test. Do you understand what that is?"

"Yes'm," he said. "That's where you try and find out if I'm too crazy to stand trial."

"Er. Yes." And the questions began. Did he know what year it was? No, he'd just arrived after suffering the trans-temporal effect of one of the Time Tripper's tricks. He was aware that this was a different year, but he didn't have the time to find anything out. Who was he, really? He was Magnificent Man, and his secret identity would remain just so, thank you ma'am. Do you have any friends or relatives who could verify your identity? There used to be the Magnificent Friends in Magnificent Tower... but those seemed to have vanished. Maybe she could check a comic book store? There used to be thousands of issues published of Magnificent Magazines.

It was long, and it was dull, and he knew he would never get anywhere by fighting his way out of it. It took two weeks before they could confirm his identity... and then they shipped him off into a secret base.

The world had weaponized Supers. Hero or villain, they had a job for you. And they carefully selected the missions based on known moral grounding.

The amoral in command of the moral and the immoral alike.

No wonder the Magnificent Friends had left.

#  Challenge #176: Freedom Comes From Within

Today's challenge is to write in E-Prime - no use of "to be" or any conjugations or variations thereof in any language.

Shopping for Himself had become a challenge. He had a new diet for all the change he wanted to happen in his body. His lovely body. Carla could barely remember the time long gone when she loved the sight of it.

Her second trip to the shops contained the buying. The first had to contain the pricing. Exact change jingled in her pocket. Heaven forfend that she drop so much as one coin on her way from home to here. He would turn her purple from head to toe if she failed him.

A poster near the Gainz powder caught her attention. It held a list in black and white. A list of things that abusers did. A checklist of things that Himself did to her. And one little picture of a circle of words.

Himself would not stop. Himself would just keep going in the way he meant to continue. Loving him enough would have no effect, because Himself redefined the meaning of love whenever he pleased.

And he got angry when he said he sensed its lack.

And at the bottom of the poster, four words. _Why do you stay?_

Why did she stay? Himself would be angry, but when she thought about it, Himself had hardly ever achieved happiness. Himself had two states, angry and sorry.

She had fifty dollars and forty-five cents in her pockets. She could probably go far away from here and be safe from his wrath before he noticed. But he would no longer make her purple. And she would not find her life again.

Carla walked out of the shop, buying nothing. Her knees trembled as she stepped onto the bus and asked in a quavering voice, "How much to get to the furthest point from here?"

The driver looked her over. She saw the thin summer dress in the cold spring morning, and no jumper, sweater or hoodie. She saw the bare, blistered feet. She saw the hair worn long and unstyled. And she saw the faded bruises from the last time Himself got mad."

"For you, honey," she said, "The trip will cost nothing. You stay on. I'll get you safe."

The least logical thing about her ride, Carla found, happened in the tears that insisted on pouring out of her. She thought she had no tears left.

# Challenge #177: Pep Talk

 http://khaleesijade.tumblr.com/post/146197661813/peep-toe-shoes-katyakora

Villains visiting their fans, or visiting hospitals for non-nefarious reasons

Lori was writing a new cipher. It was something to do while she was guarding the door. She had made so many that it was a time-killing occupation. Something she could do while absently watching the halls for heroes that had not got the memo.

She was the Villain Wrangler, and she had a job to do.

Inside, the Mega-evil Maestro of Malevolence, Master Mayhem, was giving his version of a pep talk to a five-year-old girl who was his biggest fan. She was fighting an insidious disease that even the best of medicine gave her a fifty-fifty chance for.

Things like that could make you hate God for letting it happen.

And yet, the pep talks worked. Kids who got to see their heroes - good or evil - rallied and had up to an eighty percent chance of survival.

And speaking of heroes... Lori stood at alert as the Grizzled Avenger strode up the hallway. He vaguely saluted her as he passed. "Relax. You're cool. I got an appointment in 221B."

"No funny business," warned Lori.

"Hey. I _can_ learn."

"Fighting against heroes is painful. There hasn't been a day when some hero hasn't busted a bone or left me with multiple haemmorhages."

"I knew you'd be the only one who understands," whispered Jennie. She had an unfair share of bruises and casts, because the disease that had her was eating her bones and making her flesh frail. The doctors were as careful as they could be, but a feather would leave a bruise. "What makes you pick yourself up, every time?"

"Because the heroes don't understand things like I do. They're all tough and strong and they can fly. They don't know what it's like to be broken and bleeding and still determined to see it through. I pick myself up because some things need to be done, and I'm one of the few who can see how it can be accomplished. And by the way, I'm loaning this hospital a little bit of my technology. It'll help you. And other children like you. I've needed it more than a few times, myself."

"Does it hurt?"

"Stings a lot. You get all the pain of healing at once. But I'll make sure it has super-low settings for people who... aren't as used to it as I am."

"I want to control that," said Jennie. "The doctors think I'm weaker than I am."

"Done and done," said Master Mayhem. He handed her his card. "This is ultra-secret. Don't let anyone else see it. Not even your family. Not even your dolls or your pets. But if any of the doctors give you trouble, or if there's another meannie nurse. You give that number a call. I'll come and fix things up."

Jennie giggled, and hid the card inside her diary, where the glittery plastic binding was coming loose. Then she put her finger to her lip and whispered, "Ssshhh..."

Master Mayhem echoed the gesture. "All good?"

"All good. Thank you."

Lori would see to his safe escape. And the hospital would soon receive his Healing Accelerator with upgrades for patient control and in lovely, kid-friendly colours.

He'd have his alter-ego make the PR department dress it up. He was pretty much pants at making things cute. They kept looking ultra-scary.

But Jennie would probably use it anyway.

# Challenge #178: The Coffee Oath

" _It is caffeine alone..." You know the rest of this quote. Have fun._

Theobromine was dangerous for most species, but humans took it in several different preparations. This was the waking preparation, as the ship's human went about their post-somnolence ritual.

Humans could push themselves to operate for an entire standard day, if they needed to. Their human had just done so, and proceeded to sleep for an astonishing twelve hours. Now they emerged, still in their sleeping clothes, to prepare theobromine.

It was a fascinating process, and K'vorth watched through the armoured window, where the human had their own, segregated-for-safety food preparation zone.

First came the sniffing of the cup. If it failed this test, it was washed and dried. Then came the spooning of the sugar. Granulated plant sap, refined in certain ways. (Humans _grew_ sucrose, can you imagine?) Before they came along, Sucrose was a reliable and firm building material, especially for indoors. But humans ate it.

After the spooning of the sugar came the adding of the drinking chocolate. Another form of theobromine, usually used for emotional balance. Then the mixing of the powders before the human inserted the prepared cup under a curious device and loaded it with foul-smelling pellets.

Then came the ominous grinding noise. Most of K'vorth's fellow T'kiin hid or ran away when it began, but K'vorth had been steeling herself for weeks just to watch.

Steaming, dark liquid issued from the grinding machine and poured into the cup. It was a slow trickle, and the human watched the process in a form of hypnotic trance.

It had taken K'vorth weeks to ascertain that the scratching of the posterior was _not_ , in fact, part of the process.

There was the first stirring of the cup, and the adding of the bovine lactate, and the second stirring of the mug. And finally, finally, came the oath.

Their human said it so quickly, almost all in one breath. It had taken quite a long time to divine the words in the entire mutter.

"It is caffeine alone that sets my mind in motion. By the beans of Java, my thoughts acquire speed. The hands acquire shakes. The shakes become a warning. It is caffeine alone that sets my mind in motion."

And then, at last, they drank it. K'vorth had so many questions about this ritual. Which parts were necessary, which were solely their ritual, and which rituals were shared.

Theobromine was deadly. At least for T'kiin. And lots of other species in the Galactic Alliance. And yet, the making and ingestion of it completely fascinated K'vorth. Perhaps, some experts were correct. Human's insanity might just be catching.

# Challenge #179: Stay for the Night

 http://sinnamon-skull.tumblr.com/post/146342604376/tharook-thefingerfuckingfemalefury

Mundane not-goth modern vampire and her gf

Local vampire seeks roommate. Must be clean, non smoker, and be able to pay half the rent. No weirdoes.

Claire read the personal again and blinked to make certain that she hadn't read it wrong. Must be one of the weirder goths who drank blood or did the whole 'children of the night' routine. Claire didn't mind goths. It was almost obligatory because she was one. But then, she went goth because she liked black and had a soft spot for all things vampiric, dark, and dismal.

And the rates were reasonable enough. Decent part of the city and withing trudging distance of work.

Rooming with a "vampire" would be the least of her problems. Claire called the number and promised that she was no weirder than the average nerd. And that was it. She had a new home.

All her important stuff fit in one large suitcase with wheels, which had to get wrestled on and off public transit all the way across town because Claire was too underpaid to ever afford a car in her lifetime, and already too in debt from college to apply for any kind of loan.

At least they weren't threatening to garnish her already low wages, just yet.

When she got to the flat, she found a sunny blonde with a dazzling smile and a blinding taste for rainbows in her wardrobe. And O God, she had a fluffy bird pen.

"I must have the wrong flat," said Claire. "Local vampire seeks roommate?"

"No, that's me," she said, and smiled. It was a lovely smile, only made disturbing by the fact that her canines were far too long to be human. "Actual vampire. I should have known I'd get goths."

"Ah, the goth community frowns on me because I smile once a week," Claire said in a perfect deadpan.

The vampire laughed. "You're okay. I'm Sally. Hi. The landlord's okay with decorating as long as it can be taken down and doesn't damage the paint. That's why I have a lot of masking tape holding things up."

"So... it's not short for sanguine-salivation or any pseudo-vamp nonsense like that? No 'children of the night' routine?"

"Oh heck no, I only got turned like ten years ago. Turns out that there's friendly butchers everywhere who can give you a to-go baggie."

"I don't do the blood thing," said Claire. "It's -um- very bright in here..."

"I know, I'm like a total valley girl and I love the sunshine." Sally toured closer to the window where there was hardly any curtains. The sun failed to burn her. Not even the slightest hint of smoke. "Turns out that vampires only burn when they're not well fed."

Sally had work at the same barista place that had just hired Claire. She showed Claire all the ropes and tricks on how to 'sparkle' even when the customer was being the nastiest example that humans could achieve.

Claire didn't know when she fell. But she knew it had happened in the moment when some particularly nasty examples decided to comment as they were both chatting whilst they made flat whites.

"Aw look, it's a fairy and a vampire."

"Actually," Sally turned and flashed them the full length of _all_ her pearly whites. " _I'm_ the vampire."

Neither of them had ever had such a big tip from such ignorant people before.

#  Challenge #180: Skeleton Shenanigans(1)

1) Captain Tim's best day ever

2) Pick a skeleton character and dump them in the universe of another skeleton character

Something was different, this morning. Usually, Captain Tim awoke to the sound of the snooze button being pressed and found the room empty. But this time the hated Zbornak was there. So of course he pounced. And bit. And shredded. It had to be sheer luck that she got away, in the end.

Captain Tim treadled his pet skeleton into approaching softness before snuggling down again.

Click.

It was the Zbornak again. Captain Tim pounced, sure he had the right strategy to kill , eviscerate, and maybe lay eggs in her carcass. But no, she got away again.

The third time she came, it was becoming... fun. It was what the eyeball people called a game. Hear the click, and... play. With the Zbornak. And what was really curious was how she got more hurt from play than she did with an outright attack.

And play was... fun.

Captain Tim decided that he _liked_ fun.

He could play with his pet skeleton and he got even more treats. He could play with the eyeball people and get more of the extended, loud noise that they made that made Captain Tim's leg hairs tickle just right. And, best of all, he could play with the prisoners and get the loud noise, _and_ the joy of his pet skeleton.

Life was so good.

#  Challenge #181: Skeleton Shenanigans(2)

1) Captain Tim's best day ever

2) Pick a skeleton character and dump them in the universe of another skeleton character

Another long, dull day. Made slightly better by telling jokes to the lady on the other side. But it was almost bedtime for Papyrus, and his brother just wouldn't sleep until he heard _Peek-a-boo with Fluffy Bunny_.

It wasn't often that he actually walked home. Well, walked a lot of the way home. But he had a stash of ketchup that he wanted to get into on the way back to a real bed.

A hooded figure was yelling at the air. All but radiating pure anger. And they shot lightning in random directions. What was wrong with them? Did they _want_ to hurt one of the teens hanging out in these woods.

"Hey, pal," said Sans by way of greeting. "There a problem?"

"Of _course_ there's a problem," shouted the skeleton. He had lightning-bolt horns. "Peepers' stupid trans-dimensional whatsit backfired and now I'm in the wrong stupid reality because stupid Wander had to go and do a stupid _thing_. And now everything is stupid and I hate it."

During that speech, Sans had read this skeleton's LV. It was the highest he had ever seen. Or ever heard of.

"You'd better calm down, buddy," warned Sans. His eye flaring into magical life. "Or you're gonna have a bad time."

"Yeah, like what are you gonna do? Slouch at me?"

Welp. He asked for it...

# Challenge #182: One Survivor

How much Buffy Speak can you get in one story?

Kay so like, me and the scooby gang were in napville over our one-starbucks town. It should'a been like a major stress drain to take the van and head for otherwhere, you know?

We didn't plan. Just cram the van with munchies and drinkables and pick a street and split down 'till we got somewhere dollsome or otherwise chill, y'know? Have an _adventure_.

Wish _that_ genie would book.

Not that I wanna pull a guiltapalooza, but Kyle totally called for the Addams Family house in the middle of nowhere. Y'know Kyle. Total Zeppo. Everyone was on it but me, and I didn't wanna poop that party.

Nobody was in, the doors didn't have locks, and the place was a total tinglefest. We were looking to go lost weekending? But I was thinking this would be like a complete hanging rock, y'know? I was having a total squirm about it an' trying not to give a face. It's supposed to be a fwif. Fun with friends.

Bobby and Bobbi do the Fred Jones thing, probs to go have a happy somewhere. Yeah, they're the twosome of cuteness. Ralphage.

Did we find? I dunno. I got stuck with Zeppo an' goin' through old rooms that had grandfather breath. Loads of it was dark. I could hear everyone getting freaksome all over the place.

I'm not going to Scully over this, but y'know. House from the dawn of time. Creaks. Squeaks. Rats. That's black and gold[1]. But there were shadows from nothing. And noises like someone was behind us. And this one time? Me and Kyle were in polar corners of a void room and _someone touched me_.

Of course I freaked. I ran like I was after a gold medal.

No, I am the clueless, officer. I got nothing on where the others are. Why's she scopin' me like that? Why's Callowvale gone metropolis overnight? Why can't I go home?

No. You're wrong. It's 1997. It can't be 2016. I did not van-winkle myself through nineteen years. That's messed. I wanna go _home_.

I just wanna go home.

[1] A brand of generic products with no frills.

# Challenge #183: Kintsugi Ronin

The art of repairing pottery with gold or silver lacquer, understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken. This can also apply to People.

The ships' human was, in their own words, winding down. They had extracted themself from their armoured shell, removed the thermal suit that helped regulate their temperature, and otherwise stripped down to their Skins.

Most Gigaru kept away from the human at this point. Downtime was important to these mammals. And yet Kithkith found herself fascinated by the bared skin on display.

Humans called them S'karrz. Imprints of trauma, both deliberate and accidental, left on the body. Some overlaid others, telling story over story, written in flesh. And _not all s'karrz were on the outside_.

"Curious, little gecko?" said the human. "Not many of your kind can withstand human war stories."

"Do they... still bring pain?"

"Aw, bless. No. Many of these surface ones don't even itch any more. This one still does," the human pointed out a red, ragged line on the underside of a forearm. A lasting memory from their last encounter with other Deathworlders. The human rubbed their knuckles over it. A parody of scratching. "The ones that still bring pain are the broken bones. Even when they knit properly, little pockets seal up. Pressure effects them, changes in pressure, more so."

Kithkith had to settle herself. "Every airlock? Every EVA?"

"Just an ache. Your techies are good at easing the transition. And it's why, when we're planet-side, I can always detect an oncoming storm."

_Ache_. Another human word that Havenworlders had difficulty understanding. It was the slow, steady, gradual pain that spoke of damage, but not severe or threatening damage. Havenworlders were so fragile, that any hurt was tantamount to death.

That changed, and greatly, after their exposure to humans. But some concepts were still difficult to comprehend.

"Are you afraid of my scars, little gecko?"

"No," said Kithkith, suddenly realising that she wasn't. "They are... a mark of strength. And... I think they're pretty."

"Don't go courting any of your own, little gecko. Pain hurts."

#  Challenge #184: Ambassador Murder-bot

Okay, so I still don't have a new computer after my last one decided to up and die, but I do have a loaner, and my hard drives in external caddies, so I can start prompting again.

[Person #1]: You just had to piss off the giant murderbot, didn't you?

[Person #2, aka 'Giant Murderbot']: "HEY! I've tried very hard NOT to kill anyone, thank-you!"

The Doctor believed in giving people second chances. And people who were not, strictly speaking, people at all got one or two more than the real ones. And sometimes, if they were really honest, and truly needed it, people would get more second chances than other people thought they deserved.

The people who did that sort of thinking didn't get more than one second chance. If they were lucky enough to get one in the first place.

The survivors of the current disaster were Tracy, Blix, and Killbot 77. According to the crew who had died, the robot had been left running too long and had started to get a personality. Killbot 77 should have been recycled years ago, but the company was too cheap to get an upgrade.

Tracy got a second chance because she was kind to Killbot 77. Blix, because she had been trying to campaign against the recycling program for her entire career as Maintenance and Repairs.

But it had been a long run from the invading insects, the organics were tired and hungry and they were getting tetchy and arguing. And it didn't help that Killbot 77 was trying to be helpful. The poor thing just wound up being trying.

"It is past your regular power-down cycle," said the robot. "You have missed two sustenance periods. In an effort to continue maintenance, I have found and secured... supplies."

It was an honest effort. Killbot 77 had acknowledged that organics needed certain elements in order to sustain their bodies and secured a scientific portion of them. Unfortunately for Killbot 77, they had yet to learn about edibility.

The Doctor looked at the collection of soap, nuts, bolts, plant fibre and assorted chemicals and sighed, "The theory's correct, but the practice needs a _lot_ of work."

"Where did you learn about food," demanded Tracy, "Lucrecia Borgia?"

"O great," sighed Blix. "Just annoy the giant murder-bot. That's _just_ what we need..."

"Apologies, you are erroneous, cogniscent Blix. I have recorded zero kills in two years. And... I do not like killing."

"Nobody should," said the Doctor, absently using his sonic on a vending machine. "See? This is good food."

Killbot 77 ran their scanners over the packages. "I can not yet discern the difference. Apologies. Am I... crashing?"

"Not at all. It's... complicated. Organics like things that taste good. Not just chemically correct."

The bitter mood lifted, at last, thanks to the picnic. And solutions to the problem began to bubble up between them all. But it was Killbot 77 who came up with the words that saved them all.

"We could give them what they want."

So it was that a robot made for war became the ultimate ambassador for peace. And it worked because both sides shared a frustration with explaining things to them.

Their first public speech started with, "I would like to be named Kili. It is a real name I found in a book. And since I am allowed to continue in my new function, I would like a real name, please."

The Doctor had never been prouder.

#  Challenge #185: One Smoke-filled Afternoon in a Very Special School

Almost causing the apocalypse is an important part of growing up.

(Everyone should do it at least once)

Smoke was all that remained of the conflagration, and holes in the masonry were the only hint left that a giant robot had found a new means of egress.

"What have we learned, today?" said Mrs Calgary.

Three small children toed the ground as they swung back and forth in their place. "Don' touch th' red button," they chorused.

"Especially when...?" prompted Mrs Calgary.

"...'specially when we've made improvements..." they droned.

"When we make improvements, we...?"

"...we tell mister ankhelo..." came the monotone mumble.

"Good," said Mrs Calgary. "Now, you're all going to pick up the mess you made before you get play time, understood?"

"...'es missus calgary..."

"Spit spot. Hop hop. Sooner started, sooner done. Yes, Miss Cordury?"

The smallest of them had had her hand up for some time. She could have easily been an angel in pigtails, were it not for the fact that she had top marks in Devestating Machinery. "Are we allowed t' use the big lifters for the big bits?"

"Under supervision," iced Mrs Calgary. She watched the kids go about their business, and made sure she pulled the bell for Mr Ankhelo and Mr Drewsbury.

It did not do well for students to outnumber tutors in Miss Agatha Heterodyne's First School for Young Sparks.

# Challenge #186: Monarch of the Stage

[Person #1], along with the dry wit and perfect sarcasm and near-unflappable calm, is a secret drama queen. Like, [Person #2]'s a Drama Queen, but [Person #1]'s at least the drama princess of a small kingdom in disguise.

Kel had been attempting to unriddle Lord Auditor Vorkosigan for some time. An effort not even slightly assisted by the fact that he was training new staff. Far from home. In the middle of an emergency.

And, unfortunately for all of them, his chosen gopher/armsman/dogsbody was a complete drama queen. Everything that went wrong was an utter disaster. Even the slightest questioning of the Auditor's actions or motives was tantamount to treason. In fact, the only person who treated his role as the Emperor's Voice more seriously was Lord Auditor Vorkosigan himself.

And there were reasons why Vorkosigan had chosen Delwither for the role. The man had the _energy_ to keep up with Vorkosigan's own forward momentum, go on his insane quests, _and_ maintain his crown as monarch of all things dramatic.

He was such a dazzling distraction that it took Kel months to notice...

Lord Auditor Miles Vorkosigan was a secret drama queen himself. He may not be the chief monarch, thanks to Delwither's sparkling performances... but he was, at the minimum, the secret drama princess of a small kingdom in disguise.

But then again, the Barrayarans were a drama empire unto their own.

And, worryingly, Vorkosigan had a knack for stagecraft.

Kel just had to pray that this was not going to be a Grand Guignol.

# Challenge #187: Boredom Unbecoming

Something for the SPOEns: "Words are perhaps the most vulgar of all of humanity's inventions, in that there is no benefit in keeping them sacred and locked away. Their true magic only takes place when they are read and spoken by many."

Rael looked at the quote on the graffiti wall. Then he looked at the larger tangle of artistic font that sprawled across the greater effort. Once decoded, it read, _Evolve or die!_. And worse, Shayde had written her quote about words in Latin. A universally-acknowledged dead language.

The weekly SPOEn meeting was due to break up in two hours' time for meals and business. They would definitely pass this way. And they would definitely be incensed.

Rael found some handy cover before he composed Shayde a ping. The message was simple and to the point, _Don't you have enough trouble to get into?_

She replied with an invitation to go low-g mountain climbing on a passing Kuiper planet. An expedition that would, conveniently, take them both out of communication and revenge range for the rest of the day.

On one hand, she wasn't using food bribery to get him to have fun any more. On the other hand, he really didn't appreciate threats.

_Threats were not necessary,_ he wrote to her.

Her reply was a cryptic series of sigils. _o.O OMGWTFBBQ_. And then, a bare minute later, _Honestly didn't think abt implications. BZ setting up troll. V much sorry. Can arrange NEthing U like. Just say word._

And she was learning, very slowly, that certain tricks would not fly. He signed them both up for a meticulous survey of one of the Labyrinths, for the good of the station. And, co-incidentally, in a comms dead zone.

Boring enough to penalise her lack of forethought and satisfyingly useful enough for his need to be worthy.

Her final ping, before they both embarked towards their meeting point, was three contrite words. _I deserved that._

# Challenge #188: Steep Learning Curve

Names of recordings of training scenarios.

" _Ode to places a cutting torch should never go"_

" _Three drones, one airlock and no sense"_

And the cautionary tale about plasma torches, hypergolic fuel and explosive decompression simply entitled: "Don't"

Human training videos were baffling. They seemed designed to entertain, but also contained the full, gruesome consequences in order to horrify their audience into learning the lesson.

Newbies, it seemed, were suicidally incompetent. Sometimes, they were also homicidally so. And chief amongst their flaws was acting as if they were still planet-side. Or in some other environment where the doors did not need to be double-checked before proceeding.

They called their basic training _ochre_ , even though the initials were OECR. They stood for; Observe, Evaluate, Consider, React. And, according to the assembled fids, humans had a very hard time doing those things in order.

Humans instinctively threw water on fire. Some even threw water on smoking things. Frequently, these instincts had disastrous results.

Humans acted as if air was infinite. Casually using tools that gobbled up air and acting surprised when the supply failed.

Humans acted as if water was infinite. Carelessly tossing good water into waste systems without considering the consequences for the purification biota.

Things considered minor sins in a planetary setting had immense consequences for a confined environment in space. And this had to be drilled into their heads.

Fortunately for most non-human cogniscents, the type of people who stole other people's food were prevented from travelling far from their place of origin. Natural selection usually weeded out those who were persistent in that bad habit. And for those who continued their disregard for others' property... well... a year or two in agrarian therapy generally cured them of their inclination to scavenge.

But the most frightening thing about human training videos, above all things, was the population of humans who laughed at them.

# Challenge #189: Bright Spark

" _When in doubt?"_

" _Fire!"_

Of all the people in the universe who the Doctor despised, it was the people who had one solution for everything. Some, though, could learn from experience and _not_ instinctively react with five rounds rapid. That was one of the reasons he loved the Brigadeer. Even though five rounds rapid was his default stance.

And then there was Trug.

Trug was the Doctor's companion because nobody else was willing to listen. And her people had only just discovered fire. The hottest technology since banging rocks together and getting sharp things. Trug and her people _should_ have been left alone to manage things by themselves and maybe discover farming... but something had gone very wrong.

Trug had two solutions to her problems. Burn it, or hit it with a rock. And since that was the sum total of her tech level, the Doctor was willing to let it slide.

Her people were capable of rational thought. At first, they didn't go into the burned lands because there was nothing worth gathering or hunting in there. Then they didn't go because few who went ever come back. Those who survived left red ochre hand silhouettes to mark where they turned back.

And there was a solid ring of such marks all around the crash site. It was old. Generations, according to Trug. Barely a century, according to the Doctor. Possibly not even a century. The land had had time to heal and erode. Trees had had time to grow. There was undergrowth. And moss. But there were no birds. No animals. And the trees that grew were the kind that bore lots of fruit.

This entire valley was a baited trap.

And beyond the ring of warning, where Trug actively attempted to drag the Doctor to safety, was an exposed airlock. It showed signs of maintenance. The earth around it was sculpted. The interfaces clean. But it was the other door, concealed under a careful construction of branches and rocks, that interested the Doctor.

That was where they threw the bones out. Bird bones. Animal bones.

...and human bones...

All cracked open for their marrow. And all of the larger carcases showed signs of amputation. He stared at a sawed-off bone. Part of a femur.

"Why is it?" asked Trug. She had grasped asking questions early, and moved to asking both 'what' and 'why' simultaneously.

"Whoever's in there has been chopping up animals and people while they're alive," said the Doctor. "An old joke made flesh. Literally."

"Joke?"

"...pig like that, you don't eat it all at once..." he muttered. "It'd take too long to explain. I think we should sort this lot out, don't you?"

"It won't burn. And it won't break. What will you do?"

He sighed. He really should have got some better help, but none was to be had. "Trug, there are times when 'kill it with fire' is just a way of saying a very loose plan." He sonic'd the entrance, and opened a service panel. This door was a waste chute. But it was going to be their back door in. "What it means is, 'go in, stop them absolutely, and make sure it'll never happen again'. And it doesn't have to involve killing. Or fire. Those are last resorts."

Trug went silent as she tried to conceive of a world where fire and hitting things with rocks were the _last_ things anyone tried. "Like... tickling fish, yes? Waiting and care, first?"

"Ye-es," he allowed, "only I'm hoping for more out of this than a fresh fish." The larger panel opened. "Ready?"

Trug put her flint and other rocks in her pack. "I will try magic man way."

Clever girl. With luck, he could get these people started on a better path. Both Trug's people, and the ones inside the crashed ship.

# Challenge #190: 'Imaginary' Friends(1)

_1)_  http://solitaria-fantasma.tumblr.com/post/146478879812/maroonknight14-oh-mother-of-darkness-concept-a _Superman (or another super-hearing entity) and the child who has them as an imaginary friend_

2) Parent thinks child has imaginary friend. It's not imaginary. – Anon Guest

"...mom puts shredded pizza cheese on top of the store lasagna? And that makes it super good? She likes it 'cause of how we can feed the whole fambly for seven dollars."

Shawna peeked in on Clemaine, who was sitting by her window and talking to the stars.

"Are you chatting with Peter Pan?" she joked.

"No, Mama. I'm talking to Superman. D'you think he'd come to dinner if'n he knew we was havin' octo-weenies?"

Shawna bit her lip. She dared not say she was embarrassed about their dinners, lately. Surely, it was paradise for Clemaine, with cocktail frankfurts stretched out with broken spaghetti, or store lasagna with pizza cheese, or bargain basement mac and cheese with whatever cheap frozen vegetables she could glean from the clearance section of the store.

The highlight of her kids' life had been the night when dinner was Army Food. Rejected MRE's from the dumpster behind the army surplus store. It had been one lucky find and a night that she cried into her pillow and had her music on so that they couldn't hear.

Shawna worked her every waking hour, and it was never enough to keep things going the right way. Everything went on rent, power, and water. She saved for their school things, and only had change left over for food.

She kissed her babies good night and went out for her third job. Zombie Shift at the All Nite Diner.

They all needed new shoes.

As she pulled her threadbare coat around her, on the way to the bus stop, she could hear Clemaine still talking to Superman. "I feel real sorry for Mama, sometimes. She's been turnin' her music on so's we don't hear her cryin'. And she's been doin' it a lot. She won't say it out loud? But we need help. We don't got no bad guys to beat up, though. Sorry 'bout that."

Shawna's face was wet all the way to work.

There were suits at the All Nite Diner, that evening. One was in black Armani. Another was in a more affordable beige. Black Armani was a weaselly type who was always on his phone and didn't think or care that everyone could hear him saying disparaging things about the staff, decor, or customers. Beige Suit ordered randomly from the menu and asked three questions per plate. Two for a cup of coffee.

Shawna tried to put a positive spin on things. Her family was doing okay. They could pay the rent, and they could eat. And on nights when her boss was feeling benevolent, she could take home some things for the kids' breakfast. Then he asked her about the impact of gentrification on her family.

It was all she could do to not burst out crying. Rent was getting higher. Help was getting thinner. The cops were getting meaner. Crime was on the increase and all the heroes seemed interested in preventing the banks from getting robbed when they were all busy robbing the poor of what little they had left.

She dreaded living on the streets, because the cops loved to shoot people for being destitute while black. Lord knows they shot her husband of ten years for crossing the street while black. And now her only baby girl was talking to Superman. He wouldn't save her from the racist police. Nobody ever would.

"And we have to get rid of that sad-sack welfare queen of a waitress. She's bringing what little tone there is down," said Armani.

It was the last straw. Shawna didn't remember half of what she said to the weaselly white man in the black Armani suit, but it definitely resulted in severance pay. Tomorrow night, she would be scouring the papers for another job, or going to the library to try and apply for things online. What she did remember was that the man in the beige suit had recorded a significant portion of it.

The real difference between the two of them was that Beige comforted her, and hid a tip into her hand. Compact, folded bills that, once she unwrapped them in private, came to three hundred dollars.

That was the night her life changed. Another Armani suit came to her door. A much handsomer man who revealed that he bought the building and was appointing her the new, live-in superintendent. And the job came with a blank cheque to effect whatever repairs and upgrades they needed.

And despite the fact that they could eat anything they wanted to celebrate, the kids insisted on Octo-weenies. She could afford anything good in the world, and had the time to cook it, but they wanted Octo-weenies.

That was the night that Superman came to dinner.

"Ma always had corn when times were tight," he explained, sitting on their second-hand furniture as if it were a throne. "Corn bread, corn fritters, corn pones. Polenta porridge, you name it. If you could make it out of corn, we had it. I've never actually had Octo-weenies. It sounded like a real treat."

And best of all, at least for Clemaine, Superman played with his food.

# Challenge #191: 'Imaginary' Friends(2)

_1)_  http://solitaria-fantasma.tumblr.com/post/146478879812/maroonknight14-oh-mother-of-darkness-concept-a _Superman (or another super-hearing entity) and the child who has them as an imaginary friend_

2) Parent thinks child has imaginary friend. It's not imaginary. – Anon Guest

Diamanté should have known there would be trouble when her husband purchased a castle. But their little princess Mackayleii was overjoyed. She was going to live in a real castle and have a real horse and have her bedroom in the tower and there'd be real live skeletons in the dungeons.

Kennedy Washbrooke drew the line at real skeletons. The dungeons, once properly imported to their estate, would be converted into wine cellars and entertainment rooms. One, he said, would be a cinema.

And shortly after the entire heap was reconstructed and renovated, they did move in. Mackayleii did have a bedroom in the tallest tower. With stained glass windows and one balcony where she could feed the birds. And when she didn't want to climb all those stairs, she had a different bedroom where she had a big-screen television, a top-line computer, and all the toys she could swim in.

Two days following the day they moved in, the Nanny noticed Mackayleii talking to an imaginary friend. The disturbing part was that he was called 'Broken Jon', and had been tortured to death in the dungeon.

Mackayleii had 'met' him in the cinema, watching one of her movies on the really big screen. As she told it, she was scared of his big boo-boos, but he didn't want to hurt her.

Broken Jon liked the magic pictures on the wall. He couldn't eat real food, but he loved to smell it. He called Kennedy the King and Diamanté the Princess Consort. Mackayleii had introduced herself as a princess, so Broken Jon had made assumptions.

Horses did not like Broken Jon. Neither did dogs or cats. Lizards, apparently, didn't care if someone was dead or alive, so Mackayleii got a pet Bearded Dragon because Princesses in towers had to have a dragon, somewhere.

Broken Jon liked to help the cooks in the enormous kitchens. If left paper and a fountain pen (Broken Jon wasn't used to anything that didn't look old-timey enough) he would leave recipes for feasts. In marvellously medieval calligraphy. With spelling to match.

Broken Jon began playing pranks. He would shine shoes. He would attempt to do laundry with urine. He would scatter straw in the dining hall. He would take clods of earth out from around the castle. According to Mackayleii, he was trying to dig a moat.

And, when Broken Jon was having a very bad day, blood would appear wherever Mackayleii said he was standing.

And then Kennedy had to ground Mackayleii for disobedience. She had used a rude word on her Nanny. And she was sentenced to sit in the Reflection Room for an entire hour.

Broken Jon did not like that. He started appearing. First to Kennedy, whenever he looked in a mirror, and then to Diamanté. Broken Jon did not like anyone who Mackayleii was mad at. He stopped attempting medieval housework and bled more. All around the house. Hand marks. Foot marks. Strange, round imprints that turned out to be from the bleeding stump of his arm.

Only Mackayleii could make him stop. She was five years old, and had command of a castle. Yet she insisted that she was only a princess.

# Challenge #192: So Like Immunity

The immune system is constantly walking the razor thin edge between doing sweet fuck all and killing you as collateral damage in an apocalyptic war.

They said that humans were much like their own immune system. Q'voth took that to mean that they were proof against anything that wanted to kill them. There was no way that a direct attack would work.

Therefore, Q'voth played the long game. Ingratiating her people with the humans. Infiltrating their everyday life. Whittling away their resources. Campaigning to turn their own laws against them.

Acting like a cancer against them. Flying under the radar.

What Q'voth didn't know, until it was far too late, was that the humans _were_ like their own immune system. Which was also a self-immolating maniac that was very capable of a scorched earth policy. Humans could survive on far less than the T'rnathi. They could survive in situations far more dire than the T'rnathi.

And they could sabotage their own environment to the point where no T'rnathi dared set foot in it.

The message was clear. They would literally rather die than be dominated. And they would make certain that the ashes of defeat would be all that any enemy could claim from a technical victory. They even had a name for it. Pyrrhic victory.

The winner wins, o yes. But what they win is so ruined that the victory is no victory at all.

Q'voth was very careful to ensure things were entirely fair from then on.

#  Challenge #193: The Nature of Strength

Wander is supernaturally strong and doesn't realise this is a big deal

She saw it, now and again, whenever things got really tight. Wander could and would carry the weight of a world on his back. And once, he literally did it. Okay, so it was a small planet, as planets went. But that wasn't the point.

He either didn't know his own strength, or he hid it most of the time. It was only when he forgot himself that he did all of these things without any apparent effort.

Where he hid it all was another mystery for Sylvia. Most of the time, he was as light as a feather. Though, to be honest, his weight seemed to depend on his emotional state. When he was down in the dumps, he was heavier than usual.

Maybe that was the secret of it. Maybe it was tied to his emotions, too.

Sylvia vowed to keep her personal comms ready to snap any photograph of Wander doing miraculous things. And she didn't have to wait long, what with Dominator and Hater going to ridiculous lengths to one-up each other.

Wander single-handedly evacuated New Bingleborp by carrying all the Bingleboppians out of the way of the terrifying pyrotechnics and onto a more convenient planet, nearby. All with one Orbble, and all while Sylvia was incapacitated.

And when confronted with the evidence, Wander had very little to say about it. "It needed to be done. So?"

"So you're possibly the strongest being in the Galaxy - not counting Mrs Myrtle. Why aren't you out there like those other chumps? Proving it?"

He just brought out his banjo and started strumming. "Because I'm _not_ like those other chumps. Conquerin' the galaxy doesn't mean a thing to me. I'd rather see all the cool parts and discover things."

Or maybe he was that strong because he'd already fought temptation and won.

#  Challenge #194: Sure it Followed You Home

A zbornak is not a pet. Yes even if it looks like a space horse and is wearing a saddle and bridle. Now let's bring her back where you found her.

Man I wish we spoke the same language... How do you apologise for your kid in pantomime....

[AN: Language has never been a problem in WOY... interesting, that]

Sylvia knew they weren't in the Kan'zass galaxy, any more, but this took some kind of cake. First she'd lost Wander, and then she got good and lost in the process of trying to find him.

And then there was the kid. Sylvia had a hidden soft spot for small children and this kid was almost at evil levels of cuteness. She had a finely tuned sense for anything hinky, and the kid seemed innocent enough. You didn't need language to play.

Sylvia would hate to admit it, but she liked playing when the occasion called for it. Looking after that fuzzy roaming nutbar had left her with a need for some good old-fashioned play. And at the end of the day, the little kid took Sylvias reins and lead her home.

Oh boy. This old chestnut. _It followed me home, beloved parental, can I keep it?_ How could she explain by pantomime that she had someone to look for and a home galaxy to get back to?

Grop, she wished they had a common language.

The poor Parental took one look and got The Look. The look that all parents got when their darling little child managed to triumphantly drag a new pet towards the house. Sylvia didn't need to understand the language to know that the parental was doing The Speech.

Honey, I know you love it, but it clearly belongs to someone else. Yes, we can look after it tonight...

"It's not a problem, honest," said Sylvia. "I can look for my friend tomorrow and–"

"SYLVIA!"

Speak of the devil! Wander had donned an apron and still wore an alien oven mitt. But none of that stopped him from launching himself over their hosts and landing in a hug. "Wander! Buddy! I thought I'd have to walk all over this weird rock just to find you..."

"Man, I am so glad to see _you_ ," he said. "Did you know that I was actually thinking of staying _in one place_? I knew you'd be looking for me, so the best way to get found is to stay put. And then I met these lovely folks and they needed _so_ much help..."

Of course they did. Sylvia should have just looked for the biggest patch of trouble on the planet... and there he'd be.

Now the parental was trying to explain, in slow small words and with extravagant pantomime, that their kid had made a mistake and they were so very sorry about the entire thing. So of course she and Wander stayed for dinner.

Alas, the kid picked up the more... colourful... samples of Sylvia's vocabulary. With luck, none of these good people would find out what they meant.

# Challenge #195: Early Confusion

" _There's a ladybug in my room!"_

" _Did you really call me at 3AM to tell me that?"_

" _I'm about two seconds away from burning this place down!"_

It took Cal a minute to recalculate what the hell Ch'v'th was talking about. "...no. No. Absolutely not. No. Don't."

"But the ancient rhyme of your people..."

"...does not tell you to set _your_ house on fire. You tell the ladybug that _her_ house is on fire."

There was a slight pause and the sound of a Chitanian climbing down from a light fixture. Unlike most of his people, Ambassador Ch'v'th had spent time working on his vowels. "How does one know if it is female?"

"Ladybugs are female until proven otherwise," Cal mumbled. It was a supreme effort for her to not add, _She will tell you if he's a he._ Because that sort of bullshit might make her kids giggle, but alien ambassadors tended to take things literally.

"And the rhyme exists because it works? It banishes the dangerous creature?"

_Ooooohhh boy..._ Cal rubbed her face and checked the actual time. 2:57AM. Shit like this should not happen at 2:57AM. "Ambassador Ch'v'th... you have been health checked and cleared for non-livesuit encounters with all but a select list of Terran creatures. Ladybugs are harmless to you." And this was not the time to go into a lecture about the overall Deathworld rating of Earth and certain parts of it that increased the average - like Australia.

"Then why the banishment spell?"

Cal yawned her way around, "Because we like ladybugs and they're useful and we teach that thing to kids so they don't automatically squash them, okay?"

"I am not under attack?"

"You are not under attack. Open a window, find a way to get it outside without damaging any property. Then close the window so she doesn't fly back inside. You'll be fine. Promise. C'n I go back t' sleep now?"

"My apologies, Assistant Cal. Resume your recuperation cycle."

Cal hung up and slumped back into her pillows. Tomorrow, she was going to find the Upper Echelon who sold this to her as a cushy job... and _bite_ them.

#  Challenge #196: Bat Rogers in the 22nd Century

I finally found the full text of this!

<http://somebodiesdaughters.tumblr.com/post/118571240112/spacebat>

_This brave little bat has multiple video tributes on youtube (_this one _'s my favourite, even though there's probably better ones, it's the one that's stuck with me), at least one song written specifically for them, a website, fanart, posts every year saying that we have not forgotten them, and multiple news articles about them (the one I first read, waybackwhen, was titled'_Shuttle-Riding Bat Dies The Most Glorious Death Imaginable _')._

I'm certain you can do something with this.

They thought it had died. And it was a reasonable assumption to make, after all. Small, organic beings without any kind of shielding do not ordinarily survive clinging to the hull of a vessel headed for the edge of the atmosphere.

If it made it into orbit, its remains should have been freeze-dried before its orbit decayed and the sad scrap burned up on re-entry. But that's not what happened.

2155

Bael Trenor, sun farmer of Tsiolkovski City, found what she assumed to be a geode on the moon. And since she was on her way back from cleaning the solar panels of her farm, she picked it up and took it home.

It was not a geode. Well, not like one would traditionally think of as a geode.

It was a carbon cocoon wrapped around a block of ice that encapsulated... a perfectly preserved Terran bat. Bael turned the intact miracle over to her second wife, Klare. She was the house Medik and found herself in need of a hobby project. Bael half expected the bat to be examined, catalogued, and mounted in the household museum.

What she had not expected was intensive care.

The bat had frozen in the hoarfrost build-up surrounding the engines of an ancient shuttle. Before the invention of the Specific Gravity Drive. And in freezing, it had entered a form of hibernation. Then carbon from the launch and the polluted atmosphere had formed a protective layer that prevented the ice from evaporating in vacuum.

And, after decades of slingshots around assorted vessels and objects, it had landed gently on the dark side of the moon. Waiting for Bael to find it.

Klare jokingly named the bat Buck Rogers and lovingly nursed the little critter back to life.

And then it turned out that Buck was not only a girl, but had taken her space trip whilst pregnant. Her species had been teetering on the brink of extinction for some years on Earth, but on the moon? Especially in Tsiolkovski Colony... they were welcomed into the general biota.

Bugs _used_ to be a problem in low-grav zones. No longer. Not with Buck and her descendants on the task. It only took two more decades for the lunar colonies to begin exporting bats back to Earth.

Of course, Buck's entire species got renamed in her honour. _Chiroptis Buckrodgeri_ , saved from extinction by a flight of fancy...

#  Challenge #197: The Best Place by the Fire

 http://haberdashing.tumblr.com/post/146903793739/my-fever-thoughts-the-last-two-days

There's got to be one species that's impressed by storytelling even if it's not solely humanity's "thing" in amalgam

One good thing you can plausibly state about humans is that time spent with them is never boring. Of course, that was their chief combination of blessing and curse. They were never boring.

Most species took to space for reasons of economy. Things on their homeworld were no longer easy to obtain. Yet there were metals in abundance out in space. Few at all went to see what was there.

And rarest of all were the ones who went because of _stories_. And not just the stories told by those who stopped by accident on their planets. No. The stories they made up themselves about what might be out there. The stories that held mirrors up to themselves. The stories that gave themselves hope for a better future. Or the stories that made them laugh when they thought all hope of laughter was lost.

They came in space ships. They came in the cargo-holds or the spare berths of vessels headed for the next port. They learned Galstand and picked up trinkets. And they told _stories_. Of ancient deeds of valour, of brave souls surmounting all the odds. Of dumb luck and favour from the gods. Of clever minds examining all the clues. Of love, loss, betrayal, and victory.

Galactic Society was in awe. They could invent new stories at the spur of the moment. They could take in old tales and twist them about. They collected culture and they passed it on. Some sang. Some rhymed. Some just told interesting stories about fantastic places, of beasts, of treasure, and of heroes.

Humans weren't allowed to set foot in Galactic Alliance space. Not properly. Never officially. They remained on the outskirts, in the places too far away to enforce and too lawless to bother. But wherever four Spacers clustered around to swap tales over something fermented and slightly toxic, there was one of the Humans. Spilling words out of their mouths and turning air into Hours.

It took the Galactics quite a few years to learn that the phrase 'silver tongue' was a metaphor. It took some species quite a long time to learn about _metaphors_. And by the time they did, humans were among the first Deathworlders to join the Galactic Alliance.

And restaurants who knew their business always kept a comfortable chair in the corner with the best acoustics. And let the storytellers run up a tab.

# Challenge #198: Those Who Remain

Prompt: A segment of the population does not believe anyone ever walked on the moon. Some probably do not believe their species ever gained space travel. What happened to them when so many members of the population left for the stars? – Anon Guest

Space was hard to ignore for a conspiracy theorist. It was impossible for humans to leave the Earth. Simply impossible. The fact that so many of their fellow humans were doing it was not a fact at all.

Galactic humans, centuries after their colonial forefathers slipped the surly bonds of Earth, called it The Shattering. With ominous capitals. But what it was was pieces of Terran culture hurtling down time and space to other worlds. Some of it has yet to be seen again.

And those left behind did not feel it was their duty to maintain a backup. Most found the contents of Earth's vast and scientific libraries to be heretical, when they weren't found to be blatant untruths. Only the most convenient of the sciences were allowed to persist. Those who maintained them and knew some of the truth were permitted to continue, but science as we know it went underground.

Those remaining behind could implement their isolationist ideas without fear of opposition.

They called this a good thing.

Earth became a miserable place to live. It was no surprise that those who saw the winds of change fled for either nearby planets or the stars. Populations plummeted.

Those left behind, fervent in their fanaticism, saw this as a sign from their god. There was little time for luxury, since it took ten people with their feet in the mud to keep one with their head in the clouds. Therefore, the remainders shunned it. They turned away from technology and business, and went all the way back to making their own bread by the sweat of their brow.

They called this a good thing.

Those who did not fit the rigid rules of their society, those who asked too many questions, and those who thought too long on subjects they should have ignored... those were exiled. Left to find their way in the wilderness.

They continued on, in willful ignorance, and let the rest of the world, the rest of the universe, pass them by.

And they called this a good thing.

It was the exiles who found each other. Who read or recited the surviving teachings. Who looked at the way things were taught and who looked at the way things were and said, "These don't match." They did not know what was true, but they were determined to find out.

It was the exiles who banded together and founded new cities. Who found new ways to breed wheat or crops. Who revived science from its ashes and uncovered truth after truth. Who found, after centuries of oppression, ways to grow food that didn't require vast tracts of land to support those who lived there.

And it was the exiles who went underground, much like Jules Verne's Morlocks, and found remnants of a world that once was. A better place. They hunkered away from the militant and violent isolationists. Kept themselves safe from those who would kill anyone who soiled their world view with truth. Found ways to communicate with the colonies on the Moon or on Mars.

_We are here,_ they said. _We seek the truth._

The isolationists saw aliens visiting far-flung mountains and distant, forbidden soil. They weren't very wrong, not really. Those who lived on Mars and those who lived on Luna were changed by their time on other planets. Some were taller and frailer. They had to wear special bracers to protect themselves against the heavy gravity of Earth.

They brought with them the forbidden knowledge. Things they thought worthy and worth keeping. They brought vital DNA samples, of stronger genetics that they had been working on whilst the isolationists kept inbreeding themselves to the brink of destruction.

And they brought a mission to save humanity.

In secret, in the cover of darkness and with special sedatives, they invaded the isolationist colonies and implanted embryos with improved DNA. Some were inserted into married women. Some weren't. If the isolationists saw something in the rise of 'virgin' births and 'miraculous' pregnancies, they did not tell anyone but each other.

Many had lost the art of literacy. They could not write their stories down, only pass them on to their own.

It took well over a century, but the suspicions of the UFOlogists came true. Beings from other planets did come down from the sky to implant their children in unsuspecting human women.

They would likely never know, but this _was_ a good thing.

# Challenge #199: As the Station Turns

Aliens are exposed to Soap Operas and get hooked.

Storytelling was not a new thing. Those species with the gift for _inventing_ stories were more likely to find welcome, despite their status amongst Galactic Society.

Only humans had managed to conceive of a story with infinite potential to continue.

Some alien species had managed to decode the Terran transmissions, and eventually decoded the language as well. They thought it was an anthropological study of one particular human clan.

What they didn't know, until it was too late, that it was a continuous human storytelling technique known as the _Soap Opera_. That information arrived in the form of roaming human storytellers who recognised the technique.

The Vriginthi, in particular, were hooked. They demanded human assistance in making their own version of this continuous drama. They worked with some of their allies on the production and, since they were matrilineal, _All My Daughters_ was born.

Set on a purely mythical _Harmony Station_ , the series _All My Daughters_ followed the life and times of a peculiar family who welcomed aliens and alien culture into their family by adoption or marriage.

The human insisted on certain rules. The one everyone loves to hate never gets their true come-uppance. Similarly, they never actually win. The one who everyone loves never _quite_ gets their happy ending. People with secrets have the kind of secrets that change everything... and so on.

To this day, _All My Daughters_ is nearly the longest-running Galactic drama. Second only to the Terran's _Coronation Street_.

#  Challenge #200: Pray What You Eat Lets You Live

Fast Food franchises for Aliens. – Anon Guest

Excerpts from A Traveller's Guide to Galactic Spaceports[Written before the advent of Unsuitable Food]:

If you are the kind of person who does not eat what they cannot identify, then beware. You may starve to death. Once you leave the realm of your familiarity, you will find all manner of things that could be edible if you are brave enough to face it.

That said, beware of attempting to purchase anything living. There are many forms of pets, and there are many more forms of adoption. That creature that resembles a pig just might be a cogniscent infant.

Your best investment for travelling is the Omniscanner. It takes in all forms of ambient radiation and transforms it into data you can understand. You won't look a fool for waving it at everything, but you will look a fool for buying an unwanted child, and then attempting to offer it in trade for a meal made out of one of its cuts.

Cogniphagia is frowned upon throughout all civilized space.

One thing you will not find in the larger Galactic Spaceports is fast food franchises. The concept of a ready-made meal exists, but ready-made meals that are long-term unhealthy are not encouraged. There are laws protecting all Galactics from accidental poisoning and, if the chef is not familiar with your biological needs, you are solely responsible for what you ingest.

The Omniscanner is your friend. You can set it to monitor your biology and alert you to what your body needs. Otherwise, let your nose be your guide. If you see something cooking, you can bet it's food. Be certain to scan the menu, just in case.

And do not be alarmed about table manners. Galactic manners are so varied from planet to planet that the only concern is that you don't make a mess.

#  Challenge #201: Coat of Paper, Coat of Fur

" _And she swore she would never eat another strawberry!"_

The assembled crowd of children turned to stare, open-mouthed, at the Silent Princess. Her name, insofar as anyone could understand her pantomime, was River. And she was living under a curse.

Beyond that, and her dislike of strawberries, everything was up to anyone's guess.

River shook her head and her hands danced. They danced to say, _You have everything wrong_ , but they danced to people who did not understand the movements.

"Izzat magic?" said one of the bolder children.

River shook her head. She was not what anyone would call beautiful. She was not fair. She was not blonde. She was not dark in either hair or skin. She was splotched, and her hair was brownish, dull, and had a tendancy to never do what anyone wanted. She kept it short, and let it curl around her like hyperactive snakes.

But she _had_ to be a princess, because they found her wearing royal clothing. And she had to be a princess, because she was kind and generous and wanted to help everyone she came across. Why, just yesterday, she gave her last crust of bread to a blind beggar. Everyone had seen it.

And every day, they swore, she was looking slightly more lovely.

The peasants of the little village that took her in would have given her a pen and paper, but none of them could read. And she would not or could not speak, so all they had left was her dancing hands.

Once upon a time, there were two step-sisters. One was beautiful and the other... not so much...

Every day, she did good things for the people of the little village. She tried to give away what little riches she had on her. Turned her hands towards hard work. And though she was clearly inexperienced, she spent honest effort in all her tasks.

The mother of the not-so-pretty child grew jealous of the stepdaughter, and treated her poorly...

Every day, a little of her curse wore off...

Finally, they sent the stepdaughter off into the woods in the middle of winter, wearing nothing but a paper coat. There, she met three little men who gave her three gifts...

And she hid herself whenever the Prince Regent and his dazzling bride toured their part of their lands. The royal baby was beautiful, everyone said. But River hid, and would not look.

When the selfish daughter went to find them, she went in a coat of fur, and she was rude. And the three little men gave her three curses.

River eventually married a shepherd who took the time to learn the meaning of her dancing hands. Who learned her real story and did not judge her in her repentance.

He knew that, should she speak, a toad would fall from her lips. He knew that she would always bear the mark of her temperament on her face and skin. And he knew that he was her curse, too, because the little men had said, "She will never find a rich husband."

But that did not mean that she would never be happy.

# Challenge #202: On the Shoreline(1)

1) Someone goes into labour in the vicinity of the grim reaper. Reaper panics. ("This is not my job! This is the exact opposite of my job!")

2) No seriously I'm not a magic tree I'm a creature that happens to be stuck inside a tree listen it's a long story do you have an axe – Anon Guest

Despite what various media might say, Death never takes a holiday. Ze can, occasionally, take a respite. It was a lovely sunny day and people were out doing their everyday things. Some people were strolling whilst others jogged. Some were sitting and reading. Some were sitting and doing things on their laptops.

On the smooth expanse of the emerald-green grass, children were playing together. Or at least, doing something that closely resembled playing together. They were not hurting each other enough for an adult caregiver to intervene.

The ducks were wandering about the pond. It was not time, yet, for them to practice their ninja bullying skills in order to monster bits of pastry off of the passing humans. And, for a perfect moment, everything was serene.

"Can I sit?"

Death looked up. The speaker was definitely... ample. She was red-faced and panting. She looked like she could be coming to see Hir in a few minutes. "CERTAINLY," said Death.

"...bloody cramps," she mumbled. And winced audibly.

Even Death could see her large belly tighten. This was not Hir best place. This was not an appointment Ze wanted to be present for. "I SHOULD CALL SOMEONE FOR YOU, YES?" said Death. "A HUSBAND? A BOYFRIEND?"

"Oh, I'm not with..." another audible wince, "...anyone."

"AND YET YOU ARE ABOUT TO HAVE A BABY," Death inched away. "I SHOULD CALL SOMEONE..."

"It's im..." she whimpered, this time, in the throes of another contraction. "...possible... the only man I've seen in two years is..." wince "...my therapist."

"YOU MIGHT WANT TO GET LEGAL AID ABOUT THAT." Death vacated the chair the instant her water broke. Ze brought out a phone - essential for communicating with mortals - and dialed up the emergency assistance number. "I AM AT PLEASANT PARK NEAR THE DUCKPOND AND THERE IS A LADY ABOUT TO HAVE A BABY. WHAT DO I DO?" Ze had to be calm and rational about this. Bringing a mortal into the world had to be easier than taking them out.

There was a lot less resistance. There had to be.

Other people around the bench heard the words 'about to have a baby' and fled the scene. Even the guardians hustled the children away as if the moaning woman were about to explode.

Cowards.

Death had been in plenty of birthing-chambers. For mother, for child, or both. For the sad little lives that only existed for seconds. But this was not Hir duty.

"THIS IS THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF MY JOB," Ze told the people on the other end of Hir call. But it didn't matter. Ze was there, and she needed help.

The baby came bare minutes before the emergency teams showed up, driving through the footpaths with their siren blaring. And the little boy was the first mortal to be wrapped in Death's cloak at the _beginning_ of their life.

"I'm gonna _kill_ my therapist," rumbled the new mother.

"DEATH IS TOO GOOD FOR HIM," said Death. "MAKE HIM PAY CHILD SUPPORT."

# Challenge #203: On the Shoreline(2)

1) Someone goes into labour in the vicinity of the grim reaper. Reaper panics. ("This is not my job! This is the exact opposite of my job!")

2) No seriously I'm not a magic tree I'm a creature that happens to be stuck inside a tree listen it's a long story do you have an axe – Anon Guest

The problem with floating, Steven decided, was weather patterns. Sure, it was great to go floating on a lovely, balmy night... but during severe storms?

He hadn't dared try to land until he could see where he was. And even then... he was really lost. On the plus side, there were lots of plants. One of them had to have fruit. Or a spare branch so he could make a spear or something.

"...hey!" said the tree he tried to tear the branch off.

Steven let go. "Sorry," he said. "I was looking for some fruit or a spear or... why are you talking?"

The tree turned around. "Uh... that's a long story..." the tree shook some fruits loose. "You might want to get comfortable..."

"Are you a Gem that got stuck in a tree? And now you have to be a tree?" said Steven.

"Er... got it in one," said the tree. "How did you know?"

"I'm a Gem, too," Steven showed his Gem. "Well. Half Gem. Uh... that might be a long story, too."

Three Days Later

With a little work, Amber the Gem-Tree could shapeshift her boughs and she and Steven had made a boat.

"Look! It's Beach City! I'm home!"

"That is a lot of buildings. Did humans make those?" said Amber the Boat. "How can Gems and Humans co-exist?"

"You'll see," said Steven. "But first - we gotta find you a chainsaw."

# Challenge #204: Explosive Food

Popcorn, either as an edible explosive or semi mindless entertainment.

The human had hung up a hand-made sign - _Explosive food preparation in progress_ before they produced a device and a package of dry, yellow seeds.

"Your pardon, cogniscent An'dee?" said Plyq'ix. "What is meaning, 'explosive food'?"

Andy had a very simple explanation. "It goes bang."

"Dangerous bang?"

"Surprising bang. Harmless, but surprising."

The machine whirred into life and the grains poured in. For a while, nothing much happened but rattling and whirring and then...

Bangs.

Small explosions of the kind meant to drive off evil spirits in the superstition times. At first a few, then a rapid succession of them.

Knowing the ways of humans, Plyq'ix had been expecting something a great deal more hazardous. This was the same species that had tenderized meat by firing it through a cannon[1].

"This is not worthy of warning sign," said Plyq'ix in vague disappointment. Even the white objects seemingly foaming out of the device were disappointing.

"Better to be safe than sorry." Andy shrugged. "Last time I made popcorn, I nearly killed someone."

Now _that_ sounded human.

[1] The Mythbusters have left a lasting impression.

# Challenge #205: Sense Askew.

::air horn sound::

::second air horn sound::

" _This isn't deodorant"_

He looked at the can. It looked like a regular, everyday bodyspray. Yet when he pressed the spray button, an air horn noise came out.

It shouldn't even be able to _do_ that.

Come to think of it, the towel only looked like a towel. It behaved more like tissue paper, falling apart in his hands.

The toothpaste looked and smelled like toothpaste but... it was aoli. At least it wasn't Preparation H. Or vaseline.

The milk tasted like... orange juice. The corn flakes were more like eating plastic. His clothes felt more like a swarm of insects was covering his body. The tighter they were, the smaller they were. Constantly crawling.

His car made more noise than the second world war squeezed into one room. And the train the rest of the way to work smelled like fresh offal.

Which had to be an improvement, because it regularly smelled like the putrefying kind.

The sidewalk made squeaky noises. Not the cute kind that made kids giggle. Every footstep sounded like a dying mouse.

It was wrong. Everything was wrong. His coworkers sounded like muted trumpets. Traffic noise, usually muted at ten floors up, was louder than in person. Every press of his computer key sounded like an old-timey typewriter. Replete with the ding and zip at the end of the line.

He couldn't stand it any longer. He took a break and started running. Blindly. Trying to escape the aberrant sensations. He dared not escape the prickling, crawling horror of his clothing. He didn't want to get locked up. He just wanted the world to start making sense.

And then he walked out of anywhere he'd ever seen and onto a bleak, featureless grid.

Submitted for your approval. Joe Average. An everyday man with an everyday routine. Until a glitch makes him aware of a flaw in the simulation he's been living in his entire life.

"Is that Rod Serling?" he said. "Why...?" His name _was_ Joe. But his last name wasn't Average, it was... it was...

_Subject 790B3K,_ said Rod Serling's voice. Somehow inside Joe's head. _Remain calm. Normal service will resume in sufficient time._

He ran on through the bleak grid. It was neither cold, nor hot. He didn't go hungry. He didn't need a smoke. Or a beer. Or even a Nuttynu Bar. He didn't even feel tired.

Was this heaven? Was this hell? Was there even a way to tell?

Joe... whatever his name really was... sat. At least there was no more squeaking, even though it felt like he was sitting on an anthill. "Someone tell me what's real?" he said.

But nobody came.

# Challenge #206: Per Ardua Ad Astra

' _Fire in the Sky.' Specifically, the filk song by Dr Jordin Kare, released in '91 but remastered in '04. This song moved Buzz Aldrin to tears on national television when he first heard the remastered version, apparently. There was a competition to make a music video, and_ this one _won. I first found the music video, a few years ago now, and I've never forgotten it._

"You were there for it, weren't you?"

Shayde looked up from her Kung Pow. "Ye woh?"

The speaker was young. One of the weedy nerdy types who had yet to absorb a complete education in social boundaries. As evidenced by their barging in on Shayde's meal. "You're the human from the twentieth century, right? You were there for the beginning..."

"Er," said Shayde. "Lots o' things started in the twentieth... Ye'll have tae be specific."

"The space race," said the baby nerd, as if it were the most obvious thing in the universe. "You were there, right? What was it like."

_Oh boy..._ "Ye ken it's a hundred years, an' I was only there fer sixteen percent."

"Yes, but it was the most amazing sixteen percent! You were there for the _ERA_."

"I was born in nineteen seventy, kiddo. I missed half of it an' the other half was'nae newsworthy 'till sommat blew oop."

"What was it like?"

They still wanted to know. They were going to be disappointed, but they still wanted to know.

Shayde settled into storytelling mode. "When I was a wee little thing, I was all o'er th' world I got tae see a lot of what other people thought was cool, ye ken... And when I was little, it were all in black an' white unless it was about Skylab."

"...sky lab..." they whispered.

"Oh aye, that was our first space station. Did'nae last long, more's th' pity..."

It took her longer to eat lunch, that day. Hours to tell all her memories. The kid was _not_ disappointed. They were entranced. Enraptured. And very possibly in love.

History hit people like that, some times. And it was still vertiginous to think of her life as _history_. But not, thankfully, always jarring.

# Challenge #207: Free Falling Water

Someone from a desert community or space community - anywhere where water is an extremely finite resource - visits somewhere like England where it falls from the sky on a semipermanent basis.

If there was one thing that freshly-minted Sahra Johnston would never get used to, it was the fact that she had her own space yacht. With a crew. And cabins enough for not just _her_ entire family, but the crew's as well. Not that the Galactic crew had any more than three babies at any time. But, assuming that they were allowed to breed like Hevun's humans, there would be cabins enough for _everyone_.

The second thing to get used to was her duties. She was no longer allowed to crawl through access tunnels and fix things. In fact, her security personnel frowned on her going anywhere near access tunnels at all. Instead of being useful, they took her around in plush, fancy suites to other plush, fancy suites and to go and see what Terra and her colonies had to offer.

Which included a visit to Earth.

The Sol system had one two-way wormhole, somewhere between Saturn's orbit and Jupiter's. Of course, there was a minor Galactic Market station there. Monitoring traffic and making sure nobody brought unwelcome biota to Earth.

From there, it was a slow cruise of a week or two to the small, blue-green rock that had started a lot of problems for a lot of people. Most of their money came from tourists who went to see the planet that launched a million colony worlds of varying sanities. The rest of their money came from people wanting to use Sol's abundance of one-way wormholes for profit.

Sahra's first stop was a tiny island called, depending on who you asked, Great Britain, the United Kingdom, or England. And her first impression of the place was... somewhat awe-inspiring.

Her first view of England was through the window of the spaceport in Heathrow, and it was besmeared by water. Falling. Out of the sky.

Mining Station had weather anomalies if the space was big enough. One of those phenomena, she and her friends had done to create 'miracles' to frighten the Tu'att away. But this was real water. Falling out of the sky.

She ran out into it, her bodyguards trailing behind. Fresh water! Clean water! And they just _let_ it fall down on everything! The Tu'att masters had figured out exactly how dirty water could get before it made their human slaves sick, and let them have that. Even for washing.

Sahra got soaked, and she didn't care. She did object when one of the bodyguard put an old-fashioned weather shield between her and the falling water.

"Have you never seen rain, before, Ambassador?" said a guard.

"Nuh," she said. "Should'a tole me they put this on. I'd'a wore sum'pin water-frien'ly."

The guard sighed a very Mama-like sigh. The sigh that said, _This child needs to learn so very much..._

# Challenge #208: Legendary Loser

The strongest man in the world attempts to find and swat a mosquito

[AN: I saw that GIF set, but I've yet to get my hands on a copy of _One Punch Man_ alas alack]

Of the mighty deeds of Heracles, there is but one that is not re-told by the bards or poets.

Heracles, mighty son of Zeus, stronger than ten strong mortal men... lost just one battle. Mighty were his biceps, thick were his thews, but they were no match for only one enemy.

Heracles had been napping under an olive tree, following a hard day's heroism. It was an otherwise pleasant afternoon, just beginning to turn into night. The weather was warm, the breeze balmy...

...and a tiny whine made itself known to the mighty Heracles.

Now, Heracles may be stronger than ten strong mortal men, but believe me, his skin was just as vulnerable to the tiny singer in the night. Little lady bloodsucker thought that demigod blood would make a fine meal for herself. And she came to sing her sweet song in his ear.

Heracles' first, mighty blow made thunder as he struck himself aside his face. But lady bloodsucker was fast, and avoided the blow. Or she was loud, and sounded nearer than she was. She was singing to him again in but a few moments.

Heracles' eyes were sharper than ten mortal men, as well. Yet in the gloom of twilight, the tiny bloodsucker was invisible to all but the Gods, and they were not helping him.

O, how Hera must have enjoyed his plight. Of all the beasts set to plague him, the mighty Heracles could not lay a single, earth-shattering blow upon the humble mosquito.

When his friends found him, the next day, he had laid waste to the entire hill. Not a blade of grass had been untouched by fire. There was nothing left of the olive tree and he was holding a boulder above his head.

And of little lady bloodsucker? The singer in the night? O, she had had more than her fill.

# Challenge #209: Saturday Sloth

<https://vine.co/v/i0vVFiH9AI7>

Vine of old cartoon from 1940s.

knocking on door

Detective: Who's there?

Door opens

Skeleton, walking through door: A skeleton.

Frisk Dreemur (happily adopted) hadn't been thinking of much more than a Saturday in their pyjamas and watching ancient cartoons. Thanks to Mama Toriel, there was plenty for breakfast. And possibly lunch.

Gone were the days when Frisk would eagerly devour a cooked water sausage. With or without a bun. And those days were gone for the monsters, too. Nobody regretted the change and Dunkle Sans was the only one who actually enjoyed those things anyway.

Sometimes, Frisk swore, he only ate them to gross people out.

But this morning, Dunkle Sans was napping on the couch, and Frisk was more interested in their MonPad tablet and the games therein than what was going on on the television.

Knocking happened, at the moment. And a bulldog dressed like a detective gave the classic feed line. "Who's there?"

Frisk glanced up in time to see a skeleton let itself in, shrug, and announce itself as, "A skeleton," almost apologetically.

"...that is _not_ how the joke works," said Dunkle Sans, emerging from his assumed minor coma on the couch. "...and why are they naked?"

Frisk turned to sign, _It's an old cartoon from the dawn of time. They didn't know how jokes worked back then._ And, as an afterthought, they added, _And they didn't know how skeletons dressed back then, either._

Dunkle Sans' eye sockets were dark. His permanent grin had flattened out. "...you shouldn't be watching this filth, kid... it's bad for ya."

Frisk dutifully dug the remote out of the pillows and blankets of their nest and did some channel flipping. It was surprising what could be offensive now that monsters were back in the sunshine.

_Scooby Doo._ Perfect. The monsters were always grownups in disguise, trying to make money off of people. And the animation was so bad that even Dunkle Sans laughed at it.

#  Challenge #210: Where the Weirdoes Go

" _I just want to collect arcade tokens, why does that bring out the weirdos?"_

"Maybe it's because this entire place is weird? I swear I've seen that same Polybius cabinet in four different places."

"Haha, maybe it's a TARDIS, haha," Carol droned. "It's a games con. Of course someone's going to have a Polybius cabinet. It's like _the_ vintage gaming joke." She looked up from her display book to check one out in passing. "Though it is kind'a eerie that they all chose the exact same cabinet art..."

"Historical, too. There are all kinds of legendary greek monsters on there."

"Nerd," smirked Carol.

"You know it. I'm only here for the outfits. And the band."

"Pew Pew Zowie?" Carol winced. "I love you, Sadie, but... your taste in music is beyond strange."

"Hey, they got FNAF tokens in that booth."

"No. I'm a purist. I only take tokens that have seen actual arcade gameplay. I mean, the fancy stuff is cute and all, but... It's not really _real_."

Sadie was grinning. "Does that mean I can start collecting the fakes just to tick you off?"

"Um. That would mean we share an interest and have something to nerd out about together."

Sadie faked a gasp. "Us? Something in common? Unheard of!"

Carol laughed. "Ooh vintage Chuck E. Cheese... Back when the mouse still looked.... mousy."

Sadie started taking reference photos of the Polybius cabinets. "I _swear_ that thing is following us."

"Could be right," said a passing dude done up as Doctor Who. "Don't blink."

Sadie rolled her eyes and mumbled, "Comedians..." under her breath.

# Challenge #211: One Wrong Word

" _In my defense, I didn't know calling the Prince a 'dummy' would be considered an act of treason."_

In a sense, her defense was a compliment. The artisans responsible for the Prince's artificial body had done such work that the simulacrum holding his soul to the mortal realm looked amazingly lifelike.

She hadn't known that he was a human soul residing in a constructed body. And they were so rare, so expensive, that they were a last resort against worse circumstances than the heir passing at a young age.

Prince Ceramique had almost passed on to the other realm on the day he was born. His mother had already gone when he was struggling to live. The nature of peace between his kingdom and its neighbours decreed that his father could never marry again.

And the next heir to the throne would have destroyed the kingdom as certainly as they were destroying themselves. So the king commissioned a magical simulacrum to hold the prince's soul.

Alice hadn't known that 'dummy' was a slur against such magical golems. She'd just meant to chide her friend for something silly that he'd said.

Words that were forgotten, now.

"That's it?" said Prince Ceramique. "You didn't mean it that way?"

Alice, kneeling and still in stocks, had shed all her tears days ago. "Yes, your highness. I can only beg your forgiveness and hope that you spare my family."

Family was the magic word. The king had encouraged their friendship, knowing that a simulacrum could not marry. And even though Prince Ceramique could inherit the crown, he would only be allowed to rule for fifty years before naming a successor. Legally, he could name anyone in the kingdom. And since they were fast running out of royal family...

A wise commoner may well be the kingdom's best bet. The King had taught his son well. Politics and intrigue and the Game of Power. And the knack of being a good monarch.

Prince Ceramique had spent many a happy day in Alice's house, enjoying the chaos of her family and her home. He _could_ do what he liked, as he had all the power. But that power came from the willingness of the people to support his rule.

And, more to the point, Alice's fateful word had been preceded by the words, "Of course I like you."

"I still don't like that word. And... I overreacted. You have your freedom and your family has a boon from my house. Ask of me anything."

Alice waited seventy years to cash it in. By then, she had a granddaughter who had also learned the Game of Power. She was young, strong, and could think circles around people. She had never needed to fight since the day she learned to argue her case.

She would defend against the enemy with great aplomb.

And King Ceramique abdicated his crown to become a knight and advisor by her side. The last defense against those stupid enough to send assassins against the new Queen.

Magical simulacrums were, of course, ridiculously difficult to kill.

# Challenge #212: Re-forming Content

Someone who just 'removed' the tyrant, and has put their non-evil child in charge, after confronting them with the fact that the parent they loved was a tyrannical dictator sacrificing their people for their own vainglory: "My condolences on your coronation. You're welcome."

Queen Kindness the First had loved her father. Her days revolved around the hours that he came to her suites and played with her, or read to her, or listened while she talked and they strolled through her magnificent private gardens.

No trouble was allowed to enter her door, and her windows were too high to see any troubles.

In hindsight, it was a perfectly constructed paradise.

And then, in the space of a week, she had gone from having the biggest trouble of her day being a snarl in her hair... to learning that her kingdom was in the most dire of trouble. And that news came from a bloodstained knight who was amongst one of the rebelling forces. He had been one of her guard, and asked her about situations that she had thought hypothetical.

Until the day he stopped coming to her gardens.

Now those situations were far, far too real. Merchants had a strangle-hold on the kingdom. Their immediate neighbours were angry at her father and distrustful of her. Insane taxes went to vainglory and not to help the hungry. It was going to be a lot of work to get her kingdom stable.

That knight at least looked sad when he imparted the news. She had the one who said, "My condolences on your coronation. You're welcome," executed. That kind of thinking was no longer welcome.

Fixing her kingdom required the kind of manipulation that those with the biggest coffers had used against her father.

Before her coronation, she quickly found out who were the most vile and selfish flatterers by appearing as if she didn't have a brain in her head. They were very shocked when they learned they were being sent as emissaries to rival kingdoms, and _without_ the vast amounts of wealth they had siphoned from the royal coffers.

That coin went to buy food for the people, and their lands turned back into farms. Even her bejewelled gardens were turned into farmland to feed so many hungry mouths.

She taxed those who owned the land and withheld it from farming. She taxed those who owned too much and did not pass on their wealth. It took years, but her reforms eventually paid off. When they finally had excess to sell, she relaxed the laws about "decorative gardening" and the matching taxes.

The merchant emissaries returned to pull themselves up by their much-favoured bootstraps. Those who survived their tenure amongst kingdoms they had turned into enemies, anyway. And now that the peasantry was literate, those merchants now became entertainment for the masses as they struggled just like any other poor worker.

Those who vilified her were free to do so, but they would not find many who wished to return to the ways of her father the former king.

# Challenge #213: Modern Fable

Don't set yourself on fire to keep others warm.

Sacrifice is noble. There is no doubt. Those who turn aside their wants for the needs of others are truly glorious. They have honour. They gain kharma points. And some gain respect.

Most, however, are expected to sacrifice more.

The fable is told of those who sacrifice everything. The Giving Tree is just one. There is another... the Perfect Mother.

She gave up her employment so she could give her children life. It wasn't that important, after all, and she was paid far less than her husband. Besides, she had only been working to support him whilst he was working on his degree.

She gave up sleep and health for her babies. And that was expected. The next generation were the most important thing. She gave up her comforts so they could be comfortable.

She gave up her time and food so that she could remain attractive to her husband, and that was good as well. She was expected to remain a thing of beauty.

But time was a viper and betrayed her despite all her efforts. Her husband left her and her children for a prettier bride. That was a good of a sort, for it was expected of a man to have a wife that matched his success. So she had to give up time with her half-grown children to find what employment would take her.

She was selfish, some said, but there was no other way. She would not become a welfare queen, nor would she subsist on government benefits. So she worked every hour she could get, for whatever pay she could get. Two jobs. Three, four and five. Her children were healthy, it was true, and she had to work extra hours to afford a tutor, because she no longer had the hours to help them in their studies.

She fell sick, often. She got fired for her illnesses. Forced to find work at lower wages. Forced to take the government benefits she thought she was above. Forced to get the food that the government decreed they could purchase. Forced to cook bland and boring food and forced to bear the brunt of the glares and judgements of all those who thought she didn't deserve it.

And that was good, too. Old women had no place being in public. They should have shut themselves away. People on government benefits had no business buying food in front of anyone else. And the list of things that government benefits could buy got thinner and thinner and thinner.

She voted for a man who would make her country great again. As did many, many others. They believed that he would. They could not know that he lied.

She and her family grew hungry. The children worked. She worked. Her ex-husband took her children away and forced her to pay for their keep but not to visit them. And that was good. She was obviously not fit to care for them, and she had to be a responsible parent.

She could no longer afford to eat. The government benefits were gone. She sold her belongings to feed her family. She worked for nothing because work was good. Her boss was allowed to use her because that was all she was good for, and she dared not complain or end in a jail. And that was good. She wasn't useful for much else, and all should be useful.

When she fell ill, her family never came. She was shunted into a place where the poor people went to die without any intervention from any but the kindest of people who might drape her with a cheap blanket or give her some almost clear water.

She died quickly, and that was good. Nobody of her low status deserved to hang around too long and take resources away from decent people. Her body was taken to a factory where her remains were milled and processed and rendered. And she was turned to oil to heat the homes of the people who were worth something.

And that was good as well. Because finally and at last, she had a value. $10/quart.

Some say that sacrifice is noble. Those who usually say it in excess are those who never have to sacrifice. And those who make sacrifices must ensure that they do not sacrifice all of themselves for the greater good. That is not sacrifice, my friend. That is surrender.

#  Challenge #214: I am Immortal, You're Not

Oh my god wonder of wonders an ancient semi-immortal race understands that time is valuable.

Immortals have some odd habits. One that stands out is spending hundreds of years on perfecting Apple Pie. Right down to breeding the perfect apple, the right kind of bees, and just the right kind of grain.

Currently, Duroc the Everlasting was analysing the maple sap for the correct kind of sweetness.

Heaven help the world when she finally decided to work on the ice cream.

"Excuse me?"

Duroc looked. A mortal! How long had it been since a mortal had entered her realm? Duroc put down her work in a state in which it was all stable and stood. "Hello, young one."

"Are you Duroc the immortal?"

"People used to call me Everlasting, but yes. I am Duroc." Hm. The place had become overgrown since the last time she'd left her desk. She'd have to set alarms again. "You have a reason for seeking me."

"Oh yes. It's urgent. There's a plague ravaging the countryside and its rumoured that you might have a cure."

As Duroc left her workdesk, her hair tangled in the furniture. Drat it. _Again_? She sighed and found the nearest scissors and sheared herself free. Her hair was now at the nape of her neck and much lighter for the loss.

"Oh! Your beautiful hair..."

"It will grow back," dismissed Duroc. "It has a singular knack for growing back." Now. Where did she put her stuff? "Plague, is it? What kind?"

"They're calling it the red death," said the mortal. "They say it's the Wanderers who bring it. Or poison the wells..."

Duroc sighed. "Ah, racism. My old frienemy... I'm guessing the Wanderers seem to be immune?"

"Er. They never catch it," offered the mortal. "We've never seen one with it."

"Huh. And I doubt you've ever seen a microbe, either..." Ah-ha! There was all the medical science stuff. Judging by the accusations of poison wells, things had backslid again. She'd have to bring along the Books.

"What's a–"

"You and your people have a _lot_ to learn. And you don't have much time."

Now their voice was a squeak. "...i don't?"

"Forty, fifty years more at the current state of things. If I do good work in your realm, I might be able to push you past ninety." Once she had _all_ the medical stuff together, it made a pile too large for anyone to be expected to carry. "How good are the roads?"

"Um. There's cart trails?"

And the stuff about transportation and road maintenance. And a small, covered cart to carry them all in. Rebuilding society was such a pain in the neck.

"Wait. Forty years is a really long time." The mortal. "I'd be in my early sixties. A grandmother. Um. If I could get anyone to... youknow..." A cough. "I'm a bit old."

Duroc bit her lip. "Young one," she sighed, "you have no idea..." There was so much to teach... and these mortals had so much to learn. Starting with the genuine cause of what they called the red plague.

#  Challenge #215: The Opposite of Magic

But they just ran into the world's best spell mangler. She has the protection of a unicorn. She carries what is probably a fully intelligent sword that can do whatever needs doing to bring justice to a situation. And she is the host of a living magical spell that likes to do things to people who try and mess with it.

There is magic, everyone knows this. People with the ability to wield it range from those who have to lie down after lighting a candle, to those who can part seas with a twitch of their eyebrow.

There are those who lack magic. Everyone understands this, as well. They are mostly peasants, sometimes victims, and not often worth noticing at all.

Then there's anti-magic. The ability that goes through an absence and out to the other side. These become spell manglers. They are the guardians and gatekeepers. They wander the lands and make sure that fell or foul sorcerers never get too powerful, that wizards never let power go to their head.

They are the sabot in the workings, the fly in the ointment, and the dog in the manger. All in one. All because they balance things out against the people who want absolute power.

The Tyrant Tyrel probably knew this when he hired the services of Tambry, the world's best Spell Mangler. And worse, she still had the great sword Cyfartal with her.

Gyllaine considered her options. Everyone knew about Tambry and nobody dared fire a spell against her. Cyfartal would certainly become enraged if anyone tried to bluff their way past. And -Gyllaine checked through her Omnisight Monocle- Tambry still bore the blessing of a Unicorn and guarded the Spell of Ultimate Justice.

Therefore, Gyllaine's only hope was the truth. "My party and I have been sent to halt the spread of Tyrel's empire."

Tambry smirked. "Usually, the first words I hear are, 'Bard? What's your bluff level?' I must admit I'm grateful for the change. So who's got your pocket and why do they hate Tyrel?"

"Ganturog. He says Tyrel is taking hunting land away from his people and turning it into farms. And there's a few other territories that have a similar argument. Feeding people is all well and good, but when you starve others to do it, something has to happen."

Tambry looked to her hip. "Cyfartal?"

The sword spoke, "Truth," it said. "There is imbalance, but there is always imbalance. This imbalance is all from the orders of your current master. Something _does_ have to happen."

"I've seen ambassadors come and go," Tambry admitted. "But I've never heard what they wanted or how their pleas were received." And then she said the words that might prove fatal to the Tyrant Tyrel. "Let's see what my employer has to say."

# Challenge #216: Relative Insanity

" _Maybe you should consider it. Who knows, you might even have..." [Person] stopped and whispered conspiratorially, "fun!"_

" _That's not a word, I'd have heard of it," was their flat reply. They held a straight face just long enough for [Person] to look horrified before they laughed._

Of all the fearsome forces in the universe, none is more terrifying than these two words issuing forth from a human mouth, "I'm bored."

Rael hadn't even known that he _could_ get shivers up his spine. The involuntary reaction shocked him more than the words from his human companion.

"Please don't blow anything up?" he begged.

Shayde's dark lips split in a wry grin. "Aye? That's yer first thought? When have I ever blown anythin' oop?"

"There's always a first time," said Rael. "I know how you humans like to escalate."

"Yer bein' daft," she dismissed. "Explosions plus space stations equals bad news, an' I'm partial to me share of atmosphere, thanks."

He relaxed only a little. "Congratulations. You are now ten percent more sane than the rest of your species."

"I _am_ from the generation tha' elected Ronald Reagan, ye ken."

"Then you're fifty percent more sane than _them_. In the interests of the safety and security of all cogniscents in your general aura... what you planning to alleviate this... boredom?"

"Aw, nothin' fancy. Just gettin' a dee an' dee game goin'."

She might as well be offering to teach ancient Pama-Nyungan or Yiwaidjan. His one experience of it was so outlandish that he was certain most cogniscents would not understand it. "You realise that improvisational storytelling based on chance is not a widespread phenomenon, right?" he said.

"Aye, I expect a lot of self-inserts and rip-off OC's. That's normal. But that's no' the point. It's tae have _fun_. You remember fun, right?"

He folded his arms and found something decorative to look at. "That's not a word. I've never heard of it." He turned back just far enough to catch her briefly bemused expression.

Then a laugh spurted out between her lips. "Oh aye, ye'll have fun. Ye got the time, as I remember. Unsuitable food served as snacks. Random philosophy masqueradin' as a player trying fer time tae think. Loads o' fun. I even have a game room set oop. All th' frills." A conspiratorial grin. "I've been dyin' tae try it out."

"And nothing's going to blow up?"

"Only virtually, I promise."

Rael nodded. "Someone has to educate the rest of your victims about this particular example of human insanity..." he sighed. "Count me in."

On the plus side, she wasn't bored any more. On the minus side, that high-pitched squeaking and eager grin was downright disturbing.

# Challenge #217: Unsuitable Revival

" _What's a Fairy Floss machine? Is it some kind of weapon of mass destruction?"_

" _You probably call it Cotton Candy."_

" _Nope! Never heard of it."_

" _Look I'll show you how it works."_

10 minutes and 300plus small children later.

" _You know, it just might be a weapon of mass destruction." – Anon Guest_

There are phrases of doom. "Hey watch this," coming from a human, is a sure sign that something impressively dangerous is about to happen. Shayde has hundreds of them, but the most dangerous one is this:

"Aw ripper!"

Which meant that the bargain barge of junk she had purchased at mass credit rates now contained something she deemed to be a treasure. Which meant that some horrible thing from history that should have been forgotten was about to be revived.

She was holding something that looked like a washtub, with a separate spinarette in the middle, and a motorised cabinet underneath.

"Ah got a _fairy floss_ machine," she crowed. "Sure it needs a wee bit o' love, but I reckon I can get this one runnin' again."

"Fairy. Floss."

"Awright. Cotton candy. Whatever. I reckon fairy floss is a cuter term."

"This is another ancient terran weapon, isn't it?"

"Nooooo," she sang. "I'll show ye. When I get it runnin'. It's a treat."

It took her two weeks to make her threat come to life, and she ran a small booth to one side of Nik's enormous kitchen in Unsuitable Food.

It was, technically speaking, food on a stick. If you had such wide and varied definitions of 'food' as Nik did. Pure sucrose, sometimes with added colours and flavourings, heated to melting point and spun out in fine threads by centripetal force. And from there, gathered onto the aforementioned stick.

Galactic Society had their own phrase for it. Sugar clouds. And they brought a new generation ingenious ways to get sticky _and_ sick at the same time.

Rael had to try a sample. Too much air, and the sugar melted on contact with any kind of moisture. For him, that was something of a sensory disappointment. For children, he could imagine the appeal. Something bigger than their head that they could plausibly ingest with little ill effect. And for anyone who still had room, they could also ingest the sorghum-millet stick[1]. Rael certainly devoured his as he surveyed the crowds of happily sticky children who would come to regret their decisions later.

"I was right," he told her. "It _is_ a weapon."

1] Edible utensils/containers is a fantastic idea and deserves more research. Currently, only [edible spoons exist.

# Challenge #218: No, You Got it Wrong

This is a quote from a Robert Heinlein story. "Always have your pants, your shoes, and your gun where you can find them in the dark." – Anon Guest

The patient came in with a limb injury. Relatively harmless, but perplexing in the entry and exit trajectory. What added further confusion was the fact that they had a side-arm tangled in their toes, and a white-knuckled grip on one of their boots.

There was some evidence that it was a self-inflicted wound.

They were drugged out of their mind, but they were still mumbling, "Heinlein was wrong," as if that was the most important information to impart.

Medik Tress sedated them into safe unconsciousness and got on with sorting out the mess. Assistant Neve was the one who published the puzzle to the info-nets for a solution.

Which came after the patient was safely in an ICU drawer. It was cryptic, and came from Ambassador Shayde.

What did she mean, _Not in the same pile_?

# Challenge #219: The Long Days

These things are sent to try us and they certainly do. – Anon Guest

All of the longest days start in the wee small hours. Haven't you noticed? They begin with the nightmare. The terrors. The loud neighbour who accidentally or on purpose blasts five seconds of noise into the air. Or the telemarketer who calls without realising the time where you live. Or the obnoxious party relative who drunk-dials you for no real reason, or under the mistaken assumption that your home is a pizza place.

Regardless, sleep is now unattainable and you attempt to do some quiet work to at least get it out of your way. Except there is some base demon in charge of making certain that nothing quiet works properly in the wee small hours. Or it finds a reason to make noise and you have to scramble to stop it before anyone else wakes up.

Even the smallest noise is magnified at four in the morning.

And heaven help you should you decide to work on a computer in those witching hours. Updates and virus checks will happen, and fail, and need authorisation, and endless reboots just to get you back to where you began.

Then, as the rest of the house wakes at the appointed hour... Chaos! The curse that you brought on before dawn catches to everyone you know and love. The combined minor horsemen of absentmindedness, clumsiness, distraction, and mislaying all work together to ensure that absolutely everything is obeying one law - Murphy's.

This is a day for minor disasters. For the little things to drag you down. For your pantry to run out of favourites. For your account to run out of spare cash. For everyone to need a new pair of shoes. For your medication to need replacing.

It is a day for a thousand errands on no coffee. It is a day of traffic jams and road works. It is a day for everyone to run out of things just as you attempt to get them.

And it is a night of burned dinners and expired pizza coupons, of more vital expense than can easily be afforded. Of arguments and screaming matches and a disaster from too far away that makes an early night impossible despite your exhaustion from the day.

Survival in that forge of exasperation is never easy. It is possible, and draining, and it makes you wonder if life is worth living. But it does throw all the better days into sharp and amazing contrast.

# Challenge #220: Get Lost!

To get really lost you need a GPS without updated maps, or worse with proposed routes entered as functioning. – Anon Guest

AN: Did I tell anyone that story? It's here in [this post]

"Turn left at the fork."

"What?" said Tirla. "This thing is clearly showing a right turn at the fork."

"Turn left at the fork," said the mechanical voice.

"It's still a few hundred SDU's. We can slow down and see which way it goes." Pal re-adjusted his pack and kept walking.

"Turn left. Now."

"Uh. That's a sheer drop," said Tirla. "Like flakk am I taking _that_ turn."

"What happened to the hundreds of SDU's?" pondered Pal.

"Re-routing," said the machine. "Continue straight for four kilometers, and then perform a U turn."

Tirla consulted the screen map. "It's trying to get us to jump off a cliff, still."

Pal swore. "Son of a glitch..." He doffed his pack and dug into the pockets, eventually producing a thick, yellowed volume to page through.

"Seriously?" said Tirla. "I _do_ have a modern satmap with accurate location capabilities."

"That's _not_ the point of what we're doing." Pal finally found the page and compared it to the screen Tirla held. "This is roughing it. This is getting lost and finding our way back. This is... _adventure_."

Tirla grumbled, "You're lucky I love you, you know that, right?"

"Every morning, noon, and night." His facial screen smirked. "And I found it. We go a few hundred SDU's further _that_ way, and there's a left turn we can use."

"And it'll get us there?"

Flip flip flip flip flip. "Um." Flip flip flip. "Maybe?"

"You're _really_ lucky I love you," Tirla sighed. He rebalanced his own pack and began trudging onwards in grim resignation. The sounds of nature were only slightly marred by a mocking falsetto. "Let's use their old technology to get to the dig. It'll be _such_ fun..."

# Challenge #221: Random Encounter

Pick your favourite cartoon character, print or media and have them meet/interact with another.

AN: You _do_ realise SPG have their own [webcomic right? but I'll play this straight this time]

"That wormhole really did a number on me," mumbled Sylvia. "Where the flarf are we?"

"I have no idea," Wander chirped. He had made a campfire and was roasting something on a stick. "But the beach is lovely and there's a cute little town on the other side of that hill..."

"...with the ominously huge temple carved into it," noted Sylvia. "That sort of thing is bad news, Wander."

"Eh. Probably not any more. Look, it's fallen into decay and someone built a nice little house on it."

Sylvia murmured her doubts. "I still say something horrible is going to happen and that temple is in the middle of it. Look–" she pointed to the remains of a stone hand that had apparently melted. "–that is not a good sign. There could be any kind of lurking evil in there."

"Hi there," said a new voice. The speaker was sort of pink, and had fluffy black curls on top of his head. His red shirt had a yellow star on it, much like the star on Wander's hat. "Are you guys lost?"

"Boy howdy, we're lost," said Sylvia, slapping her hand over Wander's big mouth before he could say otherwise. "Can you tell me where we are?"

"You're in front of the gem temple, of course," said the native. "And on the other side of that hill, you'll find _Beach City!_ "

O joy. He was being literal. "I was thinking more along the lines of planet, system, part of the galaxy...?"

"Oh. We don't know any of that. Well. Humans don't. I bet one of the Gems could tell you, though. Oooh! Pearl would know for sure! Or maybe Peridot, but she's busy doing Meep Morps." He ran off for the house on the temple, yelling, "PE-EARL! HEY, PEARL!" as he went.

Sylvia rolled her eyes. "Ugh. Do we tie ourselves up _now_ so we make the inevitable sacrifice easier, or...?"

Wander was doing The Noise, and making The Face. He was clearly excited by what was going on. "Sylvia. We. Are. _Really_ lost! Do you know what that _means_?"

"It's going to be ages before I can get me a jellyfish pie?"

"(Bleh) No! It means we have a chance to see everything there is to see around here _before anyone else_! It's amazing! We're gonna be the first around anywhere!"

The native emerged with a taller, lankier being lead along by his hand. "Now, Steven, just because we know a little more than you doesn't mean we know the relative positions of– Oh my goodness."

"Howdy!" said Wander.

"You wouldn't know where the Flevnark galaxy is from here, would you?" Sylvia said through a nervous rictus. "Soon as we know where to go, we'll be on our way. We don't want any trouble."

"Er..." said Pearl.

It was a long talk, with holograms of ancient star-maps cast in the half-light of dawn and then, in the full light of day. During which Wander brought out his banjo and Steven fetched his ukelele. And for once, interaction with a strange new planet didn't involve screaming, disasters, or interruptions from any kind of force for evil.

It was a pleasant break from the norm.

# Challenge #222: For Hate's Sake...

" _You idiot! Can't you see this will hurt both of us?"_

" _Well yes, but it'll hurt you a lot more than it'll hurt me, and I can live with that."_

There were things she could never talk about. And one of them was the battle of wits with a godlike being.

They could make their arena look like anything. Be made out of anything. They could cast a glamour so powerful that it overwhelmed her. But there was always that greasy sensation that things were not as they seemed.

The last time they had brought her into their reality, she had felt it in just a few minutes. The grass was not grass. The elysian fields may well have been a midden. They might have been gods at one time, but they were not the kind of gods that she understood. They were more like the ancient nexii of power as depicted by Lovecraft.

And they had long since gone rotten. Corrupt and putrid inside, like an apple that had been coated in red wax, but still allowed to decay on the inside. They shined themselves up, for sure, by playing at being forces for good, but she could sense what lay underneath that thin veneer.

They said, Your long journey is over.

They said, It is time for your reward.

Part of her mind flashed a picture of a Nazi officer executing one of their sympathisers once they had ceased being useful. It came with the phrase, _Thank you for your service to the third reich._

She balked away from where they were leading her. "Why'd I have tae follow ye?" she asked. "It should'nae matter to you were I am. You said you'd send me back home."

They said, Yes. That is what we said.

They said, Things had to change.

She opened herself to the ambient power. Absolute power. The first thing to break was their glamour and she nearly passed out from the nausea. She could see every last dirty little secret they had been trying to hide. She could feel every sin they owned like self-mobile slime crawling up her back.

And she could taste their fear.

"You promised me," she said. "you'd put me back."

After that, it was a little more... intense. They were creatures of will. Used to their power. Shayde was a creature of mortal needs. She had organs that needed thinking of.

In the end, she could only believe in three words, over and over again. _Put. Me. Back. Put me back. Put me back put me back put me backputmebackputmeback..._

They said, You will hurt all of us. Even yourself.

She said, I can live with that.

And there was a door. She knew where it would lead. Exactly where they had left her. But not, sadly, exactly when. That might have been more merciful. But they were strangers to mercy.

It was worse, the second time. They knew what she could do if they let her and now their guard was up. She knew what they had made her to be and used every atom of it. And every second she spent in their realm was a second that the power could begin the rot inside. Every instant was one where their siren song might have some allure.

She called to her friends. Clumsily at first, but with increasing refinement. Used their souls as a beacon. Fended Them off with all she had left.

They said, You could fix us if you stayed...

She said, No.

Power corrupts. They wanted the power she had learned from them. They wanted to find the door, too, to other realities that they could influence with greater power. O yes. And the more they had, the more they wanted. They would never have enough.

She had a power, too. She had learned what 'enough' was. Where it was. She had a place to belong and limits that were acceptable. It was something that They would never understand.

It was how she got free. And how she shut the door behind her. The only way to open it again was by not wanting it to open. The things in that other reality could eat themselves for all she cared.

She had a home. She had friends. It was not the home she missed, and they were not the friends she had lost. But then again, wanting what one can never get is part of being human. Getting everything one wants, on the other hand, makes a monster.

# Challenge #223: Gem Daycare(1)

1) Steven likes to visit Centi. She and the others have sort of adopted him as an honorary crewmember at this point.

_2) From_ <http://muppetymels.tumblr.com/post/144837683649> _-_

Teaching kindergarten is like being an ambassador to beings from another planet and teaching them how to assimilate to our culture.

" _No, we do not LICK water fountains. Perhaps that is acceptable on your planet, but here on earth we prefer to DRINK from water fountains."_

" _Physics might be a little different on your planet, but here when you throw things they typically fall and break."_

" _Grabbing people and shaking them violently is not considered a proper greeting on this planet." – Anon Guest_

There wasn't much he could do for the Centipeedles. He'd come to accept that. His healing saliva didn't quite get them back to sanity, and the effects were both short-lived and on the shady side of torturous.

But he could keep them company and bring them a few things.

So, every Sunday evening, he loaded up his Wacky Sack with snacks, drinks and cheap comics. Then he warped over to the crashed Gem ship, and visited his monstrous friends.

He always made sure to be singing the Chaaaaaaaaps jingle as he opened the door. The Centipeedles were easily frightened and had a tendency to spit acid at anyone or anything that scared them.

What he thought of as the ready room was changing, over the weeks. The Centipeedles had figured out ways to plaster bits of paper and wrappings onto their walls and they were... well... it was a sort of art. Some of it was messages, but they were making a story across one of the walls as well.

Steven had learned quickly to warn them when he was taking a picture. The light of his flash alarmed them, and sent them screaming and spitting into their safe corners.

And once everyone had settled down with their chips and juice boxes, they would let him tend their hair. Who knew that Centipeedles liked getting their hair combed?

# Challenge #224: Gem Daycare(2)

1) Steven likes to visit Centi. She and the others have sort of adopted him as an honorary crewmember at this point.

_2) From_ <http://muppetymels.tumblr.com/post/144837683649> _-_

Teaching kindergarten is like being an ambassador to beings from another planet and teaching them how to assimilate to our culture.

" _No, we do not LICK water fountains. Perhaps that is acceptable on your planet, but here on earth we prefer to DRINK from water fountains."_

" _Physics might be a little different on your planet, but here when you throw things they typically fall and break."_

" _Grabbing people and shaking them violently is not considered a proper greeting on this planet." – Anon Guest_

There were two surprising things about Amber. One was that her gem took over the place of hair and dominated most of her head. The second was that she was bigger than Garnet and had the attitude of a nervous toddler. Minus the parts where she might be prone to wetting herself, of course.

"And this is where my Dad stays. He's got more than enough money to buy a house, but he likes the van."

"Van," repeated Amber. Then she made a rumbling noise with her lips. "...brbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbr..."

"That's right! Just like a car. Vroom, vroom." Steven knocked on the side of the van. "Hey dad! Wake up."

"Over here, Stoo-ball. It's been a good– Whoah! Where'd _she_ come from?"

Amber blinked owlishly at Dad. Then she said, "Steven got me out of a tree. I wasn't this big, before, though." She landed in a sitting position on the parking lot tarmac and pointed at him. "Dad?"

"No. He's _my_ dad. You can call him Greg. Or Mister Universe." Steven grinned. "She -um- hasn't had much in the way of socialisation."

"I was in a tree for five thousand years," said Amber. "The bad gems didn't like me. So they threw me out."

"She's... kind of like a little kid," said Steven.

"Oh boy," said Dad. He immediately panicked and said, "No! No... We don't put seagulls in our mouths. It's unsanitary."

How she managed to grab a seagull was a mystery for another day. "Pretty bird," said Amber. "Nice for tree."

"Yes. Very good. Now you can let it go so it can be nice for other trees." Steven smiled desperately as he mimed opening a grasping hand for Amber. "I'm not ready for this. The Gems don't know how to handle her and... well..."

"Bye bye pretty bird!"

Dad could guess where this was going. "You want me to try?" His face went pale. "What about the other two in the barn?"

"Da-a-ad... Lapis and Peridot can barely look after each other. Can you imagine them with Amber?"

Now all of him went pale and all of his remaining hair stood on end. "Yikes. Yes I can. But... I gotta be honest, I'm not as fast as I used to be. I might need a lot more help with this..." He gestured at Amber, who had half of a tyre in her mouth. "...big little problem."

Steven sighed. "And the Maheshwarans are moving out in a couple of weeks. And Amber kind'a scared Connie's parents... Get that outta your mouth, Amber. It's not good."

"Chewy," said Amber.

"Maybe," sighed Greg, "I can teach you all how to deal with her. Part time."

"Dad," Amber drawled, and snatched him up in a hug, petting his hair.

At least she knew how to be gentle.

#  Challenge #225: The Catalogue of Bad Ideas

The invasion was so simple. We sent our soldiers to their children, and they played with them as if they were toys.

When the time came, the attack began, and soon the world was ours.

<https://wilwheaton.tumblr.com/post/148216965069/> _\- quoting Wil Wheaton – Anon Guest_

They were everywhere. Insanely popular. Every child just _had_ to have one. They were obnoxious, of course. Designed by some insane and scheming mind to appeal to the lowest common denominator.

And they were so easy to slap on some unrelated piece of tatt and finally get it to shift.

Kids collected them, of course. The wealthy ones had complete sets. They had _doubles_ or _triples_ that, of course, they never shared with any of their friends.

Poorer children had to settle with one of their favourites. And heaven help the children of religious parents who decided, for reasons unknown, that the toys were from the devil and therefore not allowed in a pure home.

But that didn't really matter when the war came.

The regiments in the rich houses took the wealthy children hostage. The single units in the poorer homes convinced the poor children to join up with others in the warehouses.

Units freed from their boxes went out and lured away the religious children with the hope that they, too, would get to play.

It was over in the space of a day. Humanity's working forces were subjugated. They didn't dare fight.

Or so they thought.

They had also thought that the children were helpless. They did not count on children doing what they did best when they realised that they were essentially unsupervised.

Bedlam.

The invaders had locked their hostages in a warehouse full of everything a child could possibly want. Toys, candy, and art supplies. They had no idea what chaos human children could create with those three ingredients.

The smarter children used those resources creatively. Some used them as directed. Most used them as they were not allowed to do at home. And it was extremely difficult to tell which of those strategies was the most successful.

Especially when the invaders found out what children commonly _did_ to toys. With baseball bats and M-80's. With bottle rockets and chewing gum. With duct tape and screwdrivers.

It took slightly longer for humanity to repel the invaders. Simply because the initial forces were children and children are better at finding distractions.

The invaders could not rally their forces, nor could they prepare a better invasion. The humans were aware, now. They were wary. They were better at paranoia.

And in a few short years, once they were done reverse-engineering the alien technology... the humans were going to be better and conquering.

# Challenge #226: Lost and Found

The Ballad of Apollo XIII _\- sung to the tune of 'The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald', but with a triumphant ending._

"I can't find Ambassador Shayde."

They should have been terrifying words, but they had lost any such sparkle through repetition. It had got to the point that Sherlock and Officer Marken both used Ambassador Shayde as testing material for new recruits.

So far, only one sharp Ensign had passed the Shayde Test.

This... was not that Ensign.

"You've checked her office and her home, of course," prompted Rael.

The luckless trainee smacked headfirst into realisation and ran off in a panic.

Five minutes later, he was back. And out of breath. "She's... not there... either..."

Rael took mercy on the young man and pointed over the balcony where he was standing. To a lower level of the Elemeno. Where Ambassador Shayde had been happily strumming her 'axe' for some time.

"...for the truth will be greater than fictiooooonnnn..." she sang. And she sang it to a group of school-children

"Normally, we'd make you run to all of her other hang-outs," said Rael. "They're scattered all over the greater 1G zone."

The Ensign whimpered.

"You forgot the first rule of handling a figure of some import."

"Whawuztha'?" he panted.

"Read. Their. File," said Lyr, coming up behind him. "I know you opened it, but did you look at more than the in-brief?"

Rael hadn't thought it possible, but the Ensign managed to turn even redder.

"You're relieved, today," Lyr sighed. "Take this as a lesson for _why_ we insist on protocol."

Rael watched his retreat. "Think he'll be back?"

"The Shayde Test has a seventy percent wash-out rate. We'll see."

"If he does come back," Rael paused to see the selfsame red-faced Ensign rush up to the place where Shayde was playing ballads from her time. "Do try to teach him about energy conservation techniques."

# Challenge #227: Jinkies!

 http://blazichu.tumblr.com/post/148360791519/callmegallifreya-blazichu-im-gonna-tell-you

Scoobydoo-esque mystery but with real murder. Murderer goes for Lewis as next victim, gets spectral surprise. "Oh look, I'm dead. Are you happy?"

AN: And proper credit should go to [Blazichu who came up with the idea]

They said he haunted an abandoned town, and murdered people who came through it thanks to misdirections from their GPS. They said he was a survivalist that could eat whatever he hunted. And since skulls and human body parts had been washing downriver, something had to be done.

Rumours abounded of sending the army in, but that wasn't very important right now, as the Mystery Skulls van had both got lost and broken down right in the middle of the aforementioned abandoned town.

Their first warning had been howls in the dark and hollow shells that had once been markers of a bustling economy.

The second had been the "decorations" in what had once been a park. This killer made art out of his victims, once he was done stripping their bodies of any useful flesh.

The third had been the arrow that narrowly missed Vivi's head.

The group scattered. Arthur had become so used to his metal arm that he used it as a shield. Mystery, being a secret Kitsune, went into full Trick Mode and just made chaos everywhere. And Vivi... well... you don't survive long in the paranormal investigation industry without learning more than a few tricks.

Lewis ducked around the nearest corner and discorporated. Once invisible, he floated above the chaos to find the killer. There. The bush that was moving. This guy was pretty smart. He had himself a gilly suit that could be mistaken for the local shrubbery. He moved like a hunter.

Lewis came up from behind him as he was studying tracks. Made himself in his usual mortal seeming.

"...(curse cursing anatomical improbability) _tourists_. Come up in my town. Mess up my ecology. I'll show 'em. I'll show 'em all... Teach 'em good th' (cursing cursers)."

"Hey mister," said Lewis. He wanted to ask why he was doing this, but never got that far. The killer had lightning reflexes and an olympic-grade compound bow.

Lewis looked down at the arrow sticking out of his chest. "Nice try," he said, letting his mortal guise fall away and revealing his flame-skull ghostly self. "But I'm already dead."

He didn't give up, quick. Three more arrows sailed through Lewis' non-corporeal chest.

Nobody in the next town could ever figure out how a group of kids and their dog managed to catch, hog-tie, and tape a confession from the survivalist killer.

All that the man would ever say about it was, "Don't let them get me again!" over and over and over.

"We have special methods," grinned Vivi.

#  Challenge #228: We'll Let You Terraform Mars For Free(1)

_Both from this post:_  http://iopele.tumblr.com/post/148437315937/bioluminosity-jean-bo-peep-artiestroke

1) I really want a science fiction story where aliens come to invade earth and effortlessly wipe out humanity, only to be fought off by the wildlife.

They were expecting military resistance. They weren't counting on bears.

2) (Description of monstrous animal, weighs 3 tons, runs 30kph, bites 8000 newtons. Just as fast in water. Only some crewmembers who dropped all their gear and ran survived.)

_"You later describe the creature to one of the humans you captured, wanting to know the name of the monstrosity that will haunt your nightmares for cycles to come._

The human smiles as it speaks a single word, slowly and distinctly, in its barbaric tongue.

" _Hippopotamus."_

Biological warfare is as old as the concept of hurling corpses over an enemy's fortifications in order to spread disease. And it was certainly nothing new to the Tyrvaki. They had honed it to a razor's edge. They had selections of plagues that would wipe out all intelligent life on a planet so they could move in.

It was the ultimate in weapons that killed the people yet left the buildings standing.

Or it was. Until they picked on a small, blue-green planet in orbit around a lacklustre star.

First... the chosen plagues they seeded into the planet didn't _quite_ work. Pandemic after pandemic, the native cogniscents had procedures to curtail it. That is, when they weren't just plain immune.

It was infuriating.

The Tyrvaki settlers were impatient, of course, so the waiting colony ships sent down the military to pacify what natives were left and send them running out of the cities.

What they found was that the natives had already fled the cities and the majority were staying in isolated pockets and subsisting off the landscape. The few that remained behind surrendered. Seemingly already docile.

They had a multitude of barbaric tongues. Nothing like the musical ululations of Tyrvakk. But they did seem eager enough to please.

At least they were... before the very wildlife attacked.

Without the native cogniscents to keep them in check, the fauna proliferated. Omnivores lived off their garbage. Herbivores lived off their wrecked gardens. Carnivores lived off the herbivores. And all of the above seemed willing to try the Tyrvaki out as a new food source.

And worse, there was a plague spreading amongst the settlers that seemed to originate from blood-sucking insects. People were _dying_ because of _insect backwash_.

Then they came. Large as some of the primitive human vehicles. Covered in fur. Growling and snarling and made of pure muscle. Their claws tore easily through Tyrvaki fortifications. No food store was safe from them. And it took an entire squadron and their accumulated firepower to stun it enough to dump in back in the forest from whence it came.

The humans found this amusing. But of course, they gave their young these... _bears_... as childhood playthings.

Invading Earth may have been a mistake.

#  Challenge #229: We'll Let You Terraform Mars For Free(2)

_Both from this post:_  http://iopele.tumblr.com/post/148437315937/bioluminosity-jean-bo-peep-artiestroke

1) I really want a science fiction story where aliens come to invade earth and effortlessly wipe out humanity, only to be fought off by the wildlife.

They were expecting military resistance. They weren't counting on bears.

2) (Description of monstrous animal, weighs 3 tons, runs 30kph, bites 8000 newtons. Just as fast in water. Only some crewmembers who dropped all their gear and ran survived.)

_"You later describe the creature to one of the humans you captured, wanting to know the name of the monstrosity that will haunt your nightmares for cycles to come._

The human smiles as it speaks a single word, slowly and distinctly, in its barbaric tongue.

" _Hippopotamus."_

The humans insisted that their _bears_ enjoyed forested areas. Except for a polar variant that liked vast expanses of ice. Therefore, it was entirely logical to resettle in an area that was as far as they could get from both.

The Tyrvaki chose a river delta roughly near the equator, situated in one of the larger land masses and conveniently without very much in the way of foliage.

They thought they could terraform the area to suit themselves. After all, the Tyrvaki were the most advanced and civilised people in known space. They had conquered all planets they came across. They would bend this one to their will as well.

Security patrols began to go missing. For months. Rumours abounded of a silent killer that struck without being seen. Even robot probes vanished.

One lucky survivor returned. Without his armour. Without his weapons. Without his pack. She was bruised and battered and near to exhaustion. But finally, the mysterious killer had an identification.

They came from the water. They were large and grey. Rounded, not furry. But they had a groaning, growling call. They could run at a little over eight Distance Units per second, and they crushed the Tyrvaki vehicles under their weight. They had to weigh more than twenty-seven hundred Weight Units.

Sor'keth had witnessed the beast biting through Tyrvaki combat armour to crush the leg of an unlucky soldier. Scientists calculated that their bite pressure had to be eight thousand newtons.

The water was not safe. The riversides were not safe.

They confronted one of the giggling humans in their midst. These cogniscents seemed to delight in the misfortunes of the Tyrvaki.

"What is this beast?" demanded the colonial commander.

The human spoke in their barbaric tongue. Just one word. " _Hippopotamus_."

This planet was going to be one of the _difficult_ ones.

#  Challenge #230: An Everyday Misadventure

 http://mrfebruarius.tumblr.com/post/144148482350/papyrus-deserves-to-be-carried-around-like

Image: Frisk carrying papyrus bridal style, apparently running. Papyrus seems surprised and confused "Papyrus deserves to be carried around like princess that he is."

"NYA-HA-HOW-OW-OW!" Papyrus rolled into a sitting position on the field, clutching at his left boot. A floating number indicated that he had taken quite a few points off his total HP.

Frisk instantly stopped playing and ran to their friend. They signed, _Do you need help?_

"The Great Papyrus usually laughs at danger," said the mighty skeleton through gritted teeth. "But gopher holes are not funny."

_I know who can help,_ signed Frisk, and with their typical carefree attitude, picked up Papyrus in their arms and ran for Mama Toriel.

Monsters are made of dust and magic, and are often lighter than they look. Skeleton monsters are doubly so. But it was still a surprise to all involved to see a small child carrying an adult-sized skeleton monster to the watching spectators at a full run.

Mama Toriel was already ready with her healing magic. Just as Dunkle Sans seemed to appear nearby as if by teleportation.

"BRO!" It was the first and only time that anyone had heard Sans use capitals.

"Worry not, dear brother," cheered Papyrus. It was a thin veneer of happiness that barely covered the pain and distress underneath. "'Tis but a flesh wound."

"You have a sprain," diagnosed Toriel. "And a minor crack." She flooded Papyrus with green fire bullets. "There. Good as new. But I do advise that you sit this round out." Already, mole monsters were filling in the hole in the field, and searching for any others.

Frisk picked him up again and gently deposited him in one of the vacant camping chairs.

"You are stronger than you look, Human," said Papyrus. "Of course you made a worthy foe. And an even better friend."

Frisk grinned.

# Challenge #231: Seek Understanding

 http://immaplatypus.tumblr.com/post/148474190835/fieldbears-ursulavernon-adamusprime-if

if you didn't know stuff about humans you would think they get mad at the weirdest stuff

like one human raises their thumb to another human that's good, humans like that

one human raises their middle finger to another human

humans do NOT LIKE THAT

humans think that is a BAD FINGER

don't you DARE raise that specific finger at me

any other finger is ok just not that one

–

Anthropology will be the hard elective in alien school.

–

" _Is the middle finger weaponized? Does it spray a venom perhaps"_

" _No, student Xeepzorp, it is frail and harmless like the others"_

" _Fascinating"_

Ever since humans joined the Galactic Alliance, the Ask An Expert Anthropologist app had been rising in popularity. Humans could be relied upon to be confusing.

Humans from Britania lived on tannin solutions, and never said one word where ten could be found to dance around it. Conversely, humans from N'oz had the planet-wide tradition of 'bullshitting' anyone who wasn't from N'oz.

Other cogniscents in the alliance had to understand that the Britanians weren't hiding anything, and the N'ozzies were not _malevolently_ lying. Or that the Amitans thought it was polite to talk to another cogniscent in that cogniscent's language.

There were entire threads dedicated to common human gestures, and which ones were rude[1]. And sometimes, there would be explanations as to _why_ those gestures were rude.

Most of _those_ discussions devolved into puzzlement concerning the species-wide apparent fear of their own genitals and the act of reproduction. There was even a treatise on why pictures of genetalia were the worst of ice-breaking stratagems amongst many humans.

Excepting, of course, the humans who came from the very permissive colony of Friluv.

No origin planet was a monolith, but most cogniscents agreed that things would be much easier if the humans just made up their collective minds.

[1] Spoilers: it's most of them.

# Challenge #232: Almost Like Home

Vulcans discover Australian wildlife. – Anon Guest

Out in the Never-Never, it's either deathly dry or flooded to the point of cataclysm. This time, when the Vulcans sent their science team to investigate, it was deadly dry. Though they had a native guide with them, they seemed most at home in this arid and hostile environment.

Some even felt chilly, and wore coats.

"Ey up," said the native guide. "Got a nesting emu up ahead."

'Ey up', they were assured, was Australian for 'stop what you're doing and look out, there's trouble near by' which was a lot to pack into a mere two syllables.

The Vulcans formed a defensive ring and almost put their scanning equipment at bay. Then they followed their guide's lead and hunkered close to the ground. No-one sat, because they understood the need to take off at a sprint.

The guide had her voice lowered to a murmur. "Now. We might be alright if they've hatched? But we could also be okay if he's still brooding. When they've all hatched, or they're close to being hatched? He won't want to leave any of 'em alone."

"Query," murmured T'rang. "It is usually the female bird who broods a nest. Is this not so on this occasion?"

"Yeah, nah," said the guide. The Vulcans had been assured that this was agreeing, and then answering in the typical, convoluted, Australian style. "Your emu or your ostrich? They've got things going the other way. The male broods while the female goes off and finds another bloke? It's to guarantee that some of the next generation actually make it to the next breeding season." Sharon picked up a random stick and started playing with it. "Life can be rough in the Aussie outback."

"Query," said S'hok, the token male. "Is this the Australian tradition of 'bullshitting' and was that one of your memes just now?"

"Nah yeah," giggled the Australian. Which was answering and then agreeing. "No bullshit. That there's a bloke emu. And the thing with the stick was a meme. Hang on. Someone's decided to say 'hello'..." Sharon used her stick to gently lift a scorpion off a Vulcan foot. "You lot are probably immune? But I'd rather not take any chances. This scorpion's venom can kill a buffalo in two minutes flat."

A chorus of scanners activated, and the closest thing to excited Vulcan murmuring commenced. Eyebrows raised all around and one brave lady picked the creature up by its stinger.

"Fascinating. Genera arachnidae... yet its body form is vastly similar to insecta. The armament indicates a need for defensive and offensive combat."

"And it is edible," added another Vulcan.

"Yeah nah, I'm not scarin' up a scorpion casserole for you lot."

# Challenge #233: Pax Multilingual

_Ghosts and the word 'boo'. Details_  here _._

"What the hell did you say to that demon, Demon?"

"Shayde," said the demon. "And she was'nae a demon, she was Seeliegh. A Fae."

"You speak gibberish, demon," said Sir Ethil. "More so than usual. Everyone knows that fairies are small and have butterfly wings. That monster looked more like an insect trying to appear human."

Behind Sir Ethil, Tragyk the Mage snorted. He had a lot of trouble with pollen, every time Sir Ethil spoke. It was almost miraculous.

"I said 'fae', ye dingleberry. They're a lot different, ye ken. And fer yer big fat information, I was jus' talkin wi' her in Gaelic. Her home tongue, as it were."

"You converse with too many unworldly beasts."

"'Cordin' tae you, I _am_ an unworldly beast. Why _can't_ I have a wee chat wi' me fellow beasties?"

Not for the first time, Sir Ethil vented a growl of frustration. "The entire point of a Hero's Journey is to _combat_ the forces of evil, gather and gain his strength, and make the world a better place by it."

"And rescue the ball. I mean, sexy lamp. I mean, Princess."

Sir Ethil stared at the creature. "You have the most peculiar way of talking, demon. And I would know what you said to each other, ere we head into the Forbidden Temple."

"Aw, it was just a bit o' parley. Which one of us best represented th' local intelligent life, what th' pubs are like, which way tae th' nearest crossroads. Just nonse. She was lost, ye ken. How would you be if ye took a wrong turn an' some lummock twice yer weight hauled intae ye wi' a bloody great sword?"

Sir Ethil laughed. "I would welcome the challenge and fight the foe with all my might, knowing that the Gods are on my side!"

Now it was the demon's turn to growl. "Now I ken tha' empathy is yer dump stat."

"What is it babbling about, Mage?"

"Just her home tongue of Nonse, Sir Ethil," sighed Tragyk. "Pay it no mind."

The demon coughed its way around, "Should be easy."

Sir Ethil grumbled his mandatory, "Silence, Demon." And had but a mere handful of second's worth of peace and quiet before their path was blocked by a fearsome spectre.

"Boo," it said.

The demon replied, "Pacem dicimus, nihil mali passus est."

The spectre deflated into the shadow of a little old lady. "Ah. Nasturtiums sapiunt."

"Don't tread on th' flowers," said the demon.

Now Sir Ethil was getting irritated. "Really? Do all ghosts speak Latin, now?"

"Well o' course," breezed the demon. "It's a dead language."

# Challenge #234: Not-Bear

_I'm not saying it's bears, but it's bears. (_Details _)_

"And in other news, Australian zoologists have managed to capture the fabled Yowie. Down by the little outback town of Canyapassabeermate[1], a local dingo trapper found more than he bargained for in one of his cage traps."

They cut to the live feed where the only person wearing corks on their hat was the American newscaster.

"G'day from down under," she cheered, blatantly ignoring the winces of contact embarrassment from the surrounding Australians. "Today the entire world gets to look at Australia's very own marsupial _bear_!" Kids behind her mugged for the camera.

The cage was improvised, and made mostly out of someone's backyard. Chicken wire between four tall posts contained not one, but a group of three... animals.

It looked like a Kangaroo and a Wombat had got together and had tried to Bear, and got some very essential details completely wrong. The least bearlike of the trio was the skinny little joey, just beginning to explore the world outside its mother's pouch.

The mother lounged on the thin grass eking out an existence on the Canyapassabeermate soil, and ate a branch of a Bottlebrush with the mechanical resignation of a species that doesn't have much past Bottlebrushes to eat. The eldest of her young lounged against her and periodically tried a leaf or two to see if their flavour had improved.

"Herbert Galleywoo, you caught these creatures?"

"Galleywo," he corrected. "Nah yeah, I was tryin' t' catch th' dingoes that've been goin' about and muckin' things up, right. They're an absolute bugger when the tourists've been feedin' 'em. Bloody yanks. Savin' _your_ presence. Anyway, I was up, crack'a sparrow fart, checkin' th' traps and there's this bloody great noise." He tried to imitate it, only to be corrected by the mother.

Turns out that the name 'Yowie' is completely onomatopoeic. And nothing close to the blood-chilling noise that actually issued from the animal's throat.

"Yeh, like that," said Herbert, not turning a hair. "So I went and looked and there's these three. I figured it might be worth a few bob t' get 'em checked out by Parks an' Wildlife... Didn't know I had a new species on me hands. Now there's all sorts comin' up here and hopin' t' catch a breeding pair 'n' all. Wanna know what me bait is."

"And -uh- what was your bait?"

"Hot dogs 'n' peanut butter. Bloke at Parks 'n' Wildlife reckons they're omnivores, but I reckon they're too bloody lazy t' actually catch much."

As if to prove his words, the mother Yowie closed her eyes and dozed off. Bottlebrush still in her mouth and front paws.

The newscaster on the spot had to close out over the sound of the town kids all trying to outdo each other at Yowie Calls.

[1] I want to hear Americans trying to pronounce this, ngl.

# Challenge #235: Grass No Greener

_Supervillian grad student, just trying to get by: (_Details _)_

AN: This tale harkens back to story 1 in [this thing ]

I tried to tell her it wouldn't work. Convincing a superhero Aunty to finance a neophyte supervillain requires more points in debate than dear little Wondergal ever possessed.

Just like every other rich person, Aunty Wonderbabe thought that all the poor people had to do to get ahead was work harder.

"Fine," said Wondergal. "Then I demand to have my allowance revoked for the rest of the semester. If I can work hard, I shouldn't have a problem, right?"

"If you want to pick that animal's side," announced Aunty Wonderbabe, "Then you can live like her too." And just like that, she was kicked out with just the uniform she had on.

So Wondergal moved into my tiny little closet apartment that had just enough room to turn around in and fart.

It was cramped with just me in it. What there was of 'kitchen' was a one-ass nook full of refrigerator, toaster oven, and one cardboard cupboard that was in danger of falling apart. And of course, it was bare. There was just enough room for the single bed and the crate I used to hold my laptop on.

Wondergal summarised it in one word. "Yikes."

"It ain't much, but mi casa, es tu casa. At least until the absentee landlord receives a complaint about two of us living here so he can kick us out and raise the rent some more."

She giggled. "That can't happen, that's illegal."

Sweet summer child... Of course I helped her alternate identity get work. It was easy to sell a privileged child on the outs with her rich family. What she wasn't used to was the work.

She might have powers, but this kind of stuff wears you out on a spiritual level. Smiling and being nice to asshole customers. Staying quiet about those same customers and their sexual assault. Taking out the garbage, taking in the orders, and taking all of the blame.

By the second week, she was using her X-ray vision to help me dumpster dive.

The nearest food place that was open at the hours we had time to be free was a dive. No vegetables worth mentioning, of course. Packaged stuff that was definitely not vegan, atkins, or anything else approved. Possibly not FDA approved either. But it filled the holes and that was what mattered.

She auctioned off her authentic, signed, Wondergal costume to internet perverts so we could make the rent. She lost every single standard she had when she was rich.

And then she had a brilliant idea. She blogged about it as Sally Stevens. How she had a fight with her sponsors over a relationship with Maria -me- her girlfriend. And now she was trying to make do on the other side of the fence.

It helped that she was blonde and pretty. It helped that I stayed in the background and didn't say a lot. She got quite popular. And then YouTube pulled her account just before a big cheque was due. We were depending on that to pay for the new cupboard after the old one finally collapsed.

And everyone knew how badly our landlord was overcharging, but we couldn't afford a lawyer. Everything is shut up and pay up when you're that broke.

It took us a few months of busting our asses, but that one was the final straw. Wondergal turned to a life of crime. We got away with a couple of heists before Aunty Wonderbabe turned up to crash the party.

My Sally did all the heavy hitting. Two months of creep dodging between jobs definitely honed her reflexes. Meanwhile, I managed to sneak off with the loot.

We chilled out opposite the jewellery store that started it all, two nights later. All the money we got from fencing the loot was already spent, and our debtors always wanted more.

"Crime is a symptom of a world turned rotten," Sally brooded.

"Hey. You're completely the wrong gender for the stubbly anti-hero."

"High time there was an anti-heroine. Right?"

I giggled. "Could call yourself Miss Methadone."

She got it in an instant, and laughed her first real laugh in months. "Robin the Hood and her merry dames?" she countered.

"Eh." I sighed, looking down at the store. They'd upped their security of course. I couldn't See a way in any more.

"Y'know..." said Sally. "If I still had a Wondergal outfit, I could walk in and convince them that I needed all those diamonds to save the world."

"Diamonds are shit. Go for the sapphires. At least you get close to market value on the resale."

But, as it turned out, neither of us needed to. Sally still had the passcodes for a bunch of super-lairs. One, unified, blitz attack on all the heroic resources and all of a sudden the entire city was upside-down.

And that made us the first paired Valedictorians, that year. Sally insisted.

#  Challenge #236: Epic Levels of Bullshit

_I knew about_  this story _, but I had never heard the reasoning behind having the 'roos in the simulation to begin with. Makes a lot more sense, now._

[AN: The real funny part was that this story was used as an example of _checking your GD code_ before release. I heard it in one of my BInfTech lectures. Australia just seems to be a nexus of firkin weird stories. See: The Emu War (spoilers, the Emus won)]

"...and then the Kangaroos reappeared over the ridge, but this time, they were armed with Bazookas."

The audience laughed on cue.

Dusty had had enough, she raised her hand. "Yeah, that's a thing now," she said, in full Bullshit Mode. "We never have enough recruits for the army, but we do have some bloody clever animal trainers? And Kangaroos have opposable thumbs, so it's no big deal to teach 'em how to pull a trigger."

"You're serious?" said her neighbour at the lecture hall.

"Yeah, there's a secret base up at Coonabarbiebong. Don't bother googling it. You won't find anything. Australia's been using its wildlife to repel invaders for thousands of years. We've just stepped it up a notch. That little programming error of yours? It was written off as an error because we were already doin' the top secret research."

"You know an awful lot about it if it's top secret."

"Well, yeah," lied Dusty. "Me cousin works at the cafeteria, up there. She's also a foster mum t' the joeys before they're ready for the first stage of training." She leaned forward in her seat, "I shouldn't really be tellin' ya this, but the tricky part is rewarding the 'roos in time for a hit. See, we've been usin' the kind of artillery that doesn't need much in the way o' maintenance, y'know. Manpower. But the 'roos won't shoot again if they don't get their Weet Bix, so–"

"Wait. Weet Bix? Really?"

"Yeah, yer average 'roo'll do just about anythin' for a bit o' Weet Bix. 'Specially the ones with the fruit in 'em? But working out a hit in the wild's been a bit of a problem. Y' need computers? And those are the first things to go down. And then y' got the problem of them firin' at passenger planes. That's why they picked Coonabarbiebong, it's right in the red centre, and buggerall goes there. Right now, they're busy breedin' 'em fer pattern recognition." Dusty paused, looking at all of the gawping yanks under her spell. "At least, that was the last I heard of it."

"...holy shit," someone whispered. A hundred hands reached for their phones, discreetly tapping out messages to people they knew.

Dusty allowed herself a moment of pride. That was the best bullshit she had ever woven.

Months after that particular lecture, she read a headline about Americans sinking millions of dollars into training bears and eagles to attack invaders with specially made artillery.

...okay. Just _maybe_ , she might have overdone it a touch.

#  Challenge #237: People in Glass Houses Shouldn't

Garnet vs. the PTA

[AN: Cue _Harper Valley PTA_ :D]

Steven's first semester at school had not gone great. He was failing advanced math, and flunked right out of sharing that class with Connie at all. And on the night before the PTA meeting, Steven came home with a note.

It was not a criticism of Steven, nor of his scholastic performance. It was a criticism of the Gems and their 'unconventional' lifestyle being a reason why they should not be raising Steven at all.

Pearl, of course, went ballistic, ranting for a good half hour about their absolute nerve and disastrous lack of understanding concerning the Gems.

Amethyst, looking at the report card, said, "Dude, how can you be failing history? We taught you everything we saw."

"...i think it's _because_ you taught me everything you saw," murmured Steven.

"Why those– I have half a mind to– I should–" Pearl raged.

"You should calm down," said Garnet. "I'll handle them."

Steven followed her reluctantly. He had been going to a formal school for little more than a handful of months, and he was already afraid to return to it. He clung to Garnet's hand with a white-knuckled grip. Then he and Connie clung to each other.

Garnet sat and waited. Murmuring abounded amongst a certain group of parents. The group of 'morally superior' parents who liked to dictate all kinds of ridiculous things. Including fresh vegan food for the cafeteria, but not paying for anyone in the school kitchen more qualified than "microwave and serve". Or, if they failed to get that, then they got someone who was only suitable for "deep fry only".

And then they complained that there was no fresh vegan food for their little darling who came home reeking of chicken nuggets and cheese.

Everyone secretly hated them.

Garnet bided her time until the moral superiority had to say a few words about some other parents' lifestyle choices. Those were her actual words. "Lifestyle choices."

"At least we're not roaring drunk by the time our kids come home," said Garnet. "You really should stop getting bargain wine from Lupin's Winery. They water down all their dregs for their bottles of Chateau Blanc Cheque."

All of the non-morals gasped.

"How dare you," said another moral. "We do our utmost for our kids."

"If, by that, you mean buying them all the shiny toys they could eat, then you probably are," said Garnet. "But you're never around when they need you. Your regular art movie nights are their worst nightmares."

One of the morals began cackling to herself.

"Don't laugh," said Garnet. "Your vegan-friendly child waits until you are asleep and sneaks out of your house to go and gorge themselves on late-night Cluck Buckets. And furthermore - your gluten-free lemon bars taste like they were dragged backwards through rats' nest."

Several parents on both sides quietly and victoriously whispered, "Yes!"

"And before you start talking about other parents' moral choices," said Garnet. "Five out of eight of you 'morally superior' parents are having affairs."

The moral parents were surprisingly quiet for the rest of the meeting. And the rest of Steven's scholastic career.

# Challenge #238: Pick of the Three

" _You can have it done well. You can have it done fast. You can have it done cheap."_

" _Pick any two!" – Anon Guest_

"You _dare_ talk to me like that?"

The artisan didn't look up. "I talk to everyone like that. Fast and well is not cheap. Well and cheap is not fast. Cheap and fast is not well. Is there more that needs explaining?"

"Do you know who I am?"

The artisan spared a moment to look up. She regarded the king of their realm, master of all he surveyed, and he who controlled who lived and died... in the same manner as a cat might contemplate the very same man. "Yes," she said, and went back to her work.

"Then do me the honour of addressing me with respect."

"Your pardon, sire, but the time I take to honour you steals time from my work. This is a work that must be done fast and well. I have little time for sleep, little time for food, and no time for manners."

"You care for your work more than your head?" challenged the King.

"My work feeds my family and myself. It pays for my home, and it pays for all that we need. If you take my head, then _I_ have no more worries and _you_ have one less artisan." She ran her fingers over her work and reached for another tool. "And since you're demanding my time, you must want me to make something. You can't have that, _and_ my head, too."

The King rumbled a growl. He knew she had a point. But he did concoct a question. "What if I just want one?"

"One what?"

"One quality from your list of fast, cheap, or well."

"Well, when I am done with my work, I may kowtow at you and bless your name for being the first man or woman alive to only want _one_ quality in their commission. All of them demand three."

"How long until you are done with your work?"

"Three days, but please let me have one more to rest."

In four days, the King returned. "I would have you do something well. The best of your work, a shining beacon of wonder and art for the entire kingdom to marvel at."

"I can do that," said the artisan. "You must understand that it will not be cheap. It will not be fast. And I would have your word that you will not execute me or my assistants when it is done."

"I agree to all three terms," said the King.

It took years. It cost a fortune. Yet everyone who saw the work agreed that it was the most magnificent piece that had ever been made. And the artisan was allowed a pension, and a comfortable house to retire in.

If you seek a moral, learn this: All work has a cost, and it will be paid in one way or another.

# Challenge #239: So Unfair

School 'Pain in the Anatomy': "Well, he'll either wind up in Jail or grow up to be an Archbishop." – Anon Guest

Life is unfair. Anyone trying to tell you different is either trying to sell you something, or is one of the people who actively make life unfair. Such are the lessons drilled into us at school. Not by the teachers, oh no. They're still trying to sell us all the ideal that hard work earns good rewards.

The lesson is taught by other children.

Cruel and harsh and unrelenting. Beating down anyone who is different. Reaching for the heights of popularity by stepping on all of those who also stand out.

The stepped on cannot stop them. And that is another harsh lesson. Those in authority will do nothing to the steppers, and everything to the steppees when they inevitably snap.

And then these wild creatures are released upon the world. The steppees do their utmost to salvage a life out of the wreckage, and those who step...

Tamara stopped cold when she saw the name from her past. Jamie Stenson. His face and name were plastered all over the renovation walls and bus stops along the street. He was doing some talk about synergising success.

He'd lost most of his hair. He'd got fat. And he also, apparently, was worth billions of dollars.

This was the kid who had called her all sorts of unprintable things, looked as innocent as an angel when finally dragged to the office, and could have gotten away with murder. Had, in fact, nearly done so.

Tamara tried to put it out of her mind. The little stain on her daily life was off doing something else. Far away from her. He could not, and would not, be bothering her any more.

Until the day he and some of his lawyers were in her office and seeking her accounting help. They had two hand-trucks worth of unsorted paperwork and the expectation that she would do miracles. His old accountant had been cooking the books and he needed everything unriddled before his next divorce.

Tamara felt compelled to say, "You were a pain in the ass to me in school."

"I was a pain in the ass to everyone in school," he said. "You'll have to be more specific."

"You called me Grape Ape, amongst other things, and damn near killed me on sports day because you thought it might be funny."

He could have said, "I'm sorry." He could have feigned horror at his past self. What he did say doomed him. "Ah, not worth remembering. Water under the bridge."

Tamara faked a pleasant smile and told him she would undertake investigations at once.

_Thorough_ investigations.

It didn't take her long to realise that Jamie Stenson's accountant had been cooking the books in his favour. But also, so had Jamie Stenson. He was guilty of shuffling assets between shell companies to generate virtual money. And it showed a pattern of infidelity that five of his eight ex-wives should find very interesting indeed. Especially since he'd reneged his way out of paying them any kind of alimony based on his allegedly faithful support of their chosen lifestyles.

All of this information got 'accidentally' sent to his exes, the IRS, and a couple of news agencies that despised him almost as much as she had.

He was going to wind up both in debt and in jail.

"Not worth remembering," she would tell him. "Water under the bridge."

And then she'd deliberately drive her wheelchair over his toes. Reminding him that some things that _he_ forgot would stay with others for the rest of their lives.

# Challenge #240: Indomitable

" _1... 2... 3..."_

Crash

" _Now we know it's three seconds deep!"_

Humans. The Ch'voth had been essentially using them as cannon fodder for a passage of months before they realised two things:

First - humans were extremely hard to kill.

Second - their primary method of finding answers seemed to be 'throw things at it'.

It didn't matter what the question was. They would throw things at it. The Ch'voth theorised that most of their science evolved in the same way.

How fast is light? Let's throw some at some spinning gears and see!

Can we make a bridge here? Let's throw a rope across and find out!

Can we colonise this new planet? Let's throw some people and equipment there!

And, one that Ch'terin saw herself: How deep is this hole? Let's drop a rock in it!

"What are–?"

"Ssh!" The human was counting under their breath. "Five. It's five seconds deep..." Now they had a stick. And a human with a stick could do terrible things indeed. "With a fall rate of eight DU's per second per second... hm, hm, hm... One hundred DU's to the bottom of that thing. And there's no telling if it goes out."

Ch'terin watched the human poke at the ground with their stick.

"Can't go back. If we go down, we might be cut off worse..." the human sighed. "You're not going to make it if I scout and backtrack all the time, and I have to save you because I like getting paid." Another sigh. "You're not going to like this, my friend... but I'll have to carry you."

"That... that goes against protocol," objected Ch'terin. She did not voice her concerns about this dangerous mammal pack-bonding with her. Now was not the time.

"You like living. I like you living. What's to argue about?" said the human. And it was not as if Ch'terin could actually fight them. Humans were frighteningly strong.

And frighteningly fast. And frighteningly cavalier with their own lives. And... just plain frightening.

Ch'terin took all of her sedatives, but was still amber-lining her stress indicators by the time the human got back to their vessel.

Humans, she would later report, also solved problems by throwing _themselves_ at them.

# Challenge #241: Humans!

" _Failure is always an option"_

"Look. It was either try it, or give up and die," said Kel.

"There was still a chance for death to not be an option," argued K'niith.

"Yes. And I took it."

"I _meant_ ," sighed K'niith, "that there was a chance that did _not_ involve your insane gravity games."

Kel folded her arms. "It's called 'parkour' and it's a form of art."

"It's suicidal insanity, is what it is, you could have broken every bone in your body with that crazed stunt."

"Of course not, I was aiming for _them_. This is exactly what happens when Chitanians try to be badass space pirates against a Terran Marine."

K'niith glared at her. "There are no records of any other human doing anything like what you did, Cogniscent. I will have nightmares for the rest of my life about the way you launched yourself off of five different surfaces before..." she had to stop and take a mild sedative. "You went right _through_ their primary engine like it was paper."

"Not my fault that they never got the memo about sucrose," argued Kel. "It wasn't even eggshell structured. It would have blown come the first iron micro-meteor to cross their path. So in a roundabout way, I kind'a did them a favour."

"You blew up their ship with your left boot!"

"They surrendered, though."

K'niith took another sedative. There had to be a way to explain to the deathworlder mammal, preferably in small words, that destroying the oppositions ship by flying-kicking it in the engine was _not_ what anyone sensible would refer to as a quality negotiation tactic.

"The goal was peace. Well done for achieving it. What I am trying to _suggest_ , Cogniscent, is that you went about it entirely the wrong way."

The human blinked at her. Were they thinking, or waiting for another point? "Yeah, okay," they said eventually. "But my way was quicker."

#  Challenge #242: Unnecessary Invention

It's not only necessity, it's wire coat hangers, paper clips, and to quote Thomas Edison, "All you need to be an inventor is Imagination and a pile of junk."

[AN: Edison probably stole that line from Tesla ;) ]

Station residents called it the Labyrinth, if they knew about it at all. Every station that's been around long enough acquires a zone that fades through neglect and into an area where people who don't want to be found are wont to hide.

Those areas don't exactly have residents. They have _denizens_. Law touches these realms lightly, if they touch them at all. So long as nobody is murdered, the understanding goes, or as long as nobody buggers with station biota, the law leaves it mostly alone.

They keep to themselves. They do the things that nobody else is willing to do. They do not, by and large, make waves.

Amalgam Station has been in use long enough for its area of lawlessness to become its own district. It took some years for a treaty to evolve between it and Station Security. Resulting in a tradition of officers patrolling the main streets and allowing any trouble the denizens might have to come to them.

And, lately, there have been JOATs. Since time has become money, a popular method of paying taxes has been in community services. The Labyrinth is a community that likes services that don't cost them anything.

Today's JOAT wears brown under their rainbow coat. And carries a slate and some chalk. They found an open space by what looked like a crossroads and waited.

It took an hour for the first of the kids to peek out at them. A further hour for one to approach.

"'T'cha doin'?" demanded the kid. They wore all colours imaginable and a few that weren't. Like most child denizens, they carried their shoes over their shoulder and travelled the Labyrinth barefoot.

"I'm waiting to learn," said the JOAT.

"Y' ain't got no school?"

"School can't teach me what I want to learn."

A second sprite emerged from a duct. "So what'cha learnin' here?"

"I'm learning how here works. Would you like to teach me?"

"Trade?" said the elder.

"I'm trading JOAT lessons. If you want them."

Both sides knew that JOATs from outside the Labyrinth didn't always respect the denizens' need for secrecy. Or their need for this ruined space. The Elemeno was testimony to that. But, a JOAT who came _from_ the Labyrinth might make the changes that everyone needed. That was Sei the JOAT's goal.

And one of the lessons was making things that weren't needed until they were made. The kids already knew the best scrounge items. What they didn't know was how to put them together and make new things. There was no shame in repairing broken needs, but invention was a boon that the Labyrinth desperately needed.

And there was plenty of raw material. And even better, the people with it didn't view it as junk. They saw it as a potential income. And if a thing was beyond hope, there were ways to recycle it by hand. Break it into as many component parts as possible and make something entirely new out of it.

Of course Sei helped with the heavy lifting. Learning how to create things on a forge was always hot and heavy work. And in a few months, there were adults who drifted in to learn.

There were no names. Sei expected none. The skill market worked exclusively on what one could teach another.

And on one day, when Sei was resting her feet, one of the kids asked a good question.

"What're you inventing here?"

Sei smiled. "A better tomorrow."

# Challenge #243: Inconvenience Job

The dreaded 5 minute job. Almost always guaranteed to blossom into hours of frustration and searching for the 'right' tools.

Time is money. Literally. Citizens of the Galactic Alliance pay for things in increments of time. And since the humans came along, some money has names.

For unknown reasons, five Minutes is a Zac. Ten Minutes is a Bob, and Thirty Minutes is known as the Five-Minute Job.

Human nicknames will forever confuse other cogniscents.

But not those cogniscents who have had to _perform_ five minute jobs. They don't need to ask about it. They _know_.

They know exactly what it's like to be called to a short job, one that should, allegedly, only take five minutes. And it might have, should the caller in question detail what was wrong and whether or not it was intermittent.

What happens is a litany of errors. The flaw observed has nothing to do with the suspected device. The correct tools are not present. Once the correct tools are retrieved, there follows a laborious investigation that reveals that, despite evidence to the contrary, the suspected device is in perfect working order. This results in _another_ trip for a completely different set of correct tools... and so on.

JOATs have become wise to the dreaded five-minute job, and when one is impending, they go and fetch their _big_ toolkits. This inevitably leads to the problem being an incorrectly plugged-in plug. But they would much rather the problem be small, than massively inconvenient.

Nevertheless, the traditional reply to, "It'll only take five minutes," has become, "We both know it won't."

#  Challenge #244: Signed, Sealed, and Ignored

If you write a letter of complaint or ask questions by handwritten letter, the recipient is duty bound to answer. Really good way to keep "The Hired Help" aka Politicians and Bureaucrats on their toes.

_Dear Employee,_ wrote Carval Seng. Letters that started like this were never a good sign for the recipient.

Seng wrote carefully and distinctly about the lack of maintenance between elections, of how people in hir district would like to see the orange of maintenance uniforms a little more regularly than once every four years. Ze wrote of how the public amenities were poorly maintained, poorly funded, and how private amenities hardly needed honest taxpayers' money.

Ze went on to detail that those who paid for their advertising would not be the crucial vote, come next election, and citizens like Seng were more important than those with gross amounts of money. In fact, taxes should be lesser for those who had the least, and greater for those who had the most. It was not, after all, possible to squeeze blood out of a stone.

All this, Seng wrote in the best calligraphy ze could master. A work of art from a poison pen. Dipped in the most vitriolic sarcasm that Seng knew.

And once the five-page masterpiece was done, it was signed and sealed and sent off to Seng's chosen representative. Seng congratulated hirself on a wake-up call well done.

In the offices of power, Secretary #827 opened a letter and moaned. Another hand-written one! What a pain! He forwarded it down the _Unreadable_ pipe and thought nothing more of it.

In the Undreadables Department, Secretary #1153 scanned the document and ran it through every font recognition program the offices had. Once no luck was achieved there, it went further down the chain to people who could actually read the hand-made writing and decipher it into text.

In the Deciphering Department, Secretary #6824 dutifully transcribed the words into a document without understanding their overall content and forwarded it back to Unreadables.

Once there, Secretary #1826 skimmed it for relevant content and applied such to the standard form. Then they readied a copy of the "Thank you for your interest" letter, addressed to Carval Seng, and directing hir to please submit all concerns via the online form. It was stamped with the representative's signature and sent along its way.

The representative never saw Carval Seng's words. If they had, they might have woken up. Sadly, the multiple layers of bureaucracy exist to protect the ivory tower set from ever opening their eyes.

#  Challenge #245: The Coming Apocollapse

Want to see more of your Minor Horsepersons of the Apocollapse (No that isn't a typo). Namely Absentmindedness, Clumsiness, Distraction, and Mislaying ride out. – Anon Guest.

[AN: Had to flip some letters around to make a word make sense]

"I know I had it, I had it just five seconds ago..." murmured Mislaying

"HEY GUYS," yelled Distraction, "IT'S A BUTTERFLY AND IT'S REALLY COOL!"

"...whoops..." Something important shattered into a million pieces. Clumsiness blushed. "...um... fuck... shit... gotta get another one."

Absentmindedness stood in the middle of the room, staring at infinity. " _What was I doing? I came in here for a reason..._ "

There are reasons why there are four more popular horsemen. Famine, Pestilence, War, and Death can be relied upon to appear on time. Sometimes, they appear ahead of time. And nothing gets attention like a punctual anthropomorphic personification.

Meanwhile, the four minor horsepersons of Absentmindedness, Clumsiness, Distraction, and Mislaying have a hard time getting out of their shared domicile. Or remembering where they left their horses.

But when they do hit, they strike hard, unpredictably, and turn a confined area into... an apocollapse. Not an apocalypse, which can be averted with the right heroes. An apocollapse, which is a slow descent whilst simultaneously circling the metaphorical drain.

No hero has yet been born to avert an apocollapse. Best just get your mum.

#  Challenge #246: Riders of the Apocollapse

The four Horsepersons of the Apocollapse(Not a typo), ride fourth and get in each other's way.

[AN: It's officially 'apocollapse' now. It's a word that's long needed to happen]

" _And now... we... um..._ " said Absentmindedness. " _Wossname. Thing. It was on the tip of my tongue..._ "

"Ride?" suggested Mislaying.

"YEEHAW," Distraction gunned hir engine and raced off in the first direction that appealed to hir.

Two of the remaining three started their bikes.

"Shit," said Mislaying. "I lost my keys, hang on."

Clumsiness adjusted a rear-view mirror and accidentally pulled it off. "...fuck..."

Absentmindedness tried to look up Google Maps to get directions to their destination, but soon got lost down Clickhole.

Some minutes passed in relative quiet, until Distraction finally returned. "YOU GUUUUYYYYYYSSS... WE'RE SUPPOSED TO RIDE!"

Clumsiness, meanwhile, had stabbed themself with their own screwdriver in the process of attempting to reattach the mirror. "...do you know where we're going?"

"UM..."

Absentmindedness came up for air. " _Huh?_ "

"Found them!" Mislaying cheered, waving the keys in the air. They were now minus one boot.

"WHERE'S YOUR OTHER BOOT, DUDE?"

Mislaying looked down. "Oh fuck this..."

It's probably a good thing that they only ride _metaphorically_.

# Challenge #247: The Terra Curse(1)

_1) More has been added to the post about "aliens trying to invade and being foiled by wildlife"_  http://sharpestscalpel.tumblr.com/post/148783332263/professorofeljay-myurbandream-jabberwockypie

2) Quick, think of a couple of characters that got made for one of these prompts and write something about them

AN: callback to [this post]

The first Tyrvaki colony to settle picked what they thought was a nice place. It was nice enough for the former human inhabitants, after all. Fresh water. Plenty of hunting opportunities. Fertile and arable land. Everything a settlement could desire.

And a nice population of subjugated natives to use as informants. These humans lived in an elevated structure they had made themselves, following the great plague. Well above the level of the land.

It took a few seasons to figure out why.

After the spring floods, which washed away half the colony and ruined the other half, came what the natives called _gayturz_ in their guttural tongue. Giant lizards that camouflaged as driftwood, and could move like lightning in the abundant water.

Native humans _ate_ them. And wore them. And used their bones and teeth as both decoration and tools.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

The rebuilding Tyrvaki colony was beset by another plague. They had drafted a native occupant with the barbaric native name of Klee-duss to assist with the engineering of new colony buildings on stilts.

Kal'rii ignored the human's advice to get indoors during the fading light. She dismissed it as typical male whining and a childish fear of the dark. Klee-duss also implored for the use of foul-smelling smokes and candles to keep away what Kal'rii imagined were fictitious foul spirits.

She also ignored Klee-duss adding layers to himself and smearing himself with foul potions. Typical ignorant native. They would learn to function under Tyrvaki rule or they would naturally die out.

As the artificial lighting came on, the whine began. Some small insect, no doubt. Annoying, but it could be ignored in favour of the surviving colony. No doubt, these tiny whining insects were the 'foul spirits' that had Klee-duss smacking himself in childish ignorance of the truth.

Kal'rii continued until the end of her shift, and retreated to the keeper-space she shared with Klee-duss, his surviving family, and -sadly- his foul potions against the bad spirits. Kal'rii slept in her breather mask that night.

And woke to devastation.

She was feeling unwell, and parts of her body itched where raised welts stretched her skin. The rest of the colony, especially the workers from the evening, was worse than unwell. Some were unrecognisable because of the proliferation of welts all over their bodies. Many had died. Many were near death.

" _Tol' j'all t' get n'daws,_ " slurred Klee-duss. He repeated himself as best he could in broken Tyrvakk. "I warn for inside. Many many."

"You know what caused this plague?" said Kal'rii.

"Yah. Skeeturz." He clapped one out of the air and showed her the smashed remains. Including the tiny smear of Tyrvakk blood still in its guts. " _They gots d'zeaz in 'em._ Plague blood go in guts."

# Challenge #248: The Terra Curse(2)

_1) More has been added to the post about "aliens trying to invade and being foiled by wildlife"_  http://sharpestscalpel.tumblr.com/post/148783332263/professorofeljay-myurbandream-jabberwockypie

2) Quick, think of a couple of characters that got made for one of these prompts and write something about them

AN: callback to [this post]

The second Tyrvaki colony, despite its own woes, sent a combat unit to investigate the sudden lack of communication from the first colony.

What they found in the ruins made for true horror. Proper Tyrvakk architecture was ruined or washed away by Terran flooding. Half-built hybrid architecture and temporary shelters alike were left abandoned to the invasive Kudzu plant.

And a little space away from the skeleton-infested ruins, a slightly larger human settlement contained the slim remains of the first colony.

Their leader, an engineer named Kal'rii, had gone both insane and native. She wore the _gayturz_ skins and the foul potions that the natives of the Terran Naw'linz tribe used to ward off evil spirits. The few Tryvakk survivors had also adopted the natives' ways.

Their minds were clearly gone. They begged hysterically for the troops to join them in the elevated human buildings. Pleaded desperately for them to use the foul potions and gagging smokes. All while her human helper-pet quietly murmured to her in his barbaric, guttural tongue.

The troops, according to their logs, attempted to rebuild the colony buildings in a clear attempt to lure the mind-shattered colonists back to sensible technology and comfort. There were reports -unbelievable reports- of gigantic, flesh-eating lizards that sprang from the water and were gone with a Tyrvakk trooper in instants. And there were other reports of a high-pitched whine that travelled in the night air.

Those were the last reports of Tyrvakk infantry unit 547. Scout drones later investigated to find that every last soldier had perished.

The human assistants for Colony Two were unhelpful. They suggested, in broken Tyrvakk, that perhaps the efforts at colonisation were cursed. But of course the Tyrvaki were from the most advanced and rational of civilisations, and were immune to that superstitious nonsense.

But the Tyrvaki death count still rose...

# Challenge #249: Blindly Winning

Lion and Connie - without Steven

_Steven?_ Connie opened her eyes. Pink fur. Cotton-candy mane. Steven's lion. She was in the middle of a small circle of clear air, or what seemed to be clear air. The meadow and the flowers under her feet soon vanished under the eldritch shapes of the obscuring fog.

"Where's Steven?" said Connie. "Do you know?"

Lion just licked her face.

There was... a Homeworld Gem called Moonstone. She had the power to summon obscuring mists. Her weapon was a short flail with many spikes, and she used it like a pro. Stevonnie hadn't been able to land a blow. Nor shield themself against its wrath.

Which was how they became unfused in the first place.

Connie took a deep breath in. "STE–MMMF!"

Lion had put his paw over her mouth. He looked... worried. His ears were twitching.

Listen.

Connie closed her eyes. There was no wind. So any sound of rustling meadow-grass had to be someone moving through it. One big someone. One little someone on all fours. She took a step, and realised that she, too, made noise as she walked.

But Lion didn't.

"I can ride you," she whispered. "I can guide you. You take me to him. Okay?"

Lion bowed his head and lay down so she could climb up.

Eyes closed. Handfuls of mane in lieu of reins. Stalk silently around the threat. Head for the ally.

"CON–"

"Sshh..." she stepped down and fused with him, and let mutual understanding do the rest.

_Oh,_ 'said' Steven.

_Yes,_ answered Connie.

Now they knew how to win. And, just like Garnet said, Stevonnie _did_ beat Moonstone with their eyes shut.

#  Challenge #250: Well You Took Your Time

Prompt: the hollow coconut TONK noise that can be produced by tapping the right place on top of someone's head if their mouth is open.

[AN: Grats, you got me to hit myself on the head several times]

Rael was currently being a small, blue-black dog that 'just happened' to be where this backwards colony of humans had put Ambassador Shayde.

They had evidently landed with the best technology of their launch-era, but the process of building a colony and a lack of opposition meant that their technology slid inexorably backwards. Unfortunately, they had retained the knowledge of how to maintain and use said technology without understanding how it worked.

Which meant that Shayde was cooling her heels in an escape-proof cell, in low light, and patiently waiting for either rescue or an obligatory stupid guard. Shayde insisted that they were mandatory.

So she was doing elementary prestidigitation in the hopes that one of these brick-like lunkheads would take an interest. What else were they going to do? Burn her for a witch _twice_?

The third one, as it turned out, was the charm. He watched with increasing interest as Shayde juggled her spork between her fingers, made peas vanish and reappear, and made a kind of puppet out of the paper wrapping from her rations.

"No, you should'n do eet," she made the puppet say.

"Ah, they cannae kill me twice, ye worrywart. It's the best trick I got, and I might as well go out wi' a bang, ye ken."

"Ees too beeg a bang," 'said' the puppet. "You'll start a new releegion."

"So woh? On wi' th' show. Gi' 'em the ol' razzle dazzle. Sommat tae talk about in long winters an' all."

"Ees too much for dem. They won' like eet."

"Aw give over..."

The guard approached the barrier. "What trick is this?"

"It's called 'ventriloquism'," said Shayde. "I'm no' even tryin' tae be good. Watch."

"You see?" 'said' the puppet. "Dees li'l ting? Ees way more interestink than the people makin' eet moof, yes?"

"I saw your lips move," said the guard. "You're talking with two voices."

"Aye, it's for the feel of it, ye ken. You could do it, too, I bet." She handed him the puppet through a gap in the bars. "Use both hands fer the wee wings, yer a beginner. Like this, see?" She helped him along. "Waka waka, bada bada..."

The guard took up the paper toy, and made it move himself. "I am a tiny instrument of evil," he squeaked. "Made by the hands of a demon. I am the skin of good food, perverted by wicked hands."

"Aw, yer a natural," praised Shayde, despite blatant evidence to the contrary. "You'd be a great entertainer. Bring smiles tae millions, ye ken."

_O Powers,_ thought Rael. _She's doing a flim flam._ If he growled, snarled, or barked right now, he would ruin her entire scheme, and that sort of thing never ended well. Not that her schemes ended so well, either... but her Plan B's were always _worse_.

"Joy... is not evil," he allowed.

"O' course it isn't, I knew you were smart," said Shayde, despite blatant evidence to the contrary. "That's why I want tae teach ye a _very special_ trick. Yer the right kind tae learn it, ye ken."

Rael sprained something to look like a happy dog, and not actually wincing in advance.

"It's verra simple. Stand right there, aye, like tha'. Close yer eyes. An' open yer mouth."

The noise that her food tray made as it hit his skull was more like "TONK" than "CLANG". And the guard crumpled up very neatly beside the bars.

Shayde quickly liberated the keys and made good her escape. She did, however, leave the little paper puppet on her bunk bed, and lock the cell behind her, and put the keys back where she had found them.

"That'll gi' 'em a story," she smirked as she began to creep her way to freedom.

Rael resumed his normal humanoid form as he joined her. "Let's survey this barred world," he mocked. "It might be fun..."

# Challenge #251: Purse of Holding

Like the Tardis it's 'bigger on the inside'. It can be anything carryable from a Ladies handbag (a notorious source of strange objects), to one of those pull along "granny" trailers, or whatever you like.

"Here. You'll need this."

It looked like a small, leather pouch. There was some beading on it that had evidently not been designed with hard use in mind. But, it didn't _feel_ like a small, leather pouch. It felt indefinably heavier. "What is this?"

"Bag o' holdin'," said Shayde. "They'll take yer coat, so put yer best-use stuff in tha'."

"Bag. Of holding."

"Less bufferin', more stuff-'er-in," said Shayde. "Time. Essence. Moovit."

At least she'd absorbed the fact that it was rude to go through a JOAT's pockets for them. But this new-found brevity of hers was enough to spur him into cramming all his favourites into the little pouch as fast as he could.

It did not seem to be getting full. He checked the worn and battered exterior and found no holes.

"Five," said Shayde.

Rael continued emptying tools and useful items into the pouch. Including the half-kilo of Wave of the Future brand Faiize dietary supplement that he carried in case of dire dietary emergencies.

By the time he was up to that, Shayde had said 'One'.

And then came the authorities. Intimidating goons, possibly heavyworlders, and they wore augmenting harnesses to ensure that their muscle tone remained in this lower gravity. And -he checked the settings to be certain- that their power would not be impeded if they had to make sudden, fight-like motions.

Shayde didn't have pockets. At least, not ones visible or accessible by the goons. She let them pat her down. When it was Rael's turn, she let them scan the bag (it read empty) and confiscate the coat.

These people obviously did not trust outsiders, even when they called them in to fix something.

"So explain this 'bag of holding' to me," he said, the instant they were out of earshot from the Goons.

"It's a relic from another dimension," said Shayde. "Ye remember tha' game o' mine from the vault trip, aye? Dungeons and Dragons?"

"A baffling game of co-operative storytelling and far too many rules. Yes."

"This is a thing from a place a lot like that. It'll hold way more'n it seems it should, and scanners can only measure the outside."

"Ah," he nodded. "Like your mythical TARDIS, it's bigger on the inside. Dimensionally transcendental, you said."

"Or like any old ladies' purse," Shayde shrugged. "The only difference is that wee thing can hold twenty times what it should. I've only got th' one, so no rippin' it."

That was all the warning he got that Shayde was sent to this paranoid world to steal something for their own good.

#  Challenge #252: Could They Pick a Worse Team?

_I am a_ ___ agent, I have a voice synthesiser in my throat. I can do any accent you can think of! Unfortunately I've lost the instructions at the moment... And my voice box is stuck on shop demonstration. – Anon Guest_

"Héllo, Madarm. I am hére to see your studént Camila Rodriguéz."

The school secretary looked at the badge, and the agent, and grew a very concerned look.

"Yés. I am a PINATA agént, I have a voice synthésisér in my throat. I can do any accént you can think of. Unfortunately I've lost the instructions at the momént... And my voice box is stuck on shop démonstration." Agent #99 rolled hir eyes in frustration. "It is a véry popular démo."

"You... don't... look real."

"That is bécause I am also an AI with a human soul. It's a long story. Our organisation needs Miss Rodriguéz."

One hand had drifted closer to the red button that would put the school on lockdown. "I've... never heard of PINATA... what are you going to do her?"

"Pérvading Invéstigations of National And Térréstrial Arcana, ma'am. We do not inténd harm to Miss Rodriguéz. Shé is in posséssion of an artifact of some concérn. Wé bélieve it may bé bondéd to hér, so wé inténd to éducate hér in its propér use. And wélcome hér into our ranks."

The subtle, drifting hand rested on the button. "Will you make her like you?"

"My disability is the résult of a freak accidént, I assure you. Wé inténd no harm to come to Miss Rodriguéz."

In retrospect, Agent #99 should not have repeated hirself. That sort of thing tended to unnerve the mortals. Ze sighed and left the school without any further argument, trudging all the way to a deliberately nondescript electronics repair van.

Ze opened the door and hopped inside. "I told you that this was the wrong place for mé to try going in solo."

"Well, it's still too bright for me to do a glamour," said the driver. Anyone looking directly at them would have nightmares for the rest of their life. Except, apparently, Agent #99.

"Wé will have to wait, régardléss. Théy nééd time to calm down."

The creature at the steering wheel sighed. "Worst. Assignment choice. Ever."

"Mm-hm," agreed Agent #99.

#  Challenge #253: That Escalated Quickly

Lilo Pelekai and Steven Universe – Anon Guest

[AN: Pretty sure 90% of the Disney Channel visited Lilo, back in the day, so I'm bringing Lilo to Steven]

Steven was getting fast. And strong. And thanks to his newfound ability to leap around like a balloon, Greg didn't have to spend so much on a truck rental. Which meant that the beach stage was going up in record time.

Correction. It had _gone_ up in record time.

"Whoah. You're getting too good, kiddo. There's still hours before the national hula contest."

"Sooner started, sooner done. Sooner hanging out and having fun," singsonged Steven. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Father son duo mic check?" he gestured towards his van.

"You read my mind. I'm'a get my uke." And just like that, he sprang away to the temple.

Kid was getting more and more like his mother every day. Greg strolled over to his van and extracted his guitar from the general mess inside. He tried not to think about his son living forever, as all his human allies aged and... well. That was a problem for a different day. And Greg didn't doubt that Steven would find a way.

He tuned the guitar on his way back to the stage. He owed Steven as much simple fun as he could get. Time like this was precious for its rarity.

Steven was landing like a feather just as Greg reached the bottom of the stairs. "Great timing, Stu-ball." He began strumming a tropical theme and Steven picked it up and elaborated on it. Within seconds, they had a whole luau song going.

And an audience.

Some of the competitors had made it to Beach City early. Okay. One of the competitors. She was with her... well, they had to be family, but... Greg was quietly wondering where two of them were hiding their Gems. One of them literally had four eyes, and the other one, just one. And tentacles for feet.

Well, he supposed not all Gems had to look human...

There were three other humans with the group. One more adult version of the kid contestant, one young guy who could easily be the elder sister's boyfriend, and a brick-house of a black guy in formal wear.

"Aloha," smiled Greg. "Welcome to Beach City."

"Aloha," said the creature that could have been a dog in a poor light.

Great. Three potential Gems.

"Wow," Steven sprang from the stage and floated down. "Cool! When did the three of you come to Earth?"

"Couple of years ago?" shrugged the big one with four eyes and elephantine feet. He had a weirdly Russian accent. "We are exiled to monitor Experiment 626."

"Stitch," said the dog-thing. Stitch. He offered a paw/hand.

"I've never heard of a Gem called 'Stitch'," said Steven. "Is that short for something?"

"Gem?" said the kid contestant.

And that was where things went south, fast. The three with the young contestant were not Gems at all, but aliens from a larger confederacy of planets with intelligent life.

A confederacy that had something of an... ongoing argument with the Homeworld Gems.

And like anything involving alien superpowers, there was a lot of wreckage and devastation before Steven managed to settle things down in his own unique style.

The young contestant, called Lilo, merely sighed as she watched the mayhem from the relative safety of the stage. "This is why they wouldn't let me on the bus."

#  Challenge #254: Ten Good Reasons Why You're Wrong

" _Oh my god!"_

" _What?"_

" _You're a nineteen year old boy!"_

" _Yeah, so?"_

" _So stop puttering around with your knitting like a senile old woman!"_

Andrew took a deep breath in. Slowly let it out. "There are things you need to learn, mister complete stranger who decided to butt into my life. One: this is crochet. Two: I'm making blankets for homeless or abandoned kids in shelters. Three: this is an exercise to help me gain back some fine motor control after an operation."

Alex finished off the square and put his work back into his travel-project bag. He stood, revealing his full bulk to the weedy dude. So many people assumed he just carried a lot of crap with him because his youthful face didn't match the rest of his body. "Four. I find it a useful method to keep calm in stressful situations. Five. It's also a useful method of _anger management_." He flexed, then, pumping out his muscles so the stranger could take in the full effect.

"N-now I d-don't want any t-trouble..."

Alex relaxed a little, but only a little. He still loomed over the man. "Yeah? So why'd you start it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Six. Fibrecrafts are a dying art and deserve to be maintained. Seven. Dismissing old women who knit as senile is not only sexist and ageist but also fucking stupid because knitting involves a literal ton of math. EIGHT!"

The guy flinched.

"What you just said to me was so goddamn toxic, it's a wonder the EPA don't haul you away for safe disposal. Nine. Hand-made fibrecrafts last longer and are better made than the factory-second, sweatshop shit you're wearing. Ten. I'm actually helping people. What are _you_ doing with your time?"

He sat down and, glaring the dude right in the eye, picked up his hook and began another square. Everything in his posture said, _I dare you to stop me._

The weedy interloper decided to move somewhere else. Alex kept an ear open for his annoying voice, just in case he decided to interfere in anyone else's otherwise okay day. When he got back to his therapist, he'd have to talk about how so many people decided to remain ignorant about things.

But for now, he had thread and hook, and counting. Alex would have to say that the ten good reasons method had actually stopped him punching someone's face in. That had to be a good thing.

Even if it looked like he might have scared that guy for life.

#  Challenge #255: The Tale of Sir George (No, the Other One)

Who says a young dragonling can't grow up to be a wonderful knight?

All things begin small, but for some, small is relative. For the hero George, it began with an egg the size of a shorn sheep, and a merciful hero turned blacksmith who honoured a monster's dying wish.

_I cannot change,_ the beast had said. _My baby is not hatched. Raise them... to... be good._

Sir Menkhol had obeyed. He took the egg to his home and forge and kept it warm on the coals as he worked. And when the young dragon hatched, he called it George. Perhaps it was wrong to name a dragon after a dragon-slayer, but it was a good and honest name nonetheless.

Since Sir Menkhol knew it to be an intelligent creature, he kept the young George as if the dragon were his own child. True to his promise, George learned all about the virtues of a knight.

Therefore it was no small surprise to find the young dragon lining up for the trial of skill at the Knights' training yard on his sixteenth year. Young George passed the height qualification by walking on his hind legs, and nimbly overcame the obstacle course.

And yet, the masters said, "No."

Sir Menkhol, long since retired, came to the yard and demanded to know why his son was less that any other boy to take the trials.

"He's. A. Dragon," explained the masters. "Knights go out and kill dragons."

"Only the bad ones," protested George. "I know what 'good' is, and I stand by what is right. And I want to be a knight like my father before me."

Raucous laughter greeted his words. Of course they did. They saw no reason for a dragon to love the man who raised him. They certainly saw no reason why a dragon could be a knight.

They did not admit George, but they did not forbid him from training. Even the narrowest of minds could admit that a dragon in the army had to be one mark better than a dragon with a grudge.

When training for humans became too easy, he found things to do that challenged him. He made himself the mightiest dragon in the kingdom. And waited.

Mir Menkhol, being both a proud father and blacksmith, worked with alchemy and ancient knowledge alike to uncover the metal hiding in bauxite, and alloyed it carefully to make an armour both light and strong, that a dragon could wear in flight. So others would know that George was no ordinary dragon. Of course, bauxite was not easily coaxed from its dusty origins, and the use of dragon flame served a double purpose. First, of course, was the armour. Second, and more important, was training George's flame.

And all of this would have been unimportant in times of peace. Neighbouring kingdoms soon allied with theirs. News like a dragon in the army gets around. But there were other enemies who were not so easily cowed.

And even the masters forgot the _other_ thing that Knights did.

They rescue princesses.

So when the armour-clad George Drake-kin Menkhol landed in the square of an allied kingdom, the princess riding him as if she rode dragons every day, it was only a matter of time before his knighthood was confirmed.

So hail to Sir George Drakkin, first of his kind! A living example to all that 'can't' is a wall that anyone can climb.

#  Challenge #256: You Try to Teach Them...

_Corvids. Just... Corvids. (_link _)_

(btw did you know all modern corvids are descended from Aussie ancestors? Well, technically Australasian ones, but close enough)

Ravens are widely recognised as one of the more intelligent birds on the planet Earth. Substantial evidence for this includes the fact that they have learned how to tame humans.

Humans tend to object to that minor fact. They will go on endlessly about how _they_ were the ones to teach corvids how to communicate in their language, and how _they_ were the ones who observed them using tools, or playing with human artifacts. Or how _they_ realised that corvids knew about trade.

The simple fact of life remains that humans have been doing all this work and building all this cool stuff and ravens have been slouching around and taking advantage of things like human expansion.

You can take either perspective you like on that one.

Ravens are cleverer than they really need to be. Your average scavenger is usually only smart enough to spot the next meal. Ravens, on the other hand[1], have become clever enough to spot _an easier way_.

This is one of the key factors in human evolution. But somewhere along the way, humans messed up and started working at things again. Whilst the ravens just hung around and decided that being amusing was way easier.

Humans may have been taught by the ravens. Simple concepts like 'barter', or mimicry as a method of negotiation. Ravens may have even shown primitive hominids how to use tools. They may have taught humans how to distract predators and steal their food.

Ravens have long since been observed riding bigger, more powerful birds. They could easily have given humans the idea of climbing onto a horse and using it to save energy.

Humans are either the ravens' greatest accomplishment or their biggest failure. It all depends on who you ask.

But if you could engage a raven in conversation, they would sigh and roll their eyes at humans as a species. At least they always have food available...

[1] Or, if you prefer, wing.

#  Challenge #257: Lilo and Stitch Go To College

_Since there's no chance of_  this _ever becoming an actual TV series, I'd like a fic, please._

[AN: Ask, and you shall receive. Eventually]

Things were... okay. Sure, having a bigger family helped in certain areas. There were more hands to pay for everything, but there were also more mouths to feed. They struggled, here and there, but in the end, it was... okay. They managed.

And then it was time for Lilo to go to college. She applied for every scholarship fund that could plausibly fit. Applied to every college that might allow her to work on a shoestring budget.

And one after the other, they all said 'no'. Even with Cobra Bubbles pulling a few strings. Lilo was rejected. It didn't matter that she was smart. It didn't matter that she was determined. All that mattered was that they said 'no'.

And then Pleakley pulled a string. It went all the way up. Past the moon and the planets, past some stars. All the way to the High Chancellor of the Galactic Union. She arrived in her personal yacht and gave Lilo a crash course on Galactic ways, some student uniforms, and a free pass to the Galactic Armada Community College. And she gave one to Stitch, since he had reformed and learned along with Lilo.

There were a lot of catch-up courses in her first semester. Designed for the more... remedial areas of the Union to make sure that everyone was on the same page.

Lilo took to galactic tech like a duck to water, and spent most of her trip back to the fleet with her nose pressed close to a reader screen, absorbing everything she could about her new world. It might have been more exciting to be the first native Hawaiian in space if it was actually on the records as such.

And her first day was no picnic.

Lilo was used to people murmuring about her. People like Myrtle never really stopped. They just got more subtle about their basic hatred. The only difference was what they were murmuring.

Stitch had all his arms and his antennae out. He no longer had to look like some kind of dog. But he also liked to ride piggyback so Lilo had him up on her shoulders as a matter of course.

The aliens - the Galactics - all knew Stitch on sight as 626. She'd have to work on that at a later date. But when they were talking about her...

They called her names, of course. Nothing new. "Mosquito fodder" and "hairless ape" were the most common ones. "Ooka ook" popped up a lot, too. Lilo pretended she didn't hear them.

She took her notes in her own alphabet. Translating things to and from Galactic Script and language was a task that took most of her time, still. And she took her notes by hand. On paper. Some were laughing, but it was the method she was most used to. She knew she would ease into the new ways over time.

But not fast enough for some.

"Hey, blood-bag," said a shiny-looking cadet in the Advanced Program. "What's with the cellulose? Bringing me a snack?"

Lilo quickly shoved her notes into her pack. "If I brought you a snack, that'd mean I liked you. And we'd have to kiss," she chirped. "Sure you want to date an ape?"

His friends laughed at him. Lilo used the confusion to make good her escape.

Galactic food was... interesting. Lilo picked the things that looked and smelled most edible, and gathered a sample of things that at least looked tempting.

And once again the shiny cadet had to invade her space. "So, ah... which one of you is the pet?"

Some people, Lilo knew, were determined to be assholes. She dug the tasty innards out of a cooked bug-thing in a meaningful way. "I could put a collar and leash on _you_ ," she offered. "Are you _sure_ you don't find me irresistible?"

And on it went. Lilo blew through her catch-up courses in record time. Then the basic training. Then the advanced training.

Humans were not as delicate as Pleakley had assumed. In fact, compared to a large number of alien species... Humans were space orcs. It was only a matter of months before Lilo was up against the shiny carapace of Cadet K'Tzz. Who tried everything to sabotage her, but kept failing. Intensely.

But it was when a nearby star went nova, during a training course, that Lilo truly shone. She took the helm whilst everyone was panicking and rode a wave of expelled stellar debris out of the danger zone. Saving hundreds of lives. Including K'Tzz's.

"You're a backworlder," K'Tzz howled. "How could you know such an advanced navigation tactic?"

Lilo shrugged. "It's just like surfing at home. My sister's way better at it. She's a gold medalist."

K'Tzz, for a change, was struck dumb. Looking back at the dying star and over to Lilo in oscillating confusion. He finally turned to Stitch. "Humans _practice_ that?"

"Yah," said Stitch, who was never one for words. "One person scale. Every day."

"That wasn't even a big wave," scoffed Lilo. "Baby stuff."

K'Tzz... stopped bothering Lilo after that day.

# Challenge #258: Baffling Footage

_Imagine_  this _being the only news clip in existence for this time period (like the comment says) after Shayde pops up, and people asking her about it._

[AN: Amalgam happens 500 years in our future, but I can deal]

Shayde didn't expect a ceremony. Usually what passed as her work was catching up with news and events she had missed[1], gathering favourites, and occasionally explaining things to a small audience of concerned Archivaas.

Today... the entire theatre was booked out. With live-streaming content for the people who couldn't get a seat and people crouching in the aisles and a camera person aimed at her face to catch even the subtlest reaction.

Shayde checked her databrace to see what the flying hell was up.

2010's. Weather forecast.

That was _it_ for the news from that decade. An accident of her automated scheduler made it the only event for the morning.

Rael, already seated to her right, took in her befuddlement with the air of a connoisseur, and said, "Are you nervous _now_?"

And since he lived to see her flustered, she confessed. "More'n a wee bit, aye. This must be one fook of a forecast."

And it was.

Volcano in Charlottesville. Flooding in Kilmarock. A superstorm in the atlantic and, the crown on the cake \- Godzilla. _Old School_ Godzilla.

That was when she knew it was fake.

There was a moment of silence after the minute and thirty-two seconds played out. Everyone was looking to her.

Shayde stood and faced the expectant audience. Many of them were holding their breath. "It's no' real, I'm sorry. This is either an April Fool's broadcast, or an audition tae see how well th' guy can read wi'out crackin' up, ye ken. Given how old he is, I'm puttin' me money on April Fools." She thought about this for a second. " _Or_ they're tryin' tae prove how nobody watches the local weather broadcast. I bet they lost th' bet."

One of the throng raised a limb. "You can't tell which of the three it is?"

"Not wi'out context. In order of most likely tae least likely, it's April Fool's, Provin' a Point, or Audition. Either way, it's no' a real forecast."

Some were frustrated. Some were disappointed. Some gained an appreciation for how humanity could troll civilisation for half a millenia.

[1] Game of Thrones was a trip. What an ending.

# Challenge #259: One Cheesy Dragon

 This _post, which lead to_  this _art. Fic away!_

Tara McCreedy looked down at the living sample. It stretched all six of its limbs and allowed its peculiar wings to flutter. "Okay," she allowed. "I can see what it _is_ , I just want to know _why_."

"Er. This is more of a sketch," the lead scientist of this lab wouldn't meet anyone's eyes. "See, I thought it might be cool to have dragon cheese from real dragons, um... so I started with a monotreme? Because they're neither lizards nor mammals, but they give milk? Um. In succeeding generations, I'll -uh- make it look more like a dragon... and make it milk-able."

The creature dove into the water. Its wings gave it better speed and control underwater, but would not lift it an inch into the air.

"And what finishing mass did you have in mind?"

"Oh, somewhere between a pig and a cow? But -um- I can't stop making the males venomous? And there's venom in the wing claws as well? Is that going to be a problem?"

"Doctor Wells," Tara sighed, "this entire project is going to be a problem."

"Uh... but... dragon cheese?"

"It's cheese with mustard seeds in it," grated Tara. "We don't need real dragons to make dragon cheese."

Wells seemed to ponder this. "Can I keep my sketch? I've named it Kevin."

#  Challenge #260: Communication Issues.

_Followup to Challenge #01326-C231,_ here _: 'It's not even consistent; it varies wildly by geographical region, ancestry and personal history of the individual, which, like, how is a poor anthropologist meant to know that sort of detail? How do humans divine this sort of thing upon meeting new members of their species? Do they have some sort of associative telepathy? No? Argh!' (_source _)_

The planet known as Beach had met the Galactic Alliance, which meant that they had a new influx of Galactic Anthropologists desperately studying the overall culture, specific subcultures, and some of the more popular individual variations.

They needed that data because the Beachans were spreading out into Galactic Society and taking their cultural baggage with them.

For example: _Dolphin_ is now a recognised Human dialect. The act of spreading fingers as if to steer themselves in an opposing breeze is a peculiarly Beachan habit, borne of an entire lifetime in an amphibious lifestyle. Beachans can have families that include more than one species, and so on.

And Galactics much preferred to say 'Beachan' rather than the natives' preferred appellation, Son-of-a-beach. For reasons that quickly become obvious the more one values _polite_ conversation.

Beach itself had several languages, mostly derived from Polynesian origins and a surprising volume of manners derived from swimming in pods.

Beachans were, by and large, an easy-going people. They had lost a vast number of rude gestures in their time of isolation. And soon picked them up again, thanks to the Ask An Expert Anthropologist app.

Some elements of human nature cannot be stopped.

# Challenge #261: You Need More Tests

_Diagnostician in a world similar to our own, but with one major_  difference _._

AN: I'm pretty sure I did one of this prompt for Undertale [once upon a time... Gotta shake things up this time.]

Headline news had once been _Magic Is Real!_. But that was a long time ago. Cryptids, monsters, and assorted paradimensional beings came out of the woodwork. And humanity did what it did best - it bred with them. Which lead to some... interesting medical revelations.

Thanks to incubi, there was a vast amount of acceptance towards trans and genderfluid people. Some of whom could change their bodies at will.

Thanks to shapeshifters, the body police ran out of justifications for their atrocious behaviour.

And thanks to the multitude of mythical cogniscents, the face of medicine changed forever.

Dr Blaize Castille aligned all her patient's symptoms and made a low murmur. "Daytime isn't friendly to you... New food allergies... Do you remember being bitten by some beast within the last month or so?"

"No, but there was that one time at a night club that I couldn't remember," said the patient. "I had a blood test straight after and I got _every_ orifice poked. Trust me."

Dr Castille brought up the patient's file. "Aha. There it is. Right inside the window. I'm afraid you're in for more blood tests. We could be looking at lycanthropy _or_ vampirism at the moment. Stay out of direct sunlight and report to this centre on the eve of the full moon. Just in case."

"Were-Animal's Rehabilitation Centre?" The look on her face said it all. _I'm not a ravening beast, am I?_

"Chances that you're transformed are slim, this is just a precautionary measure. And if it _is_ lycanthropy, trained professionals will be ready to assist you with coming to terms with your lupine nature."

"...but i hate dogs," she murmured.

"Wolves are very different," soothed Dr Castille. "The staff at the centre will show you how. They _love_ wolves. And... let's face it... there's more than one kind of were-creature. It's all in the umbrella term of Lycanthropy."

It was not always an easy process diagnosing problems, any more. But at least all assumptions were thrown out of the window.

# Challenge #262: Strange Encounters

" _Why is there a man convulsing in the halls?"_

" _Don't worry, the king's men will see to him."_

" _That's... not what I asked,"_

The new Ambassador for T'kerrrita was taking the Tour. Since it was between Ambassadorial Meets, the Tour was meant to acclimate them to the most amount of civilisations in the least amount of time. And, naturally, one of the stops was Amalgam Station, which always had a solid volume of Ambassadors at any given time.

Unfortunately... one of those Ambassadors was Shayde.

The guide, a human named Bob, had hoped to rush T'rrri through the main commercial concourse and thereby keep them distracted with enough shiny objects to choke a Bugblatter Beast. Alas, all those hopes were dashed because Murphy's Law decreed that the worst possible thing had to happen at the worst possible time.

Headphones were a must in Galactic Society. One cogniscent's entertainment was another's hateful tripe, after all. And personal eyescreens allowed anyone to watch whatever they liked in idle moments.

Only Shayde would sing, dance, and otherwise perform whilst entertaining herself.

And only Shayde would do it in the middle of the common commercial concourse.

"He wear no shoe shine, he got TOE JAM FOOTBALL, he got monkey finger, he shoot COCA COLA," Shayde sang. It was entirely possible that she knew everyone in the surrounding area could hear her. Just about everything she did was a performance. "He say 'I know you'," she pointed out a luckless passerby. "You know me' One thing I can tell you is you got to be free. COME TOGETHER! Ri-ight no-o-ow. Over me..."

Aaaand T'rrri had seen her. "Why that one convulsing, so?"

"Don't worry, security will see to her." Bob tried to hustle T'rrri away from the Scene. Already, her JOAT companion, Rael was covertly attempting to get her to please stop.

"Is not question of asking?"

Damnit. "That's Ambassador Shayde... she's one of those people that people write their rules around."

"Is she unwell?"

"No. She's like that all the time."

# Challenge #263: Mundanity

The "Do Something!" set of questions used by Mothers everywhere, usually beginning with "Have you?" or "Are you".

The wake-up call had been put together by someone who had heard of roosters and decided to improve by adding louder elements. Cal got out of hir bed-nook before the automatic discomfort protocol could start running low currents through hir body.

Ze barely got time to yawn and stretch before the automated staff management program, inevitably nicknamed 'mother' and variants thereof, kicked into gear.

"Have you gone to the toilet?"

"Gimmie time to _stretch_ , Mom..." Cal finished cracking hir joints and stumbled to the tiny chamber that would whisk away Cal's biological waste and disassemble it into its most valuable and stable compounds. From there, it was a short trip to the neighbouring cleansing booth.

"Ah-ah! Flush."

Cal grumbled and leaned back to press the button. Automated systems had been attempted, long ago, but there were obvious flaws.

"Have you washed your hands?"

"I'm washing my entire self, Mom." Cal had learned to be thorough and efficient. The hot water turned off in five minutes. The automated body scrubbers activated in three. And 'Mom' would lock the tube if it thought that Cal had not been thorough, activating the scrubbers anyway.

"Did you brush your teeth?" greeted Cal, regardless, as ze exited.

Sigh. "Yes Mom..." Cal slid into a fresh, clean set of Ship's Skins. Emblazoned with the hated company logo.

The regulated breakfast was low-bit Nutri-food. Paste in a tube and a separate allotment of water. Cal devoured it without any sign of enjoyment. It was all the company would give hir, it was all ze would take.

"Remember to dispose of the empties."

Sigh. "Yes Mom."

Cal read the ship status. Element tanks at a collective 85%. Still. They needed to find more stuff. Too bad that the ship was currently in a vacant spot and incapable of any interesting speeds when 100% tanks were not in existence.

So, in essence, the ship had woken hir up with nothing to do. Another fine day in Supplied Demand.

"Have you done your exercise regime?"

"I'm about to, Mom." Cal forced hirself into the running shoes and jogged to music along the paths between the tanks. In hir youth, ze would have noted which ones needed the most stuff. But that was something that didn't improve any kind of performance numbers.

How much of this cargo was hir own output? Ze'd heard of gatherers spending years on the Out Path, and coming back with a literal load of their own crap. It put new meaning to the phrase, 'a shitty tour'. Supply drones didn't care how long anyone had been out. And the company only cared about that which came in.

After running, came weights. Cal swore that 'Mom' was a secret sadist, pushing hir to do 'just one more' until every muscle was jelly.

Cal knew that ze was just an adaptive repair unit in a bigger set of automated machines designed to ensure that Supplied Demand got all the useful elements that it could eat. Today just... enforced that. _Dance to the music, little monkey. And if you're needed to do a job, we'll let you have some candy._

Of course, Supplied Demand was legally obligated to make certain that Cal was in peak physical shape. Adequate nutrition. Adequate comfort. Adequate companionship. Adequate...

Not exemplary. Not excellent. Not descriptive at all, but... adequate.

Personally, Cal could not wait until Furlough, when ze would hit the nearest arboretum and just... exist... somewhere other than these grey and adequate walls.

It would be nice if the company allowed Cal a hobby. Something to do that did not involve checking and maintaining and keeping an eye on the fill level. At least they couldn't stop hir from singing.

"So hoist up the John B sai-ils. See how the main sail sets. Call for the Captain ashore, I wanna go home..."

# Challenge #264: Oi Oi Oi

Humans and various aliens discover a new planet at the same time. One one side, the aliens are being blindsided by weather, earthquakes, volcanoes etc. On the other side the humans are having snowball fights, counting lightning strikes, geyser watching and bathing in the geothermal pools.

_Details:_  http://deathcomes4u.tumblr.com/post/149643799993/humans-are-weird

The crew of the _Curious George_ had assigned the human to hauling the water cart. So far, the human had advised portable solar shelters in either wearable or carryable form. Hats or 'brollies' to those who preferred the Terran's love of shorthand.

The human was in her Skins and painting her exposed skin with a colourful paste. Some resembled tribal markings, what with the stripes on her nose, cheekbones, and lower lip. Others were just swathes of colour without apparent logic.

"Zinc Oxide," said the human. "Get some on your soft bits. Nobody wants a melanoma."

And since this was a thing that did not come in two syllables or less, the rest of the crew were inclined to believe her. One was bold enough to ask of the colours' significance.

"Nah. Pick anything you like and put it anywhere the sun bites."

It did not take long for the crew to suffer from the heat. Their human hauled them back to the ship and treated them for exposure. And then announced that she was 'nipping off to the beach for a swim."

The water in the ocean was toxic to the crew, with its excess of sodium chloride and an abundance of untested flora and fauna in its depths.

Of course the crew tracked her, monitoring her life signs. The human never showed the slightest hint of distress, and even rode the waves with her body. She came back with an arm full of samples for the lab and an almost deadly amount of sodium chloride in her hair. And therefore spent a goodly amount of hours in decontamination, making certain that every last atom of this hostile world had been purged from her body.

"I dunno what the fuss is about. This place is just like Taranganba, back home."

The scientist on duty logged the entire place as a Deathworld.

# Challenge #265: Signs of True Love

" _Why?"_

" _My only explanation is that I'm very tired, and I never made very good decisions in the first place,"_

Mel had slept through the crash at 2AM, but in her favour, it happened relatively far away. She had no idea what was happening until closer to four, when Lus' swearing filtered through her dreams.

There was a trail of blood and broken glass. There were scatters of medical strips in the middle of a larger mess of blood and glass. And there was Lus, seated awkwardly on a stepstool and alternately plucking glass out of their legs and applying medical strips to the injury.

Mel, barely into conscious thought, had only one logical reaction to the sight. "WHAT THE FLYING SHIT, LUS?"

Lus looked up from their impromptu throne. "I swore we had a glass with my name engraved on it and I went looking. The next thing I knew..." they gestured at the scatter of debris.

"What the flying _shit_ , Lus?"

"I told you those boxes were badly balanced."

Mel made a basic gesture that essentially mimed, _What the flying shit, Lus?_ She said, " _Why_?"

Lus looked around them. "Uh. Okay, my only explanation is that I'm very tired and I never made good decisions in the first place?"

Mel sighed and began sweeping up the glass. "So now we have _zero_ glasses. Thanks babe."

"I'm trying."

"Very, but I love you anyway." Once she got the glass safely corralled, she found herself a second pair of tweezers and started helping her beloved. "What made you go looking for stuff in the middle of the night?"

Lus just made the 'I dunno' noise.

# Challenge #266: The Rogue's Fall

[Person 1]: It's important to face the consequences of your actions!

[Person 2]: (Leaps out of a window)

Hwell had to admit, this did look bad. He took stock, as was his habit when he got into these snags.

Hands and feet bound, check. And not in anything fancy, either. Just regular, good old-fashioned iron cuffs and chains that hobbled his ability to run. And his captors had been so inconsiderate about the design, too. There was no easy way for him to twist around and use any kind of convenient wire to pick the lock and make good his escape.

Armed guards, check. And not the obligatory stupid guard kind, either. These people were on their toes. You got some really _advanced_ policing strategies when women were the main gender in the police force. Especially older women who were immune to his generic flirting.

On his way to almost certain doom, check. One of the main parts of this job had been not to get caught. And since Ax'and'l was not around to help him on this enterprise, the small gang of strangers who had hired him had left him behind as a patsy.

Options. Huh. He needed two people to do the Patty Cake Escape. He needed a lev belt to do the 23 Skidoo. Oup. There came an elevated bridge over the water. Good thing humans were neutrally buoyant.And if he could kick hard enough or latch on to some nice flotsam...

Pity these people stopped allowing flotsam in their waters for centuries. Ladies. They _really_ thought ahead.

There was the judge in her robes, standing stoically on the bridge and watching the sailboats. She was going to listen to him, judge him accordingly, and pronounce sentence live on the planetary comms. And he had maybe twenty DU's to come up with a plan.

And then his personal comms chimed.

One advantage of biotech implants is that they can't be taken off of you. Nobody else knew you had one until you started muttering to yourself. Hwell faked an itchy ear so he could (awkwardly, of course) put it on hands free.

" _WHERE THE FLAKK ARE YOU?_ " said the voice of Ax'and'l.

Okay, so he had to be in-system to hear him at all. "Third planet from the sun," he murmured. "So very much like home... the company leaves a little to be desired. Say. Have you ladies heard of the Blarney Custard?"

" _You. Are. Not._ " protested Ax'and'l.

Simultaneously, the senior guard said, "Silence. Face your judgement like an adult."

"I'm runnin' out of choices you understand. It's a lovely city, it is. Beatiful location, tropical paradise. I really don't want t' die here, you know? I'd much rather let bygones be bygones. Water under the bridge, flies out the window, kind of thing..." He slowed down his pace as he rambled. This was not the first time he was talking for his life. Of course he peppered his diatribe with hints to help Ax'and'l home in on his signal. Hwell could only pray it was enough.

The judge, an octogenarian, was not impressed. She finally silenced him with a leathery hand over his mouth. "Alien... you have been found guilty of trespass and theft of a sacred relic. Have you anything to say in your defense?"

"We-ell... the thing about my defense is, it doesn't sound good. You see... that relic of yours was somethin' you were never s'posed t' have. The fact that y'all learned GalStand proves that it's polluted your society. It was my job to get it away from you before you managed to hurt yourselves. Or before you managed to get the wrong ideas about it."

"That relic, as you say, of _ours_ was given to us by the Goddess of the Night Sky, that we may learn more of her mysteries."

"Bit late on the second part, I get it. And -er- some mysteries are dangerous. You know this, right?"

The judgemental octogenarian remained inscrutable.

"Look. We have a thing in all our technologies. It's called the God Protocol. Technology monitors how people are using it, you see. The instant there's too much ritual and too much chanting, it sends out a signal for anyone who can hear it. So it can be... well... rescued. So _you_ can be rescued."

Ax'and'l was swearing in his ear. The non-swearing portions of his dialogue boiled down to variations on "don't jump".

"Now I'll admit some mistakes were made. The fellows I got to help me out with this little bit of charity neglected to tell me about _all_ of your security measures, and figured to increase their reward by removin' my ability to collect mine. If things had been done right, you'd never know we were there."

Which was exactly the wrong thing to say. "You did not come from the Goddess," said the judge. "You are a mortal being, though none like we have ever seen. For your heinous crime against our people, you will die. The universe brought you, and the universe will end you. You will be caged in the common square, to remain there until you rot."

"Have I mentioned that my decay process is highly toxic?" he tried.

"You will face the consequences of your actions, alien."

"Not today, thankyou." And, before the guards could stop him, he leaped off of the bridge, right out of the decorative window formed by the ornate struts that held the roof.

Cripes, it was a long way down.

"Uh. Ax'and'l? Any time now?"

A stream of invective. A rising roar that was not the wind in his ears. And there, like a blessing of the universe, was the _Enterprising Endeavour_. Powers bless him forever, Ax'and'l already had the Hungry Caterpillar's flexible arms homing in on his life signs.

Sure, he'd get his ear metaphorically chewed off, and there'd be some legal proceedings. But -hey- any day you get to walk away from is a good one.

Ax'and'l's first words of greeting, after he ripped open the live-packing, were, "I am putting you on a proximity collar!"

Hwell just grinned and said, "I love you too."

# Challenge #267: Apocollapse Now

All the signs were there, amongst the storm and fire-streaked sky appeared The Four Horsemen, War, Pestilence, Famine, and Death stood ready, then one of them said, "Oh Shit! It's Them!" Enter the Other four horsepersons, those of the Apocollapse (hope I've spelt it right),and proceed to avert the Apocalypse, by infecting the big four.

[AN: No you didn't, but I fixed it.]

You know the drill. Seas boiling and turning to blood. Fire in the sky. The Kraken awoken and being really ticked off because they haven't had their coffee...

And in the centre of the storm, rides the Big Four. We've known them since the dawn of time. Belief has given them shape. A certain author gave Death's white horse a name.

War cackled as the bombs and the bullets and the blood flew. Famine thrived on the cries of woe as Pestilence blighted the world's GMO crops. Sure, Pestilence had already been busy in the anti-vac community, but this was chaos on a global scale.

And Death... well... Death was getting RSI from all that scythe swinging.

And just as it looked like the Earth could be painted by Hieronymus Bosch... there came the revving of four motorcycles.

OH SHIT, said Death. IT'S _THEM_.

The four horsepersons of the Apocollapse. Absentmindedness, Clumsiness, Mislaying, and Distraction.

Clumsiness crashed right into War because their brakes had been repaired by Mislaying, and a certain, vital part had been Just Put Down And Now It's Gone. Distraction did their Crazy Frog act around the other three. Absentmindedness asked Pestilence if they were sure this was the right place.

_Of course this is the right place,_ argued Famine. _It's the Apocalypse. It's global!_

" _What are we doing, again?_ " said Absentmindedness.

**The Apocalypse!** War roared.

"...whoops... uh... sorry about those nukes... were they important?" said Clumsiness.

Damnit!

"Has anyone seen my other glove?" said Mislaying. "I know I had it five minutes ago..."

OH, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, muttered Death. He absently reached back as if to place his scythe away by Binky's saddle, but Distraction had lured the pale horse away with sugar-cubes and scritches, so the scythe spiralled away into the meelee below. He didn't notice, stalking forward to show Mislaying where the glove was. IT'S IN YOUR BLOODY HELMET, YOU INCOMPETENT–

"WHO'S A GOOOOD HORSIE? YOU'S A GOOOOOD HORSIE! ESSOO'IS! ESSOO'IS!"

Death looked back to Distraction. Then down into the tempest. FUCK.

Will You Stop Mucking Around With Death's Horse? demanded Famine. He Has A Job To Do You Know...

_Wait,_ said Pestilence. _Where did my crown go?_

**What was I just doing?** pondered War. **I know I was doing something...**

" _Oh, that happens to me all the time,_ " said Absentmindedness. " _I'd forget my own head if it wasn't screwed on._ "

I Heard Of A Phenomenon Where The Brain Resets When You Enter A New Room, said Famine. Maybe You Have A Version Of That, Only Worse.

Before long, all eight anthropomorphic personifications were kind of... hanging out and chatting in the dissipating storm clouds. Down below, the influence of the Apocalypse wore off, and the Apocollapse kind of hung around for a bit.

But, just for once, there was peace on Earth, and goodwill towards fellow humans.

# Challenge #268: Household? Prison?

A kitten discovers her new family expects her to sleep in the laundry at night. – Anon Guest

Fun day! New smells. New foods. Lots of play. Lots of pets.

Then the humans, the feedme's, did something strange. The smaller ones went away first, then the big ones took her into a bare, cold room, put her down, and left. And they shut the door. _And_ they had turned out the light.

There were crunchy-noms. And good water. And a soft thing. And the tray for nasties. But it was cold. And lonely. And unfriendly.

"Hey?" she called. "Hey?" Maybe the feedme's forgot about her. Maybe they left her inside this space by accident.

She didn't understand. She'd been a good kitty. The feedme's had said so. So... why _this_?

"HEEEEEEEY!" She tried scratching at the door. She knew it opened, but could not work out how the feedme's did it.

Damn their opposable thumbs and their being huge!

"YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME! I DESERVE A TRIAL! I WANT A LAWYER! THIS IS A CLEAR BREACH OF CONTRACT! DO YOU HEAR ME? HEY! HEEEEEEEEEEEEEY! GET ME OUTTA HERE! THIS IS UNJUST PUNISHMENT! HABEUS CORPUS! JURISPRUDENCE! ATTICA! ATTICA!"

Meanwhile, in the master bedroom...

"Kitten's kicking up a stink."

"We need to do this for a week so that she knows this is home. That's what the people at the pet shop said. She can get her scent all over the litter tray and get used to how everything smells."

"I still feel guilty, though. She's _not_ happy."

"She'll forgive us when she's out. It'll be fine."

"I'm still giving her extra treats, first thing."

"Good plan."

#  Challenge #269: Here There Be Werewolves

_Tidally-locked Lycanthropy Planet. Details_  here _._

Rough seas, of course. Rounding the Cape to the trade winds inevitably involved rough seas. It took a good captain to deal with just that. But of course, things had to be trickier. Sailing the Cape had to be done in full daylight or not at all, because the Moon shone her full face on the southern hemisphere. Which left those dangerous lands populated entirely by werewolves.

And even with all these precautions, there was still a crewmate or two who found out that she had that peculiar gene. They could keep their wits - though barely - through their first change, if they had the help of the sun. And from there, they would become immigrants to the dangerous southern lands. Swapped for the few who could not or would not change under the moon's staring influence.

Captain Bernes glared at that malevolent orb a she rose above the horizon. Pale and blue, but still there. Still hypnotising good North crew to the deadly south. Still rejecting her own children to keep things balanced.

Bernes focussed on rounding the Cape. Shouting orders from the helm and praying that this time, there were no new crew who were going into the terrible Terra Australis[1]. The burning southern lands of poison, venom, flood, fire, and sharks. Sometimes, all of them at once. And the savage, tearing blood-roos[2].

Past the keel-scraping reef. Past the capsizing waves. Past the sail-tearing winds and into smoother sailing. Barnes hated this part.

"Sound off! Sound off! All hands say 'aye'!"

Five. Ten. Fifteen 'aye's. And one 'awooo' before the rest of the crew gave their 'aye'.

Damn.

Now they had to stop in at _Perth_.

Smitty submitted to the muzzle like a good kid. Let the others put covers on her claws. She padded up to Bernes with her new tail between her legs and her ears flat against her head. "...'m sorry, Captain," she murmured.

"Can't be helped, Smitty," Bernes sighed. She made a point to grip the kid's shoulder, and not pet her on the head. "Nobody knows until the crossing. You... you just try and keep your wits with you, eh?"

Smitty nodded, and waited for her new 'buddy' with the requisite leash. If she could keep her wits, she would never need it. But if they needed it, they needed it _ready_.

"Australia isn't as bad as they say it is," Bernes soothed. "If it was, there wouldn't be nearly so many Australians, right?"

Smitty had a shy smile. Too conscious of her new fangs. "Propaganda to keep us off their sheep," she said. "Not that we're that desperate."

Oh good. She was already at home with their comedy.

[1] Of course Australia is full of werewolves now.

[2] The first werewolves botched a few hunts. Now there's werewolf kangaroos. Fun times.

#  Challenge #270: Simple Message, Complex Bottle

_They told us to tell you hello. Details_  here _. Bring a box of tissues._

It was a constructed thing. Shr'dlu could see that much, even with a fine coating of space dust and a scattering of micrometeor damage. And it had come the long way to this particular patch of debris, floating in the eternal night.

The fact that it was large enough to be a survival pod had made Shr'dlu take it in for examination in the first place. The radioactive power cell was still live, and had to be removed before ze could examine the vessel - or whatever it was \- in person. Shr'dlu hoped that the absence of life signs meant that whoever it protected had perished peacefully.

What sort of maniac species would power a survival pod with anti-life materials?

The second clue that this might not be a survival pod was the absence of doors. Scans revealed nothing but circuitry inside. Primitive stuff. Wires and resistors and the most rudimentary of computing chips. Centuries out of date. And its data storage was magnetic tape.

Close to, it was still enormous, but it somehow conspired to also look... frail. Shr'dlu recorded everything. Especially the mysterious sigils on its exterior.

Symbols on one side said PIONEER, but since they didn't say it in GalStand, Shr'dlu couldn't read it. And someone had thought of this, with another panel which spoke in pictures and puzzles.

Two figures stood next to a vague outline of the vessel, as if to give a sense of scale. And... there was a representation of a hydrogen molecule.

The starburst and the schematic at the bottom were a little beyond Shr'dlu. But ze could guess at some of it. The crude drawing of the vessel was _this is me_. The beings depicted for scale were _this is who made me_.

Perhaps the circles at the bottom were some form of crude map. _This is where I started._ And the starburst with the lines and coded dashes... might be some attempt at a better map. _This is how you can find home_.

A message in a bottle, of sorts. Sent out from an isolated world, with the best technology that they could make. And all it could say is, _Hello. We exist._

Shr'dlu kept the creation in hir cargo bay. Historians, scientists, and xenoanalysts would go further into its construction and the message it bore. They might even be able to decode what PIONEER meant. Or the significance of the faded colours in a rectangular emblem on one pock-marked side.

Shr'dlu had _paying_ salvage to find.

# Challenge #271: Mahal's Warrior

_Dwarves and Gender Politics. Details_  here _._

En had rather hoped to be over with this adventure by now. Certainly, the Grand City of Ghil had a need, but En was on his own timetable. Adventuring during the first trimester was generally dismissed as plausible but dangerous. And En hadn't even known he was pregnant when the Admaster of Ghil had sent him and his party on this quest.

Transgender adventuring came with a unique set of risks. And since this adventure would finally pay for a magical swap of his nethers... there was little choice but to soldier on.

His thick padding hid a great deal of sins, but not enough. His friends and fellows were starting to laugh about En's weight. En flinched at every ignorant joke about 'the baby', especially since he didn't know how to feel about having it.

Especially since their quest was taking them deep into Dwarven territory. Literally. The Dwarves had agreed -for a steep fee, of course- to take them through to the depths of Kraghar, where the prize of their quest awaited a worthy hand to lift it.

Dwarves had a reputation, of course. They were heavily misogynistic, tight-fisted, greedy, and obsessed with hoarding treasures. Almost at the same level as the Dragons, only far more discriminatory. Their temporary guide was the usual grim and stoic Dwarf. Hardly saying anything more than the barest of necessities.

Until the fourth day.

They had been resting in a Dwarven way-station. A set of beds and furnishings of a small house, all carved out of the living rock. En overslept, exhausted by the drain on his body and the hectic kicking of his... inhabitant. His friends and teammates said that they tried to rouse him. En couldn't remember that. He just remembered wanting to sleep forever.

The Dwarf was the one who lifted En up and placed him under an air vent, where fresher air flowed over him, and administered a secret Dwarven brew that had nothing at all to do with the heavy, deadly alcohol they all quaffed with no regard to health or safety.

For En, that brew was like being filled with energy. From toes to crown, he was amazed that he didn't glow. And the Dwarf was suddenly open and caring.

"You are sacred to Mahal," said the Dwarf, and refunded a gigantic percentage of his previous fee.

"What's going on?" said Tyrali the Bard.

En sighed. "You're going to hate me," he said. "People I've told... call me a liar at best. The worst have tried to kill me. Some... _try_ to use me. As if that could fix what's wrong."

Senk the Cleric instantly warded the room against violence. "Speak the truth in the light, and be not afraid."

En still tensed. Still kept a hand by his dagger, and the other ready to scoop up his shield. Still savoured the likely last time that his friends would be worried for him. Or count themselves as his friends. "I am a man in all but a small area of my flesh," he said. Years had honed bluntness in this matter. The second part was new. "And because of that small area of flesh... I'm also pregnant."

"Mahal's best making. Impossible for hands," said the Dwarf. "He is guarded and protected by all of my kind, should you want to fight."

A lot came out into that air. Beginning with how _male_ Dwarves were the rare ones, but their long lives meant few children, if any at all. Therefore, those who were -in their words- growing a new person, were protected, valued, and almost revered. Those who had been mothers were instantly wise.

...and seven hundred years ago, a mother and grandmother had told humans the truth of her flesh, and the humans had snubbed her...

Dwarves have long memories. That slight was something their kind counted heavily against the humans, and the humans had been paying a tax for it ever since.

En knew too well how humans treated women. He had endeavoured to quell that wherever he went. And now... now his friends and teammates were... They were warming up to treat him as they treated any other woman. Like a lack-witted, incapable, infirm vessel, made only to fill with their personal stopper.

"Pregnant or not, I am still a man," he said, "and I will kill the first one of you who lays a hand on my arse or calls me 'sweetheart'."

Tyrali exaggeratedly put his hands in his pockets. "Not thinking about it," he lied.

Kurs the Paladin had been praying for Divine Inspiration before he spoke. "En has fought by our side for years, and none of us knew him as any less than a man. I vow to continue my high regard for our fellow, and I will fight any who treat him as less."

"See?" said the Dwarf. "This is why we keep away from you humans. You would call your best makers 'less', for all that they risk their lives to make new people. You should try growing your own, sometime. It is a hard task, and there are no breaks to rest."

En had never thought of it that way. He hadn't thought about it much at all. Then he wondered if anyone had thought about it... besides the women who were forced to deal with it.

# Challenge #272: Health and Safety

 Velociraptor Incident Safety Placard _. Either the scenario posited, or something else of your devising (also consider that one pedant who points out they forgot to account for leap years. Me. I'm the pedant.)._

There were jokes that were made to be regretted. Anything with the N-word in the middle of it is a good example. But this one...

It was designed like every other safety poster in the labs. Except this one was about being a velociraptor-free workplace. And it had, according to the printed sheet, been twenty-five billion, nine hundred and fifteen million days since the last incident.

And _every_ fucking morning, one of the office pedants just _had_ to verbally correct it.

"The number's actually closer to twenty-five billion, nine hundred and thirty two million, seven hundred and fifty thousand days[1]. They forgot to multiply by three hundred and sixty-five _point two five_." Self-congratulatory snorting. "And that's not counting the years left out of that very rough estimate and excluding an actual date for the Chicxulub impact. _And_ someone should be incrementing that count on a daily basis."

"I don't wanna drink from your well actually, _Clem_. It's a _joke_. It is there to make people laugh. Not make people want to throttle people like _you_."

"Geez, whose hair got up your butt?"

"It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to hear it _every day_. And every single time I use the elevator. It's tiring, Clem. It's extremely _tiring_."

Clem, who had entirely missed the point, murmured, "...is it shark week?"

Sally took a deep breath. "The next person to ask me if I'm menstruating is going to get their _throat torn out_ ," she said calmly. "And then I'll report them to HR for insensitive behaviour. And then I'll go to their house and literally shit on everything they love. I've had a long week and it's only Tuesday. Got it?"

Clem wisely shut his big fat cake-hole and scurried off to work. Sally snarled to herself and strode to her own genetics lab. Where her efforts to synthesise taurine for the pets of idiot vegans -who didn't know the meaning of 'obligate carnivore'- were continuing. So far, all progress had been rejected because the synthetic stuff still used animals as their basis.

So now she was working on a taurine-loaded eggplant.

"Bad day at the office?" asked Veronica.

"We've only just begun," sighed Sally.

"I'm gonna find out who keeps hanging up that thing and make it look like an accident."

"Bless."

All was quiet until after lunch, when the obligatory trip in the elevator was doomed to end down a 'well actually'. Sally took a deep breath in and Veronica gripped her arm to stop Sally from punching the next wise-ass.

The door opened, and the poster had a red 0 scribbled over it.

"Well, actually, the num...ber..." Frank trailed off. "What the shit?"

"Let's go back down to the lobby," said Sally, who knew that they weren't just working on vegan-friendly taurine, up here.

Someone screamed.

"That was Clem!" said Frank, and dove into the scientific labyrinth.

Veronica closed the doors just as a shrieking, rainbow blur of fangs, claws, and feathers rocketed after Frank. There was more screaming.

Eerily calm, Sally picked up the elevator phone. "Containment breach on floor seven. Yes the one with that poster. CAN THE CACKLE CARL, THERE'S LIVES AT STAKE! Initiate containment procedures. STAT!" She hung up like she wished she could slam Carl's head against a handy brick.

Veronica pressed the lobby button. "Corrected the poster?"

"Corrected the poster _and_ asked me about Aunt Flo."

"I hate this workplace. Every month, it's the same goddamn thing."

[1] Yes, I did the math on that. Don't look at me in that tone of voice.

# Challenge #273: Insane Genius

_While I love Humans as Space Orcs, can we get some exploration of_  this _theory, that humanity's 'hat' in the galaxy full of Planet of Hats that is Star Trek is that we're Doc Brown? Please note the reason Scotty's Chief Engineer of the Enterprise, as well as the Vulcan Science Academy's interactions. (Also this might explain why the multispecies Federation ships in TOS-era seem to be crewed in an almost entirely monospecies manner, what with that all-Vulcan ship in one episode, and Spock and very few others on the mostly-human Enterprise)._

Word association in the Federation tells a lot about expectations. 'Klingon' leads to 'warrior'. 'Cardassian' to 'soldier'. 'Vulcan' to 'scientist'.

Speak the word 'human' and most Federation members will say, 'insanity'. Except the humans of course, who will reply 'being'.

Some have been sent into Federation vessels to determine what their secret is. The earliest known investigator was Lieutenant-Commander Spock, deemed a doubtful source by many because _humanity rubbed off on him_.

Cardassians and Bajorans alike attempted to study Chief Miles O'Brien as he worked on Deep Space Nine. Results were inconclusive.

But it was when human engineers found themselves on other Federation vessels, that their deadly genius shone through. There, with entire crews watching them, the humans came up with nearly suicidal genius. And it was always when faced with what seemed to be an insurmountable problem.

And it was on one such ship that the human introduced her Vulcan crewmates to a peculiarly _human_ philosophy.

"The fart of the ferret," she said, as if that explained her sudden fit of inspiration. "There was a particular breed of ferret, back on earth. It developed a defense against constricting snakes? And just as it was about to pass out from being strangled, it'd let loose this vile-smelling muck that would make the snake let go and save the critter's life. It's inspired desperation, see? Do or die?"

"Lieutenant," said the Captain. "There was a high likelihood that your actions would have resulted in 'do _and_ die."

The human gave one of their trademark half-shrugs. "Better half a chance than none at all, right?"

It was entirely illogical, of course, but the horrifying thing about it was that _it always worked._

# Challenge #274: The Strongest of All

_Based on one post in yesterday's prompt, Humans in a fantasy realm as Team Fuck It Hold My Beer I Got This. Details_  here _._

Elves can see as far as an eagle, and shoot the eyes out of a fly, if it suited their fancy. Humans invented telescopes, and microscopes, and crossbows, and cannons. And the Elves thought themselves lucky that the humans turned all that deadly enginuity towards each other, and not towards other species.

Dwarves are as tough as the stone they hew, sharper than the diamonds that they mine, with tempers hotter than the metal they smelt. But it was the humans who invented methods of detecting underground gasses, who invented means of draining water from the mines, and means of pumping clean air down into the dank depths. Many a Dwarven miner had been shocked and awed by mining into a human dig from the other side of a seam.

Only the Orcs, a race feared by many, could hold their own against the humans. Indeed, the Uruk'hai keep the humans busy with escalating methods of war. And yet, again and again, the humans beat them back through endless feats of enginuity.

Humans hold _games_ where ancient feats of war are a competition. Who can shoot the most accurately. Who can run the fastest. Who can throw a spear the furthest. And who can throw a _cannon-ball_ the furthest. With nothing more than their bare hands and muscle power.

And they did this for _bragging rights_.

When the humans were not making war with the Orcs, they made war on each other. If one group found a new way of committing horror on another, the others would adapt it like wildfire.

Humans. You couldn't just leave them bide for a century or so. Their short lives made progress a desperate race to make a mark, to be remembered. If only for a decade or so.

They were persistent, too. If a disaster occurred in a new settlement, they would return, analyse, and rebuilt _stronger_ , with measures in place to warn of another disaster. And measures in place to protect the people.

About the only thing that kept them in check was the diseases that assaulted them, that had origins in their own feculence. Not that anyone could tell them that. Humans believed that plague came from smells.

Those who knew the truth surrendered to allowing the humans' beliefs very quickly. If the humans ever learned about the power of sanitation, they would overrun all of the realms. They would end the Dragons, they would end the Orcs, and they would, eventually, end the Elves and the Dwarves.

There is a saying, in the magical realms. "Best to leave humans as their own worst enemy." And they don't say it around humans.

The Elves intervene, occasionally. Making certain that the humans survive their own disasters. The humans are worth keeping around, they say. If ever a worse threat rises, the humans are bound to knock it down. And cheer whilst they do so.

# Challenge #275: Homicidally Annoying

" _Are you eating cereal? It's 8pm."_

" _Specific mealtimes are social constructs that have no real impact on our lives."_

" _Is that my cereal?"_

" _O-ownership is a social construct that..."_

There are drawbacks to rooming with a pseudo-intellectual. First was having to know the thesaurus just to have a conversation with them. The second was not murdering them for their constant over-corrections.

And the third...

Madrass(not his real name. He claimed it was 'more spiritual') had taken over the couch. And the TV. And was apparently violating noise laws by playing some zombie show at a hundred and thirty decibels. And eating a salad bowl serving size of cereal.

Frank turned the volume down to a more comfortable audio level. "What the shit, dude?"

"What happens to be the excrement, my good gentlesir," corrected Madrass. "As it so happens, I _was_ enjoying the premium entertainment that is entitled, _Bikini Zombie Bloodbath Twenty-seven: Zombie A-Go-Go: The Revengenating_. But since you have so rudely interrupted my enjoyment at the optimal volume, I shall be forced to commence anew."

_Can't kill him. He pays the rent._ "We have thin walls and angry neighbours. Why aren't you using those five-hundred-dollar headphones?"

"Sadly, my ears are misshapen and the stereo wearable speakers cause a great irritation. I must use the extant speakers as they are currently present, lest discomfort plague my enjoyment."

_You're the embodiment of a great irritation._ "Do you remember how I told you I have a day job? Especially the bit about starting early? And needing to sleep at eight thirty?"

"That is not a matter of import, I have paid for adequate soundproofing. Your sleep should remain undisturbed."

"We discussed this. Your idea of soundproofing provokes an allergic reaction. And it doesn't work. And _why_ are you eating cereal at 8PM?"

"Specific mealtimes are social constructs that have no real impact on our lives."

It wasn't just any cereal either. It was Frank's $15-a-box celiac cereal. "Is that _my_ cereal?" _I could murder him, and the world would be glad. Civilisation would be better off without his brand of asshole. No jury would convict me._

Madrass seemed to sense that Frank was approaching a point where homicide would improve the state of things. His usual unflappable state of uncaring cracked and faltered. "Uh. O-ownership is a-a-a-a social c-construct that..."

"You're paying for replacements for all of that before tomorrow. You are no longer allowed access to the television past 8PM," and, to prove his point, he seized the remotes and turned off the television. It was a safe bet that Madrass would not get up and use the manual buttons. Getting up to change things was not his way. "If you wake me up when I still need to sleep, I will fucking _destroy_ whatever it is that's making the noise. And if you correct me _one more goddamn time_ , I am kicking you out of this apartment and selling all your weeaboo fanwank to the highest bidder! _NO_ amount of rent is worth putting up with _you_."

Madrass said the words that doomed him to the curb. "Non-existent Christ. You are becoming _exactly_ like my previous crazy roommate."

Frank, in his humble opinion, deserved a medal for not killing him.

# Challenge #276: One Small Difference

Dragon: Tries to kidnap a princess

Dragon: Accidentally saves a Prince from a tower

Dragon: Isn't sure what happened

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a young Dragon in possession of a good lair, must be in want of a Princess. So it was for Ginrauth, who had not only terrorised the local Dwarfs into submitting 'donations' to his hoard, but had also found an abundance of shiny gemstones within the cavern he dug. He knew all there was to know about setting up a great lair, and having goodly part of it being an enormous geode was just a bonus.

Ginrauth went looking for towers. Humans stored all sorts of valuables in towers. Gold, grain, armaments... and Princesses of the right age.

Sometimes, there was a sorcerer in them. That was a loss of sorts. The really good sorcerers had wards and protections to keep Dragons away. The bad kind were crunchy and tasted excellent once flame-roasted.

But generally, a young Dragon seeking a Princess just had to listen for the singing. There was something about being stored in a tower that made for wonderful music. And most Princesses, Ginrauth was told, were eager for a change in scenery.

He avoided the towers in castles. Those came with siege weaponry and Dragon-arrows. What a discerning Dragon wanted was a Princess in a solitary tower. In the middle of a wilderness just made for a Hero to overcome.

And there one was. Past cliff, chasm, and a labyrinth of thorns. One roar was all it took to chase off the guardian Gargoyles, and it was a simple thing to lift off the conical roof and snatch up the human within. Mission accomplished.

As Ginrauth glided back to his lair, he examined his prize. Short hair. And nothing that looked like a fancy hat. Or a fancy dress. This Princess looked a lot more... masculine... than he'd been lead to expect.

"Oh thank the Gods," breathed the human. "I was dreading human's rescue." Their voice was deeper, but seemingly forced so. "Do you know how horrible it is to be a Princess when you're really a Prince?"

This... was not in the stories. "Er," said Ginrauth. "So... you're coming willingly?"

"Yes please," said the Prince. "I'll come and keep you company. And defend you against knights. All I want is the right to be _me_."

Ginrauth let the Prince ride astride his neck, and let the fellow tell stories. Prince Dane was a good storyteller, and even though he was barely a passable singer, he made excellent company.

Knights came, of course. They all came looking for a Princess Dahlia. They were mistaken, and then routed by Prince Dane, who had the benefit of Dwarven armaments and plenty of time to train.

One day, perhaps, they might go looking for a Princess together. But for the moment... life was good.

# Challenge #277: It's a Human Thing(1)

1) Aliens being extremely confused when humans that spend any length of time in the area with the nice fashionable wallpaper become nauseous and when questioned try to explain that the patterns are moving

2) True Facts(TM) about Ghosts – Anon Guest

The Klypt'l had done their best to be accommodating. They had refurbished any and all human artefacts into useful furniture -even _comfortable_ furniture- for the use of their Deathworlder guests. They had even decorated the walls with an interesting pattern of circles and lines in the bright colours they enjoyed.

All in a sincere effort to woo the humans into helping them with their trade routes.

The humans came, of course. They were the kind of species who never turned down a party. Free food, music, and entertainment were always welcome. They played as hard as they fought... and they were _unstoppable_ fighters.

They did not come in the indomitable battle armour. Outside of their protective shells, they looked deceptively soft. But this was a species that could _bite through their own fingers_. They could leap higher than their own bodies. They were, in essence, legendary.

They were amused by their accommodations. The Klypt'l in charge of the events took heart at this. Happy humans were good news.

Disaster unfolded inside of two Standard Days, when the humans began to feel nauseated.

Klypt'l Associate K'kreet attempted to understand.

"...the wallpaper," said one of the humans. They were pale and perspiring. Swallowing drool lest they regurgitate their last meal. "It's _moving_... makin' us seasick..."

K'kreet looked, but the wall decoration pattern remained solidly where it was. It was not moving at all. She attempted to make this clear, but the humans _insisted_ that it was moving and the motion was a nauseating one.

The Klypt'l hurriedly took the humans on a greenscape tour whilst the Comfort Advisory Committee quickly over-painted the walls a nice, safe grey.

# Challenge #278: It's a Human Thing(2)

1) Aliens being extremely confused when humans that spend any length of time in the area with the nice fashionable wallpaper become nauseous and when questioned try to explain that the patterns are moving

2) True Facts(TM) about Ghosts – Anon Guest

Of all the things that humans believe in, ghosts are the most problematic. Even those who do not believe in ghosts know better than to mess around with potential ones.

Never give an open invitation in an abandoned space. Never ask if an unseen someone would like to play. And never, ever, _ever_ make them angry.

Things that make even the deadliest humans nervous are empty structures. Especially empty structures that seem like they were once live-able. There, the most well-known Deathworlders speak in hushed voices and flinch at the slightest sounds. They apologise to any spirit still present. They pray to their god or gods where appropriate.

They tread softly.

And, on more than one occasion, they have been _right_.

Residual Life Energy has been measured. The place has to be old, it has to have a lot of history, and it has to have strong events associated with it. The living give the phenomenon a personality.

Belief shapes all following events.

And some humans, those who are born Espers, can manipulate RLE and shape it to their will.

There has yet to be conclusive evidence of heavens or hells.

...which means that the assembled Galactic Alliance is starting to get very nervous about 'elves' and 'faeries'.

#  Challenge #279: Three Things They Did Wrong and One Thing They Did Right

 http://khaleesijade.tumblr.com/post/150856878533/agentquinn-sepulchritude-my-fav-trope-is _– Anon Guest_

Understanding humans is a difficult business. Gallusians, one of the earliest Galactic species to hire their services, know this better than most.

Kru'ku, designated companion/guide of the exploration vessel _Tikavi_ , wrote what many consider to be the first guide centred around the proper care and handling of humans. Their work encapsulates years of research, anecdotal evidence, assumptions, and quite a large amount of wild guesses.

For a seminal work, it is well known. But it is now considered to be mostly incorrect. Fortunately, humans understand that other species don't grasp all of the important details...

Humans are fond of immersions into solutions of sodium stearate and other chemicals [see appendix BATH for a complete list] for relaxation and the health of their hides. I am informed that a 'good bath' can take a majority of a Standard Day.

It was hot, and there were bubbles. There were copious amounts of water involved. Other than that, it smelled and looked like an attempt at a swamp.

"Um," said Del, human guard to the _Tikavi_ crew. "What is this?"

"A solution of sodium stearate and sodium tallowate," said Kru'ku, his crest feathers fluffing up in pride. "I took the liberty of adding appropriate chemicals for the health and maintenance of your hide."

"...and none of the perfumes," murmured Del. He was going to need a shower after taking _this_ bath. "I'm sure it's... therapeutic as hell."

"I shall leave you to enjoy."

"Thanks," winced Del. To damn Kru'ku with faint praise, his heart was in the right place and he _meant_ well. But these fragile chicken-people were going to be the _death_ of him.

Humans, whilst seemingly tireless, do require a modicum of sleep. For peak functioning, insist that your human retains a complete slumber ritual.

"Del! There is a most fascinating mineral deposit on this world!"

Del snorted out of their sleep nook with arms flailing. Snorting as he went. He landed in a very sloppy defense position before realising that his companion chicken was showing him a shiny thing that he'd found.

"...wh'z't?" Del finally managed. "...i w's try'n'a _sleep_."

Kru'ku took a few minutes to catch up. "Oh. Oooohhhh... this is your sleep cycle. Many apologies." He dropped into a stage whisper. "I should be staying quiet, yes?"

"...and fucking off," mumbled Del. "Please."

Humans are not naturally inclined to work as a solitary being. Therefore it is necessary to introduce a system of rewarding physical contact.

Del looked down at the chicken wrapped around his leg. "Is it breeding season? Don't you have a female?"

Kru'ku looked up at him whilst also laying as much of his feathered neck against Del as he could. "I have found evidence that your kind require rewarding physical contact. Therefore I am engaging in ' _hug_ ' with you."

Del considered trying to outline all of the intricate and bizarre rules around personal contact to Kru'ku and estimated that neither of them had that many lifetimes. "Thanks," he sighed, and gently petted the chicken's feathers in return.

Human pack-bonding is not limited to other cogniscents. Many humans find time with a companion animal of their native world to be intensely rewarding.

"Kru'ku... why are you in my quarters with that box?"

"We have completed a successful trade for your benefit," said the chicken. He looked so darn pleased with himself.

But, knowing how screwy the chickens were with anything human, Del was suspicious. "Kru'ku... why does that box have _holes_ in it?"

"I believe the human expression is, ' _Happy Merry Birthmasween_ '."

Del had yet to explain that that one was something of a heritage joke. There could be _anything_ in that box, but the scrabbling noises dictated that it was alive.

"Wow. Thanks," said Del. He approached the box with caution. Kru'ku wouldn't purposely pick up something that was hazardous to other chickens. Would he? Del risked opening a flap.

"...mew!"

It had to be the world's smallest, fluffiest, calico kitten. And she came with a litterbox, scoop, and some accessories.

The noise Del made was indescribable. Part squee, part coo, all unintelligable, and some attempted words in the middle of it that could pass as, "Aawissadiddleiddybiddykiddycaaaaaat..."

Del scooped his new kitten into his hands. Tears of joy pooled in his eyes and then spilled down his cheeks. "Heyo gawjus. Heyo cyootie. Hoosaboo'ful? Hoosaboo'ful? Yoosaboo'ful... essoois... essois..."

Captain Bu'tik, out in the hall, stopped to boggle at the scene. "Kru'ku. Have you... _broken_... our human?"

"Essaywuvsooo... yoosoboo'ful..." Del cradled and petted his kitten, letting her bite and play with his fingers.

Kru'ku murmured, "Negatory, Captain. I have done _exactly_ the right thing."

# Challenge #280: Needing Hands

_Breathing bodies is a term for people, not necessarily qualified who can be used for tasks that free up more qualified people(@) - third hands? Well humans have only two, but some people are quite good at being a third hand when needed.(*)_

(@) example "here, put your hand on this and yell if it gets hot."

_(*) "Hold this steady while I tighten the coupling up." And there are times when they are invaluable._

[AN: Footnotes in prompts are NOT a success]

Their human was baffling, to say the least. The mercenary was hired to keep other deathworlders away from the _Kikiru_ and its crew. The human, easily four times any crewmember's mass, was not _just_ a ferocious guardian with the ability to pack-bond with any creature in its orbit for longer than forty-eight hours. In-between guarding the crew, they wanted to be _helpful_.

It was a common question in transit between waypoints. And confusing for all its repetition.

"Hey, you need a third hand, there?"

Individually, the words were intelligible and clear in their meaning. Put together, and in that order, there were immense problems.

Rumours abounded of freakish body experiments that, in combination with the human's extant bodily modifications, seemed remarkably plausible.

And attempting to clarify lead to increasing confusion.

Revelation came when the human, in their usual gung-ho attitude, wound up getting stuck in the fallout from rescuing a crewmember. She had one arm free, and most of her torso, but the rest of her, and the livesuit that helped her survive in the hostile atmosphere, was firmly stuck.

"Need a hand here, my bugs," she said. "Some of that excavation equipment might be nice."

Once again, confusion reigned. "We are not donating our arms for your body. The environment is incorrect for additive surgery."

A growl. "No. I _mean_... you use _your_ hands on _your_ bodies to help me _out_ of this... mess."

The truth, as it is said amongst the Formicids, dawned like a bright light. The entire crew simultaneously made the noise of acknowledgement.

"...seven damn months on this boat and _now_ they get it," grumbled the human. She continued picking smaller stones out of the avalanche that trapped her while she waited.

And then she was upset that only the construction and deconstruction crews turned up. A pack of humans, the Formicids were given to understand, could unite and perform all of the tasks necessary. Including a chain of bodies to ferry smaller stones away from the site and thus speed up extraction.

All of this was explained in patient tones and finished with, "And I only have so many hours of air, guys."

It was a new concept for the Formicids. Nurse crews, in addition to being nurses, could also carry things or pass things. The same went for food construction crews, exploratory crews, and so on.

Now they could understand why it only took a crew of five to run a human vessel.

#  Challenge #281: Everything? Everything!

" _I'm gonna eat everything!"_

" _Please don't, we'll be kicked out."_

" _Everything_ _."_

There is just one reaction that newcomers have when entering an _Unsuitable Food_ restaurant. Many newcomers have come from planets founded by people with ideals. Or from planets where entire species failed to flourish. And one human settlement survived with stone-age technology, an extremely limited diet, and ritualistic cannibalism, before the Alliance found them.

Faced with the abundance of all the foods of all the Alliance in every possible, pleasing combination... those newcomers have one sentence in common.

"I want to eat everything," said Ambassador Toni. "I want to try... _everything_."

"Ambassador, there's _two million_ menu options currently available for your species."

" _Everything_ ," insisted Ambassador Toni.

The Giiks are generous cooks, but they know that even a hungering human has their limits. Therefore, they prepare the Everything Sampler with sample sizes in _mouthfuls_. On spoons specially made for the purpose. Care and attention to detail is spent on making every mouthful a perfect miniature serving of the full-sized dish. Right down to miniature prawns in the Special Fried Rice, and the teeny-tiny sugar skull on the mouthful-sized serving of Death By Chocolate Cake. And of course, there are labels on every spoon, detailing what the sample is.

Guests attempting the Everything Sampler are informed that they are welcomed to continue where they left off. Once they have digested and rested from their previous encounter.

Humans generally make it through five hundred samples at a time. The record-keeper for humans is Ambassador Toni of Brav'nu, who managed five hundred and ten samples before a combination of exhaustion and discomfort stopped him.

The all-species record belongs to Ambassador Ayg, who, after a literal lifetime of Wave of the Future brand Faiize kibble -rationed according to work done- ate the entire platter in one sitting.

Gyiik-run restaurants are the only ones who freely guarantee _all_ you can eat. Others tend to be wary of that offer.

#  Challenge #282: Soul Mate Counselling

<http://jupiterjames.tumblr.com/post/148863222746/>

I love reading fics about OTPs having mental bonds and things like that, but they're always so profound. It'd be so much more entertaining if they still thought like normal people. Imagine this stuff:

" _You've had that song stuck in your head for days. It's driving me nuts, too."_

" _Why are you making a grocery list in your head while we're having sex?"_

" _Is that really what you think about my ass?"_

" _Stop projecting so much belligerent boredom. I love this TV show."_

" _No, you didn't forget to lock the door. You can quit fixating on it now."_

" _Yes, that sounds much better in your head."_

" _Is that really who you're daydreaming about naked?"_

" _Less homicidal thoughts about your annoying coworker right now, please. I'm in a meeting over here."_

" _It's coffee you're craving. Go get some. And bring me some. You made me want it, too."_

" _Thanks for the road rage thoughts. I'll take the back roads home. See you in an hour."_

" _If you think 'knit, knit, purl,' one more time, I'll stab you with those needles." – Anon Guest_

This was the first couple in couple's counselling who came in with tinfoil on their heads. Dr LaBotemé boggled briefly at them as they sat, but soon regained her usual air of studied calm.

"Mr and Mrs Bland. Thank you for arriving on time. I do have to ask... what's with the tinfoil?"

"We have a telepathic bond," said Mr Bland.

"It's the only way to shut it off," said Mrs Bland. "At least so far."

Dr LaBotemé boggled a little bit more. "I understood that telepathic bonds were the ultimate expression of romantic love. A true effect of soul mates."

"Yes, people do understand that," sighed Mrs Bland. "But then the romance wears off and you still have to live your life with someone in your head."

"Do you have any idea what it's like to have _Tutti Frutti_ bouncing between brains for _five months_?" said Mr Bland.

"Or knowing about every lurid sexual fantasy he has all day, every day?" said Mrs Bland. "And he makes up the shopping list while we're having sex!"

"Only so I can last longer. And let's not start about _your_ lurid fantasies. David Bowie, David Hasselhoff, David Tennant, David Bennett, whoever _that_ is... if my name wasn't also David, I'd be worried."

"It's David _Michael_ Bennett, and I just think he's hot when he's in makeup, okay? And we agreed that our fantasy lives are our own thing. Didn't we?"

"Well, you brought up _mine_..."

"I wouldn't have to if you didn't have so very many of them!"

"Well I'm not the one who has road rage going to the mall and back!"

"Well _I'm_ not the one who keeps 'forgetting' about the toilet seat before bedtime!"

"Well if you didn't nag..."

_This,_ thought Dr LaBotemé, _is going to take multiple sessions._

# Challenge #283: Heavenly Host(1)

 http://callmegallifreya.tumblr.com/post/151095300715/deliverusfromsburb-gods-falling-in-love-with _The god that adopts a ton of kids_

1) In the beginning. Stupid mistakes, awkward moments, working out what to do and what to tell the kid

2) Later. There's a horde of them, some of them have grown up and left but there's always more that need help. – Anon Guest

Hestatus, God of home and hearth, used to be a minor god. And like all minor gods, was really invested in answering prayers.

"Please let there be enough food for tonight?"

Hestatus manifested a feast on their household table, and thought that it was good.

But the same voice prayed the next night, "Please don't let Mama hurt me again?"

Hestatus put a little more effort into it, and made the supplicant child's skin like iron for the evening.

And again, the same voice. "Please don't make Mama lock me outside in the cold?"

Hestatus did a rare thing for a god. He actually sat still and thought. As tempting as it was to smite this child's mother, there had to be a better way. The quick and easy solutions were not working.

He manifested as a humble mendicant and conversed with his little worshipper. "Hestatus has been favouring you, I see. There is the glow of his blessing about you, child. What has happened?"

The child was fearful and small and softly-spoken. "...i asked for food and there was a whole table full, but mama said i stoled it and she beat me... asked not to get hurt and mama couldn't, so she shut me out." Tears fell down the waif's cheeks. "...i prayed not to be shut out in the cold... what'll mama do now?"

"Your mama won't hurt you again," assured Hestatus. He allowed his true nature to shine. "You are under _my_ protection."

Songs are sung to this day of how Hestatus protected his first saint from a mother who should never have been a mother. How he touched the woman's brow so lightly, and struck her down. And when she rose again, she never had a harmful thought.

They do not sing about the rift that caused. Without her savagery, a great deal of herself was lost. Though she was kind, she would stand still and stare during the times when anger should have emerged. And they never mention how she died, relatively young, from standing out in the snow and staring. Simply staring, until the snow stopped her blood from flowing.

Hestatus was and is a god, and knew very little of mortal ways. He knew humans needed food, but wasn't certain what _kind_ was good. 'Healthy' was not a word he was familiar with.

Hestatus was aware that his child needed safety, but wasn't quite aware of how much was too much.

It took other mortals, better mothers and fathers, to teach him the better ways of caring.

And possibly the most dangerous thing was when Hestatus learned that there were _other_ children. Children who didn't have a home. Who never warmed themselves by a hearth. And he was a god who could be _anywhere_...

# Challenge #284: Heavenly Host(2)

 http://callmegallifreya.tumblr.com/post/151095300715/deliverusfromsburb-gods-falling-in-love-with _The god that adopts a ton of kids_

1) In the beginning. Stupid mistakes, awkward moments, working out what to do and what to tell the kid

2) Later. There's a horde of them, some of them have grown up and left but there's always more that need help. – Anon Guest

The temples of Hestatus look like hostels, and that is for a very good reason. Hestatus is the god of home and hearth, and the protector of children who have neither.

Therefore its efficient just to add rooms to the temple. With bunk-beds.

The temples of Hestatus don't take burned offerings. They prefer living sacrifices of extra roosters or male lambs. They love you if you bring a nanny goat, because there are _always_ unwanted babies. The living that can be meat for the temple fleshpots are cooked to perfection, and given freely to those who hunger.

The nanny goats are always milked until they have no more milk. These are temples almost overflowing with hungry mouths.

And Hestatus himself is a god that can understand what a supplicant _means_. Hungry worshippers are fed within their means, and the miracles are small. Those who seek guidance are shown ways in which their existing talents can help many others. Those who are lost are shown, co-incidentally, the way to the nearest temple of Hestatus, where another pair of hands is always welcome.

The temples have libraries, and mortal tutors who teach all who come any useful thing that can be used. Some who grow in that rich soil become great thinkers, or great builders, or great doctors. But most, the true followers of Hestatus, become great _helpers_.

Sometimes, you might even find Hestatus in one of his own temples. He is always busy, and has flour on his apron and a towel over one shoulder. And if he has sleeves, they are short or rolled up. He could look like any other mortal, but there's always something... more.

He is never tired. Gods don't need to sleep. He is never hungry. Gods don't need to eat. And he is always warm and welcoming, because what a god needs most... is to be loved.

# Challenge #285: Not a Joke

_And so the Princess kissed the frog, and the Prince laughed because,_ _How did she fall for that!?!_

The Princess Orinoco glared at the Prince as he laughed so hard that he fell out of the tree he'd been hiding in.

The frog in her hands said, "He promised he'd release my family... Please forgive me."

Princess Orinoco carefully put the frog down by the pond, drew her knife, and marched over to the laughing Prince. His laughter cut short as she threatened to cut his throat. "The frog's family. Where is it?"

"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry..." he wailed.

"Fa. Mi. Ly. Now."

"Yes'm, sorry'm. IthoughtIwasfunnyandIwasn'tIappologise."

She lead him like a dog on a leash to a small hole in the base of a tree, where he'd hidden a jar full of frog spawn. Princess Orinoco snatched it off him.

"Of the two of you," she announced, "I prefer the frog. Never darken my doorstep again. Or my kingdom's borders."

"But–"

"Leave. While I am still generous." She cut him dead and returned to the pond, where she released the frog's spawn into the quiet waters of the pond. "My apologies for the inconvenience, M'sieur Grenouille. I will post a guard on your pond tonight."

"Bless you, your highness," croaked the frog. "I am small, and I have few abilities, but my family and I are always in your debt."

Princess Orinoco kept her word. Any frog and their family who chose _her_ garden ponds were under her protection. Frogs proliferated as a result, and pestilence plummeted. New Mages all over the kingdom had an eager queue of froggy applicants for the position of Familiar.

And as for Prince Malarky's kingdom... the frogs abandoned the entire land. And the resultant pestilence ran riot.

Yet Princess Orinoco's army of frogs kept them from her borders.

Which just goes to show that you should never mess with talking animals.

#  Challenge #286: Hell's Rowdy Neighbour

Here in Aussie high school students celebrate end of 12 years education by one week called "Schoolies" often followed by hangovers, regrets, and long explanations to parents. The Media have a field day. – Anon Guest

The music was so loud that it was incomprehensible. The crowds were so thick that movement was next to impossible. Most of the people present weren't wearing very much at all. The air was thick with a miasma of alcohol, hormones, and a not-so-subtle tincture of vomit.

The Doctor emerged from the TARDIS, took one look around, and turned back on the blue box. " _Really_?" he said. "Here? _Now_?"

The TARDIS remained immobile and silent, as it always did.

Holly had to yell at the top of her lungs. "WHAT IS THIS, DOCTOR?"

"AUSTRALIA," he hollered in return. "EARLY DECEMBER! THEY HAVE A TRADITION OF POST-HIGH SCHOOL REVELS!" A sudden silence washed over the area. The celebrants reached a point of stability and then stood still. "It's usually a time of dangerous excess, but this... this looks _interesting_."

"WHAT?" said Holly. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU OVER THE NOISE!"

The Doctor took out his sonic screwdriver. Scanned the crowds, and scanned Holly. A little adjustment to her hearing aids, and she made a deep sigh of relief.

"Oh thank you." She cracked her jaw. "What _was_ that? It still hurts."

The Doctor was wriggling around between the motionless crowd. Lifting long hair, peering at everyone's ears. Well. Everyone he could reach. More scanning. More noises.

"Doctor..." warned Holly.

"None of the affected people are deaf," he said. "Isn't that interesting?" The speakers were moving, he could see that, but there was no sound he could see.

"Ow!" Holly winced and clapped at her ears. "Ow! Now it's throbbing!"

The crowds stomped their feet. Lined up. And marched in unison down the main street. Heading towards a distant building.

The Doctor was left standing in an empty concert area, but he was grinning. "Something's rotten in the state of Queensland," he cooed. "Let's wreck their cunning plans."

"This is why I'm always in running shoes," sighed Holly. "I just wanted to go for a swim. Build some sandcastles. Have _fun_."

"This is better than any of that," dismissed the Doctor. He started skipping in excitement as he followed the revellers. "Come on, then! Chop, chop."

# Challenge #287: More Than Ductape

I needa! The perpetual cry of the (a) attempting to make/fix something. (b) Person hitting the twice a year Trade Show.

Humans were amazing. Most Galactics reached the stars and harvested society for new ideas. Humans did the same, but then they _warped those ideas further_ and made _new and frightening things_ with them.

The most terrifying introduction to Galactic Society was ductape. Humans couldn't agree if it was 'duct tape' or 'duck tape', so Galactics compromised and made it one, universal word. Which the humans gleefully adopted.

Most humans could solve a great deal of problems with a roll of ductape and some wire. And what they couldn't solve with either of those... they had a reputation for solving with explosions.

This is the species that invented the immunoflu[1].

Therefore, Galactics are used to seeing a human approaching a problem with a roll of ductape and a chain of paperclips.

And it was some surprise to the crew of the investigatory exploration ship, _The Alice_ [2] to see their ship's human retreat from the problem and mutter, "I need a three-eighth's gripley wrench." They stalked back in with the object in question.

Some clangs, swearing and another emergence. "Spline actuator fridget. I need a spline actuator fridget!"

The crew gathered to observe. Murmurs were exchanged concerning potential explosions. The human seemed to be happy, which was always a sign of trouble. They kept making, "Aha!" noises. Which could mean anything between, "I've found it," and "Now I've got you, you bastard."

The human emerged again. "BINGLETHRIPPER," the announced with a snap of their rubbery fingers. And then they went back in with the very human war cry of, "One of us is gonna die, and it ain't gonna be me!"

There was the inevitable muffled explosion. A cascade of metal things falling from their appointed place, including the circular one that always went off in its own direction. Then the human emerged, partially on fire, with its insult fingers raised at the problem. "GOTCHA! GOTCHA YER BASTARD! GET OUTTA THAT! _HA_!" They noticed their crew members. "IT'S FIXED," they said. "GOTTA GO TO SICK BAY I GOT THIS RINGING IN MY EARS AND I CAN'T HEAR A THING. OH, AND THERE'S A BIT OF A FIRE."

Humans. Can't live with them, and can't isolate them in a relatively empty area of space with heavy armaments protecting the rest of the universe from their presence.

[1] Faced with never curing the common cold, humanity _tamed the virus_ and put it to work by spreading vaccine seeds wherever it roamed. Immunisation is no longer a matter of choice, and those against injections can acquire their immunity as naturally as they please.

[2] Other species don't always 'get' giving their vessels names, but humans insist on it. They try, and sometimes, they fail.

# Challenge #288: Default Fix

Imagine this 'go to' item [duct tape] had been lost and then turned up on Amalgam. – Anon Guest

Once upon a time, JOATs did not know about ductape. It seems impossible, but it was not as ubiquitous as it is today. Ambassador Harry was not the only one to come into Galactic society from the impact of the Chelete ship _Explorer 255_ and the Britanian Vessel _King George_.

Harry brought her friend Leslie. Who brought along three rolls of what he called 'the universal solution'.

Galactic observers at the time were confused, of course, because Leslie's 'universal solution' was clearly a solid object. One reel of it seemed permanently attached to Leslie's hip.

It triumphed, of course, on the transit towards Hitizzy, where that decade's Ambassadorial Meet was held. The seasonal micrometeor storm arrived early and the transport vessel was quite obviously hit and leaking atmosphere.

While the crew was scrambling for the filler foam cannisters, Leslie unhooked his spool and, in utter calm, tore off strips of it to cover the tiny holes. He was done in seconds.

He brandished the warped cylinder with a grin. "Duck tape," he said. "The universal solution to life's little problems."

"Duct tape," corrected Ambassador Harry.

"Whatever," Leslie shrugged. "Same cat, different name."

It took off like wildfire. Well. It took off like the opposite of wildfire. In that it became widely known as a saviour of lives and the quickest fix known to cogniscent life.

Ductape, as the humans would insist on saying, went viral.

It only took two Standard Years, but by then it was both _everywhere_ and _impossible to imagine not being there_. Even JOATs who had lived without its influence could not recall their pre-ductape solutions.

It was just. _That_. Good.

# Challenge #289: Well Why Not?

They've revived this show about MacGyver who could do almost anything with a swiss army knife and a roll of duct tape.

[AN: The jury's still out on the new show. It's powered by more bullshittium than the original was]

The problem with improvisational souls like Mac was boredom. With nothing to do, nobody to battle, Mac would slowly gravitate towards junkyards and equally gradually fill his warehouse home with so much technological packrattus that Jack and Riley both worried about him living in the middle of it.

And he didn't, precisely, live in it. There was a tiny office space in one high corner that allegedly looked over the labyrinth of shelving and tools below. Mac had installed a cot of a bed, and enough of a kitchen to cook whatever he wanted in there. It was just a space to sleep and eat.

When Mac was bored, he spent most of his time solving problems that nobody knew they had. Today was no different.

Jack caught him hammering at some plate aluminium. There was a gigantic humanoid frame in the corner and a plus-sized guitar.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Just a sec'." CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG. He lifted the piece and turned it about. It looked like a nose and some cheekbones in silver. There was a dimple for an upper lip.

"What the _hell_. Are you _doing_?"

"Hm? Oh. Uh... I saw this thing on YouTube and I wanted to know if it was possible."

Jack sighed. "Unpack, Mac."

"There was this silver guy who looked like a robot, and playing guitar? Andum... I did a little bit of a wiki walk about him and there's all this lore about steam-powered robots? And I wanted to see if it was possible." He reached up and pulled down a screen that was showing the silent video on loop.

"Mac. That's a dude in a costume and makeup."

"Doy. Yes. Of course it is. You can tell whenever he opens his mouth real wide. And there's no such thing as blue matter. I looked. It's not scientifically possible. No. The finished automaton's going to be a lot trickier than that." Mac fitted the plate onto an animatronic head, completing a metal face that sort of resembled the man on the screen's makeup. "I just want to see if I can."

Jack took all this in. The over seven-foot tall skeleton. The pistons and servos. The piles upon piles of electronics. Finally, he sighed. "You need to get out more."

# Challenge #290: Sys iPhus

" _I'm sorry, I can't... I'm broken,"_

" _Is that what they told you?"_

The Doctor skidded to a halt in yet another room in the complex. There, a vaguely cylindrical robot went in a circuitous path, repeatedly fixing things that, ultimately, caused everything to return to its original state.

"Sysiphus," he muttered.

Holly stopped, too, almost blundering into him. She took in the scene and said, "Excuse me?"

The robot paused. "I cannot aid you. I am... broken. I must... fix." And then it trundled on with its endless tasks.

The Doctor, being the Doctor, started fiddling about with paperclips and string. Rigging something up in the circuit where the robot had just been.

Holly followed the poor thing. "What are you doing?"

"I fix things, here. I _must_ fix things here. It is all I am."

This was obviously a combination of someone's cruel joke, and a sad attempt at a perpetual motion machine.

"But why are you fixing this lot? You're making your own problems."

"It is what I am made for. I must fix."

"But... you can just leave. Nobody'll notice that you're gone."

"I'm sorry, I can't... I'm broken."

"Is that what they told you?" said the Doctor. He watched and waited where he was, until the ball that the last fix should have careened down the ramp and into the next invented problem. "Nonsense, of course."

The machine stopped in its tracks. Stared at the sudden equilibrium. "It is... fixed. Now what do I do?"

Holly lead it out of its self-imposed maze. "You can be anything you want to be," she said. "We can help you along, if you like."

"Sure," said the Doctor. "It won't be the first time I had a machine in the TARDIS. Free repairs, a little bit of extra programming. No more endless loops."

"Freedom," added Holly. "And a bit of adventure."

"And I am not broken?" the robot seemed to be having trouble with this concept.

"No," cooed the Doctor. "Come on. Let's have an adventure."

# Challenge #291: Anti-serendipity

" _What happened to the scarf of invulnerability?"_

" _Uh... my cat ate it."_

The cat in question growled from its position under the ottoman. Yellow eyes glowed out from the shadows.

"The good news," said Ki'van, "is that the scarf itself is invulnerable. We... um... just have to wait a bit."

Now the growling from under the ottoman took on a slightly musical quality. So... the cat wasn't just pissed at _him_.

"I know she'll try to take my arm off if I try to feed her, but I need that invulnerability, Ki'van."

"Um..." Ki'van twisted herself sideways so she could look at her cat. "About that..."

Ki'van had to be a good magician, because she had managed to convince Twinkle, the homicidal cat, that he, Mouchon the Magnificent, was one of her equally homicidal kittens and needed Twinkle close and nurturing.

It worked, in that the invincibility spread by contact to protect Mouchon from most of the harm.

And it would have been great, if it wasn't for the constant sandpaper licking. He could barely hear any taunts over her purring.

_If all else fails,_ vowed Mouchon, _I'm going to throw the cat at them._

That day went down in history as the strangest wizard duel that had been fought to date. And Mouchon would spend the rest of his life explaining it.

# Challenge #292: Ancient Wisdom

Measure twice, cut once, useful advice for anyone. – Anon Guest

Rael knew he should have checked up on Shayde sooner. She had a knack for teaching new JOATs all the wrong tricks.

Chiefly: "Measure wi' micrometer, mark wi' chalk, cut wi' axe."

So, after hearing this, he simply had to barge in and defend his own honour. "The _real_ adage, Trainee Melkith, is 'measure twice, cut once'. Ambassador Shayde labours under the misapprehension that she is funny."

"I was tellin' 'er about engineerin', thanks."

"Which is a far more refined discipline than you remember."

She laughed. "I've been watchin' some o' yer engineers, and nowt much has changed. Here, did I tell ye the one about the artist, the mathematician, and an engineer?"

Rael, though he did not, precisely, have a head, felt a headache coming on. "Madam ambassador..." he grated. "This is not open mic night at Revelry Café. Keep your... 'jokes'... to yourself."

"Listen tae him, would'ja? The stick up his butt has a stick up its butt that off an' died. Joatin' is improvisation, ye ken. Joatin' _right_ is fixin' what the engineers got wrong."

Rael startled at this naked truth. "Shayde... you're a virtuoso at playing stupid... how did you–?"

"I worked it out an age back. And I had tae get _along_ wi' engineers. Th' lot of 'em wanted warning lights. Over everythin'."

Trainee Melkith snorted into her work. "Kids' toys..."

"Aye, exactly. If th' posters up an' down t' hall ain't enough, no blinky light's goin' tae stop ye."

"I've seen humans go _towards_ the blinky lights," said Trainee Melkith. "When they were asked why, they said–"

"The wanted tae see what the danger was, aye," Shayde chorused. "That's humans. Gi'e 'em a rope, they'll hang 'emselves. Gi'e 'em a wet paint sign and they'll touch it."

For once... Rael had to agree. "When did you get so cynical about your own species?"

"Eh... around age seven."

# Challenge #293: Cheerful Charlie

" _No worries, Mate! No problem." – Anon Guest_

[AN: Other phrases that Aussies have learned to fear, especially those who remember Joh "I live to fuck up your life" Bjelke-Peterson, are "Don't you worry about that" and "She'll be right" ::twitch::]

If there was a worse curse for a ship's human, T'kethi couldn't think of a worse option than a N'Ozzie Engineer. T'kethi repeatedly set herself reminders to never again pick a human based on pure aesthetics.

They were all ugly, squishy things, but at least this one was the right shade of brown. And T'kethi could tolerate them bending in every wrong way possible but...

Someone should have warned her that for N'Ozzies... the term 'deathworlder' _really_ applied. The most unnerving quality was the chipper, cavalier, can-do attitude to near-death situations.

Micrometeor punctures in her livesuit? "No worries, mate. Got loads o' gaff. She'll be right." And, strangely enough, she was. She even weathered the wounds from the micrometeor with a cheerful, "Jeez, I didn't even notice. Cold must'a cauterised it. See meself to the autodoc, shall I. Reckon I programmed it right _this_ time."

Broken bone? "Yeah, I taped something solid to it and made a walkin' stick outta some rubbish I found around. Soon as I get a good brace on it, I'll be right."

Poor resupply opportunities? "Don't you worry about that, I got me loads of rice. Reckon I can make this lot stretch a fair while. Still, wouldn't mind goin' walkabout in the next port o' call. See what's what."

T'kethi learned that human females shed part of their internal organs as part of their active fertility cycle. To which the human cheered, "No worries. Just feels like a possum in me guts is all. I'll be right. Just don't get on me bad side fer a week."

Given the things that the human dealt with... with a smile on her face and ductape in hand... T'kethi did not want to know what her human's bad side might be like.

# Challenge #294: Inevitable Failure

" _Hey, I might constantly manipulate people to stack things in my favor, but actually cheating is pushing it a little bit too far,"_

"It's like this," said the campaign manager. "We gerrymandered, and you're still losing. We've changed the voter ID laws, and you're still losing. We've criminalised a majority of the folks who would never vote for you, and you're still losing. We've sent out false messages about easier ways to vote to the youth demographic and you're still losing. At this point... what's a little ballot-stuffing between friends?"

"If we're caught, we're going to go to jail for the rest of our lives."

"I can live with 'if'. Pass me the bag of fake ballots."

The candidate did so, and the campaign manager began adding them to the previously-locked box of ballots.

The PA system crackled into life. "Hi there. I feel compelled to tell you at this point that your activities are being live-streamed across the globe and to every news station in the country. You're already being GIF'ed on the social media."

The candidate, tiny hands chock-full of false ballots, froze in place. "Well I can't be the only one rigging this election. Nobody'd want to vote for that [EXPLETIVE SLUR DELETED]."

"Thanks for saying that," said the voice. "Now that you've invalidated your own election, the citizens who once voted for you won't vote for you again. That sort of language has made your demographic shrink down to... your family. And even half of _them_ aren't voting for you. Meanwhile, the police are on their way. They're _also_ watching your live-streamed crimes."

"Who are you?" the candidate bellowed. "When I find you, I'm going to make your life a living hell, you hear me? I'll destroy everything you love!"

"Why, _mister president_ ," the voice cooed sarcastically. "You already did. I'm one of the multitude you left broke, broken, and dying. I'm one of the many paving stones in your path to alleged success. You cannot take from me any more."

Sputtering rage and foaming invective. And a failed attempt to set the fireproof ballots alight.

"And by the way, all your assets and holdings have been seized. They will be liquidated and used to house and feed single-parent families. And pay the hospital bills of the poor. Have a nice day."

And that was when the SWAT teams arrived to take him and his accomplice in. Already, he was denying that he was ever in this room.

# Challenge #295: O My Mona

A soft smile hiding gritted teeth

He called her Mona, for the smile that echoed the legendary painting. She never talked. Never opened her mouth. Never made a sound. The only communication he ever had from her was her soft and mysterious smile, and the glint in her eyes.

Not that he cared. He took his pleasures from her and left the money with the man who ran the House. But there was just something about Mona.

He came back every week. Then every day. And he decided that it had to be the twinkle in her eye. The smile, the perpetual, gentle smile, could mean anything.

But her eyes spoke of love. It said she wanted to be his sole source of pleasure.

He started coming at every free moment. Sometimes, he would sit and talk while she gently massaged his stresses away. Sometimes, it would be rough and ready rutting like sweaty animals.

She was good luck, he knew it. He got promoted. He had enough pay to take her home with him for a day. To his new home. With all its wonderful new bells and whistles. And a fancy new kitchen with everything she could want in it.

As always, Mona smiled. He saw her teeth, only once. When she found the carving knives. He didn't even know that he'd made a mistake when he saw how tightly they were clenched together. He didn't recognise the fire of anger in her face.

And he never understood her shrieks of rage as she sunk the knife into him again and again and again, until all there was of his white home was red.

He'd been good to her.

Hadn't he?

Why did she have to be so angry?

It had never occurred to him, nor to any man in his world, to give Mona a choice. But now she could choose.

She chose to run free for the rest of her life.

# Challenge #296: Strange Customers

Being alive put him at a severe disadvantage

[AN: My instant thought on this is Miles Vorkosigan, but I'm trying to exercise myself here...]

This had to be the strangest motley crew to ever find themselves in Dr Mellitus' offices. One human boy, three automatons. The doctor had been intellectually aware that Junkers cobbled together their own creations from the waste-piles, but this was the first time he'd seen some that _looked_ that way.

Especially the short one. She had part of a cooking pot on her face and seemed to compensate for the ruin by wearing the fanciest clothes she could get her hands on. The tall one was typical Junker fare. A soldier-machine or war-maton that acted like a younger juvenile and, in this case, kept a firm grip on the arm of Exhibit C.

The third automaton in the party needed a good cleaning, but was otherwise functional. That one acted like he was here on sufferance. Something he wanted to get through, rather quickly, and then be on with other business.

Dr Mellitus had also heard that automatons that were operational too long began to gather... personality. The small one had to be working the longest. "He- he- he broke into my house," she said. "And now he's come in- into my care. I've done my- done my best, but... I'm sure- sure- sure he needs- needs more."

The boy was clean and groomed, but the automaton had solved the problem inherent in his long hair by styling it as if it were a girls' hair. And a multitude of tiny braids wound their way into an elaborate, gordian knot of twining twists over the back and top of his head. But that was not the main problem.

The main problem was the neglect this child had suffered beforehand. His teeth might be clean now, but there was evident decay. Besides the club foot, there was the beginnings of a hunched back, and his body was covered in scars. The doctor listened with a stethoscope to his heart and lungs, palpitated his organs and muscles, and tried not to show emotion when an accidentally-cracked phalange was greeted with nothing more than a wince.

In brief... Being alive put him at a severe disadvantage.

"This boy needs ample supplies of calcium. Milk in every form. Cheese if milk is unavailable. Soft fish bones if he can't digest either. Iron, sunshine. Plenty of roughage... you have nutrition programs that are up to date?"

"Oh yes," said the small one. "I keep- I keep as up to date as I- as I can." The feathers on her hat bobbed hypnotically whenever she spoke.

"As for the club foot... There is a way to straighten the bones, but I'd wait until his skeleton is stronger. It's a painful process and will involve a brace to correct the bones. Though... given the child's evident past... I suspect he won't be impeded by pain."

The boy snorted. "Jules no getting much pain from Ticktocks. Is good-good. Jules coming back when bones strong."

And that seemed to be it. The boy hopped off the examination bed and back into his clothes. The short one rummaged around in a carpet bag and gave the child a sweet and, after some evident consideration, offered one to Dr Mellitus as well.

"Finally," said the besmeared Exhibit C. "We have more important things to do. We're so close."

"Old program," smiled the boy. He joined hands with the short one and limped away.

Dr Mellitus wouldn't see him again for a year, and by then... the world had changed.

#  Challenge #297: Liminal Time and Space

Night people. Those who by choice, obligation or calling walk or work the Night Shift.

Children of the night... what interesting lives they have. Those who work from dusk to dawn work in liminal time. Where the strange is not just expected, it is background radiation.

People turning up to their workspace in PJ's, half their PJ's, and minimum legal clothing are a fine example. And though everyone talks about that one time a dude came in wearing a live 'gator, the guy wearing a pink dishwashing glove still takes the Break-room Anecdote prize.

And around about one in the morning, under the slightly green and peripherally flickering neon lighting, it is very possible to believe that one might be capable of accessing alternate realities.

Karen had just enough time to hide her secret stool as the customers walked in. Heaven forfend that anyone found a minimum wage employee actually _sitting down_. That sort of thing went against the moral backbone of the nation.

Karen held the secret opinion that the moral backbone of the nation should be worrying more about minimum wage health and welfare, rather than minimum wage _sitting_. Everyone needed to rest their feet. Even the lowest of the low.

This lot wore coats over hoodies. She could deal with that. What was slightly within the uncanny valley was the weird way they walked. As if they had more knees than was necessary. Their arms moved as if they had more than the requisite number of elbows and... holy shit, they were giant insects.

They couldn't really _be_ giant insects. They had to be cosplayers or something. Rational explanations were abundant. It's just that none of them completely fit. They even clicked and chirped at each other as they gathered... five family boxes of Sugar Puffz and an equal number of super-sized rainbow slushies.

They had the right kind of money as they ponied up to the counter and added a selection of overpriced candy to their haul.

"Are we on the correct road to One Horse?"

Ah. That explained _everything_.

"One Horse is twenty miles east. And remember to have your Brigadoon light on, or you won't see the exit."

They tipped her fifty bucks as they thanked her for her help.

_Nice_ bugs.

Two hours later, what passed for normalcy resumed as a dude in his PJ's and a dollar shop cape turned up to declare that he was a vampire and he needed blood sausage immediately. Karen wordlessly pointed out the British Specials section of the refrigerated wall.

# Challenge #298: Meeting of the Lost

Alphas have the charisma and make the most noise, but it's the Betas, and Gammas who do the most work.

[AN: Alpha theory is a relic of Victorian thinking and all that 'might makes right', 'survival of the fittest', strength==power bullshit. The creatures we think of as 'Alphas' actually wind up winning the least female attention and losing out in the genetic lottery. I'm a writer, I research this stuff for fun]

He thought he had found some of his fellows. More mild-mannered men who were generally too shy to make themselves known to the one they pined for. Daryl could understand words like 'friendzone'. He was permanently the friend. Never the _boy_friend.

But this meeting... this meeting had something very wrong with it.

"It's all these Alphas," complained a fellow in a shirt that had not been washed since a prior decade. "Parading around with their big muscles and hot cars. They always impress the _females_ by beating up on nice guys like us."

The murmur of agreement went around the majority of the room. Daryl was one of the ones who remained silent.

"The _females_ never care about nice guys. They don't want someone who loves them, who'll cherish them. They want what they can get. Diamonds, fast cars, muscly arm candy. The system is rigged against us."

"Alphas _suck_."

"Wait," said Daryl. "What are alphas?"

The leader of the meeting sneered through his greasy, unkempt beard. "They're the scum of humanity. Brainless morons with muscle and money and little else. Dumb jocks who live to see guys like us dragged through the mud. They're loud, annoying, assholes with nothing but money and meat to offer. By the time the _females_ realise their mistake, it's too late. They're fat and ugly and he's dumped her for a newer model."

"Stupid bitches," grumbled another member. "They don't even know what's missing."

"Er," said Daryl. "Have any of you really studied nature? The ones we thought of as Alphas don't actually do much of the mating. They miss out because they offend the females, who then go to the quieter, more useful members of the community."

They all stared at him.

"Hi. I'm Daryl, I'm a bio-major. All of that 'survival of the fittest' stuff is an outmoded theory that has no basis in fact."

More stares.

Daryl started to feel his heart like a spike in his chest. He swallowed and continued. "In our society, women have less opportunities for work? Um. Andum. When they get it, they get paid less? So it's only natural that she looks for someone who can support her and children she has? Um." Breathe. Deep. Before the spots in his vision made him pass out. "So they're looking for someone who has long-term success? That means, keeping fit, keeping groomed, andum... have- having some... high-quality clothing?"

"Then how do you explain fake geek girls?" challenged his immediate neighbour.

"I haven't found any," he said. "What you think of as 'fake geek girls' are actual girl geeks who just avoid any male who challenges their presence in the same environment. Women don't memorise statistics and facts like men do, they're more about the emotional value they get from an experience. Once they're challenged to recite things beyond their interest spheres, you label them as fake."

"Women still don't belong in science fiction," sneered a weedy beanpole in an eternal hoodie.

"Dude," sighed Daryl. "Women _invented_ science fiction."

"Nuh-uh, Isaac Asimov did it."

"Nuh-uh, Jules Verne."

"Dude, Jules Verne wrote _steampunk_."

"Lady Margret Cavendish wrote the first science fiction story about a utopian society," said Daryl. He was high. He was flying. He was _pissed off_. "Way before Jules Verne was _born_. She published a few months before Mary Shelley published _Frankenstein: A Modern Prometheus_. Isaac Asimov even _credited_ Mary Shelley for inventing the genre. You," he pointed to a dude wearing a Tardis. "Do you know who _produced_ Doctor Who?"

"Uh. I'unno. Some guy?"

"Verity Lambert. A girl. You," he singled out a guy in a Trek shirt. "Who backed Star Trek in the first place? Who _ran the studio_ where it was shot? Who helped Gene Roddenberry campaign for a second pilot?"

The Star Trek guy shrugged and said, "William Shatner?"

"Lucille Ball," answered Daryl. "A girl. You," he pointed to a guy in a Batman hoodie. "Who invented the very concept of a masked vigilante with a secret identity?"

"Guy Pierce[1]?"

"Baroness Emma Orczy. She wrote the very first masked vigilante with a secret identity in _The Scarlet Pimpernel_."

"Men still invented books."

"WRONG! The author of the world's first novel was _Lady_ Murasaki. Face it, gentlemen. Women invented everything we love. We should at least pay them a modicum of respect." Daryl sat down before he fell down. "Everything you assume is bullshit. Start again."

The Chair of the meeting cleared his throat, and broke for coffee, Mountain Dew, and the incoming pizza. He also sidled up to Daryl and said, "Yeah, your membership is revoked. Don't come back."

There's no hope for people who won't see any.

[1] One of the _many_ actors who played Zorro. Who was directly inspired by The Scarlet Pimpernel.

# Challenge #299: Gods Grant It

In some religious systems the ruling Deity 'rides' or speaks through a member of the congregation. Like Lois McMasters Bujold's "Saints" I wonder if it's more of a problem than an honour. – Anon Guest

[AN: I firkin LOVE anything written by Lois McMasters Bujold]

One good thing about taking shelter in an abandoned temple, Josephine mused, was that one was technically close to the gods. She'd prayed at half of those altars in the dead of the night. And now, at the strained light of dawn, she knelt at the Goddess of Futures and Portents.

She was always portrayed with blood in her lap, but in recent decades, men bowdlerised her image by adding a bowl and a sacrificial animal. This was one of the older ones, with just the blood between her spread thighs.

Josephine lit tinder and a handful of bay leaves in the brass container for such offerings. Made sure she breathed only a small portion of the smoke.

"I don't know if you're still here," she said. "You've always favoured women, so I'm taking my chances. I need to know... Where will I find my true love?" For this to work, she needed to voice her real name. Josephine briefly looked around the temple for any unwelcome listeners. "Where will I find Bonnie Mumely Gabor?"

She remained on her knees until the fire went out. Until the smoke vanished. There were no messages in the ash. No shapes in the smoke. Well. Desperate measures got thin rations. She thanked the Goddess regardless and cleaned out the old brazier.

One god down, five to go. Josephine wrung the neck of a pigeon for the God of Death, and asked for any sign that He had passed Bonnie by, or... if the unthinkable had happened, that he'd taken her mercifully from life, to be born again in another place.

Neither the pigeon nor her tears impressed that dire, obsidian facade.

The Goddess of Harvests, the God of Profit, and two others who no longer had faces had anything for her either. Josephine had never been very religious, so she knew which gods had no faces, but not in which order. So she'd given them both mixed offerings and hoped they were merciful.

Ha! Mercy from the gods. She should have known by now that the gods never favoured Engineers nor Scholars, who never had time for prayer. Josephine packed up her belongings and set forth for her next destination.

It was when she hit the hustle and bustle of the city that a strange spell washed over her. There were auras around everything living, and there was an absence of weight to everything. Her body, her pack, even her aching scars ceased to pain her. She could see... light... leading people on their way.

_Fear not,_ whispered a woman's voice. _I am with thee._

Josephine couldn't be afraid. All her emotions were out of her reach. She saw her own path's leash, and the potential threads she could follow. A glowing hand only she could see reached forward and pulled on one singular thread.

Josephine followed it to a train station. Let a voice out of her control calmly order a ticket back to Traderport. Yes, she understood that she would have to pay for her own food, but the sleeper cabin came with the ticket price.

The last thing she knew, the same voice whispered, _My servant will help you._

And she woke, hours later, in a second-class seat, opposite an elderly man who immediately offered her chocolate.

"I'm afraid it's nougat," he said. "They're always the last to go."

"...not around me," she mumbled. She felt strangely lazy. As if all of her will to move had been drained from her. When she tried to move her arm, it was heavy. As if she'd been in a long bath and only recently came out of the water.

"Take it easy for a couple of days," said the stranger. "Gods. They know everything, so they never learn. Especially when it comes to riding humans."

The chocolate-covered nougat replenished only some of her reserves. At least she wasn't feeling so drowsy. "Izzat what happened?"

"O yes. You were a Pauper's Saint for roughly an hour. For good or ill, you are getting what you wished for."

"She... said you were... her servant?"

"I have found ways to see futures, yes. You're trading pain for your wish. And not merely the physical discomforts." He squinted. "You might lose some toes, but your creation will help you get them back."

Josephine's hands tightened on her skirts. "Were is she? Is she all right?"

"Yes. For now. Soon... she will start a long journey to find you. A journey I will have to help her with." He checked a rather plain pocketwatch. "And it is now safe for you to sleep in your cabin. The officer who could have harmed you has been caught. And dealt with. You will have an uneventful journey to Traderport."

Josephine felt a chill as he escorted her to her cabin. He was, indeed, what the Goddess promised. And it was only now that she remembered that the Goddess of Futures and Portents was also the Sacred Guardian of Tricksters. She had no doubt that this man had arranged _everything_.

And she dared not pray again.

# Challenge #300: Don't Feed the Birds

Person 1: (Panicked and running) "There's a dinosaur in the time machine! THERE'S A DINOSAUR IN THE TIME MACHINE!"

Person 2: (Vaguely annoyed) "Again? Those sneaky bastards..."

Callie looked vaguely alarmed as Baz dug into his mini-fridge and extracted a sausage.

"Don't worry," he said, "It's chicken." He casually strolled down to the temporal lab where a black-and-white feathered dinosaur waited and watched expectantly. As Baz entered, it burst into song.

"That... sounds like a magpie..."

"Probably one of their descendants," grinned Baz. He dangled the sausage at the proto-bird. "You wannit? You wannit?"

KreeeEEEdle koodle koodle koodle COO COO WrrraaAAAAAAK COO!

Baz ripped a tiny bit of sausage meat off and tossed it towards the animal's mouth. It fielded the morsel with evident expertise and looked expectantly at the rest.

"There ya go. You know it's good, right? Back where ya came from, now..." Baz wound up and tossed the rest of the sausage into the vortex, a trick that worked to send the animal back to that from whence it came.

Baz dusted his hands. "Right. That's tha–"

KOODLE KOODLE KRRREEEEEOOOOOO COO COO!

Baz turned. In the portal there was not one, but a family of five black-and-white feathered dinosaurs, all singing for their supper.

"...you cheeky buggers," murmured Baz in appreciation.

#  Challenge #301: Unconventional Saints

While skimming Reddit's D7D page, I ran across a thread discussing interesting house-rules various groups had invented for their games. Some were mundane, like what weapons did certain amounts of damage on critical hits, or which monsters were weak to certain elements, but one strange one stuck out...

" _Paladins and Clerics who are sworn to the service of gods who are Lawful Good in alignment are, as a result of their intense piety and devotion, actually and literally able to piss pure Holy Water, imbued with all the expected blessings and divine endowments therein." – Anon Guest_

Of all the strange things that Saint Grelf the Strong of Arm did, the one that mystified Diherna the most was the peculiar habit of relieving himself into marked containers. Since she had been rescued by the fighting saint, she decided not to mention his odd habit.

It got even more peculiar when he sealed them in wax and then gave them to any passing travellers as Holy Water. And warned them not to drink it.

He had between five or ten to give to any house that let them rest on their property. He even paid for rooms at an inn with a brace of the things.

Diherna broke at one evening meal, watching him buy another brace of bottles from a Glazier's Boy. "Sir," she said. "I've seen what you do to make your holy water... but why give it away?"

"I am a Vessel for the Holy Power of Beliit," answered the Paladin. "I am to give what I have for those in need, as is His will. And since I am a Vessel for His power, and I am _devoted_... any water that passes through me becomes imbued with the same power."

Diherna almost choked on her stew. "You... _piss_... holy water?"

"And crap Blessed Earth, if you wish to be so crude. Yes. It can have its advantages." He grinned. "I was once held captive by Evil Creatures. Lost and alone, I made an escape with the help of a Rogue I once knew... but the important part is I relieved my bladder into their water supply."

Diherna turned maroon from mortification. "You didn't," she whispered.

"Blessings are just as infectious as curses, it seems," said Saint Grelf. "I was a young Paladin at the time, and the Queen who employed me had tasked me with ridding that land of evil. They didn't much mind _how_ I did it."

She boggled at him anew. "I thought Saints were stuffy old virgins with no sense of fun..."

"They don't have to be," said Saint Grelf. His eyes were twinkling. "I know you were escaping your destiny as something of a Saint, yourself. Perhaps you'd like to learn a few things..."

"My mother insists I go to the Order of the Lady to keep me in line," she growled. "I don't _want_ to be in a convent until she finds me some warty old king."

"Let me tell you a few interesting things about the Order of the Lady," he said with a laugh. "Starting with their utmost belief in their follower's free will..."

# Challenge #302: Weird Encounters(1)

Frisk Meets....

1) The Mystery Skulls

2) Scooby Doo – Anon Guest

Frisk signed, _You're new. Hello._

The formally-dressed Skeleton in front of hir glared down at the child. He was apparently nodding to a beat that Frisk couldn't hear. He didn't speak, and that could be because he didn't have a lower jaw.

Frisk tried offering him some monster food. A candy that ze had saved from the bowl in the Underground.

_This isn't Halloween, yet, kid_ said a voice that was not quite a voice.

Oh. So he was a ghost. _I'm sorry,_ signed Frisk. _I got confused. I know someone who can help._ At that point, Frisk dialled up Blooky and Mettaton.

What are you doing?

It didn't take long, at least, not for Napstablook. Ghosts could be anywhere they liked in the space of a thought. Mettaton, emotionally attached to his robot body, had to travel through physical space, but... they all knew a boatman. Or boatwoman.

Between Blooky's shyness and Mettaton's showmanship, they got the new ghost talking about his issues, with Frisk playing the role of mediator. Mettaton kept using Frisk like a talking stick, and keeping contact with hir while he raved.

Ambassadoring wasn't always easy.

But Lewis (what an odd name for a ghost, it didn't even end in 'blook') detailed that he was only very recently dead. The remains of a human's determination, fuelled by revenge and more than a modicum of rage.

He was looking for his friends, who were still alive. The love he'd lost, and the one who... might... have killed him. Lewis was foggy on that point.

Frisk told hir ghostly friends to stay with Lewis. Ze had to find Arthur and Vivi and do some mediation. Ze was the Ambassador for _all_ monsters, and this was hir job.

# Challenge #303: Weird Encounters(2)

Frisk Meets....

1) The Mystery Skulls

2) Scooby Doo – Anon Guest

It had been quite a chase, but now the Skeleton of Ebott Mountain had been well and truly caught.

"NYA-HA HA HA!" Cheered the Skeleton. "YOU HUMANS ARE EVEN BETTER AT HIDE AND SEEK THAN FRISK!"

"...ride an' reek?" echoed the dog.

"Uh," Fred shrugged. "Okay, gang, it's time to see who this monster really is..." He reached under the chin for a mask, and at that point, a small child landed on his arm and almost knocked him over.

"FRISK! OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE, RIGHT?"

Frisk, still in Fred's capable arms, signed urgently, _This not monster, this friend! No kill!_

"THERE'S NO NEED TO BE ALARMED, SMALL HUMAN. I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, CAN DISCONNECT MY HEAD FOR UP TO SEVEN MINUTES! THAT'S A SKELETON RECORD."

Fred put Frisk down, and ze immediately went to loosen the ropes.

"THANK YOU FOR THE GAME, HUMANS," said Papyrus. "AND DOG. THIS HAS BEEN A GREAT WORKOUT. I SHOULD TELL UNDYNE ABOUT YOU."

Frisk very urgently signed, _No, no, no, no, don't you dare! We need them all to live. Peace between monsters and humans, remember?_

Papyrus was approaching seven feet tall, which was impressive when he stretched. Then he leaned down to the diminutive Frisk and attempted a murmur. "IS THIS ONE OF THOSE SOCIAL FLAW THINGS?"

Frisk nodded as ze signed, _Sorry._

Papyrus had a map for the gang. "THIS WILL SHOW YOU WHERE THE GENUINE MONSTERS HANG OUT," he said. "GOOD LUCK FINDING YOUR FRIEND!

Shaggy watched them leave, hand in hand. "Like... that went differently from what I usually expect."

#  Challenge #304: Home Again, Home Again

Skelebro(s?) coming to collect Frisk from interdimensional adventures – Anon Guest

"Look, this kid belongs to somebody, Wander. We've _been_ through this."

Wander was doing his puppy-eyes again. "I know, Sylvia... but just look at hir. Ze's so _cute_..."

Frisk signed, _I knew I shouldn't have worn the tutu today,_ but ze signed it to beings who did not understand hir. Once again, actions spoke louder than sign language.

"...there ya are, kiddo."

Frisk shrieked a tiny noise of glee and launched herself at the shorter Skeleton brother.

"Oh, I guess you guys know each other," said Wander. "Hi. I'm Wander, and this is Sylvia. We wander around the galaxy and do some good deeds."

_They're okay,_ signed Frisk.

The blue glow in Sans' left eye faded out. "...i'm kind'a hir guardian... here to get hir back home.... frisk... your mom's getting frantic... what happened?"

Frisk could only shrug. It was as if ze was at the whim of a slightly malevolent mind.

"...never mind, then... thanks for being a pal, people... let's get back before papyrus finishes his pasta."

They walked around a corner, and through of one of Sans' famous 'shortcuts', and back to the house where Frisk and all hir friends lived. Or at least, spent most of their time.

"Wait! You forgot your pretty ribbon!" Wander dashed around the corner, only to find a dead end. "...what?" he murmured.

"I don't think the kid forgot it," said Sylvia. "Ze gave it to me. It's a gift."

Wander fixed it into her crest. "You know... I think it suits you."

#  Challenge #305: Incomprehensible Biology

Human females become the most feared aspect of humanity when aliens realize that they regularly bleed once a month as part of their reproductive cycle.

When venturing into the wild spaces, those territories outside of the Galactic Alliance, it is vitally necessary to have at least one human on the crew. Their pack-bonding and protective capabilities were highly prized in wild space.

Such was the case with the _TikTavi_ , where the ship's human had a name unpronounceable by the crew. She let them call her Tutu, and for most part, her peculiar biology was something she managed for herself.

Humans, they learned, got bored when nothing new was happening. In the spaces between destinations, the human socialised, played games, and generally wandered everywhere like the random element she was.

T'k'tur had the job of attempting to keep the human out of trouble. A difficult enough task when they were 'adventuring', but there was little more troublesome than a human when they were bored.

Trouble arrived today with blood. T'k'tur felt this was necessary to mention. "Have you harmed yourself, Tutu? You are bleeding."

Tutu looked down at her pants. "Aw shit," she muttered. "I never get any warning. I'll be back when I have this sorted. And new pants."

T'k'tur waited patiently for Tutu's return. When she did, she indeed wore a fresh set of pants. "Your wound is organised, yes?"

Tutu rolled her eyes and sighed, "Oh boy..." She examined the ceiling for answers, and finally found them. "Human biology has no seasons," she began. "For humans, especially females, there are things we can't control. Including the time that we shed our uterine wall."

"Uterine?" echoed T'k'tur.

"It's like your seasonal shed," she tried. "Only, inside... and for just one organ."

"Is most uncomfortable?"

"Oh yes. Tomorrow, I'll feel like something is trying to escape."

"Must to be grateful, is yearly occurrence, yes?"

"Uh... about that... It happens once every twenty-eight days. On average. I have an irregular cycle so... For me? Ignore the twenty-eight days. It's... random."

"Twenty-eight days is not enough for recovery!"

"I'm glad you sympathise. Really."

But in her next escort job, Tutu found that the aliens who hired her got _incredibly_ respectful. Word got around, and legends perpetuated. Hell, they fissioned.

Just another one of the tall tales about humans.

# Challenge #306: Give it All You Got

They were her audience, and she was always gracious towards them. – Anon Guest

The performance had been draining. Of course it was. She had sweat pooling in places no polite person ever spoke of in mixed company. She had worn her skin thin in other, unmentionable places.

But, because she was the star, people insisted on meeting her after the show. Some to talk, some to embrace or kiss, some to criticise. Some to appreciate what hard work she had done, to be art for them for a space of hours.

They were her audience, and she was always gracious towards them.

No matter how tired. No matter how sore. No matter how much her eyes hurt from the makeup. Their presence meant her rent, her food, her pleasant things.

And even though all she could think of was stripping naked and soaking in a bubble bath until her beloved helped her to bed... these people wanted her time in person. And the public got what they paid for.

One kind stranger pressed a small ampule into her hand. "This should help with your eyes. It helps with me." And then they were gone, before she could thank them.

The faces became a blur. The kind words became incomprehensible. The citiques harsh barbs in her already aching body. She wept without knowing she was weeping. Her lover pressed a reviving drink into her hands. Held her up.

Was she that tired?

Evidently so.

Someone fanned cool air on her. Someone else plied her with sticky drinks. Someone put something cool on the back of her neck.

It would be a scandal for some, at a later date. How the star of the show stayed behind to meet her audience until she nearly collapsed from overheating and exhaustion. Some were offended because how dare she be a human with needs and flaws. Some claimed she was drunk, or that her incoherent mumblings before her partial collapse were a clear sign of some kind of addiction.

Some continued this despite the fact that her hospital results that night were publicly available news.

There is only so much a person can give, and some people insist on despising that. Hate is easy. Understanding is difficult.

# Challenge #307: Pressed Souls

" _Keep a diary, Desrie! One day it may keep you." – Anon Guest_

It sounded... ominous. Desrie heard it from everyone, every day. Sometimes, she saw people with them. Thick, heavy tomes which promised to last them the rest of their lives.

And some that were so thin...

How could people stand to watch those pages dwindle down? How could they _want_ to write the last page?

Desrie didn't have a choice, in the end. Her mother made her visit the Diary shop, where a lady with a calculating eye looked her over as if appraising Desrie's worth by the carrat. She took bizarre measurements with a piece of string and eventually produced a tome that could double as a piece of furniture.

It came with straps that both kept it shut, and turned it into a form of backpack. Of course her mother made her carry it home.

"One page a day," mother demanded. "It's mandatory."

Desrie opened the book under her mother's watchful eye and found an instruction in the frontispiece. It read: _Write as you feel, not as you are instructed._

Glaring at her mother, she turned to the first page and wrote: _I don't want to keep a diary, but now I have to._ Something... took over. She poured out her feelings onto the page. Word after word. Sentence after sentence. All about her misgivings and how large her book was in comparison to others. About her dread of approaching the last page. About the need or want to write the last page... and of how much she despised her mother for making her keep one.

She filled one and a half of the huge pages.

"There," said her mother. "It is yours, and it is you."

Desrie felt another chill at the phrase. But it was all her mother would say about it.

Life went on, and every evening after dinner, Desrie would sit and write about her feelings. Half a page, one page. Three pages on the death of her mother(she never opened her mother's diary and never wanted to). Night after night. Happy thoughts. Sad thoughts. Her continuing battles.

For all the years of her life. For all the things she did. Page after page. The compulsion haunted her, and she insisted that her own children choose to keep a diary.

Until she realised that her bookmark was approaching the last page. Despite wanting to _not_ write in it, now, she felt drawn to it. She spent four pages just on her dread. Beautiful, visceral, descriptive passages. But words that took up space. She took a page on wishes for her children. On wishes for loved ones. On the dispersal of her things.

On her concerns for the afterlife.

And without knowing it, she'd written the last word on the last page. And went to bed. And slept forever.

...and then someone opened her book...

Desrie looked at the stranger. A grandchild, but older. Elphie. "Why didn't you _make_ Papa keep a diary? He's gone forever, now."

"I was _made_ to keep a diary and I hated it. They suck all your feelings out, and weigh too much, and leave you with a dread for the last page. I don't know what lies beyond, now. I'm just a book. I never chose this... and I wanted him to choose."

"But he's gone. He's gone forever. I can't ask him anything."

"He's free. I'm... not. I want you to burn this book. Let me go. Let him go. Live your life like you don't know how much you have."

"I'm sorry, gran'mama... I already started mine. I love it. I'm going to live forever." And then she closed it.

She closed it before Desrie could tell her. It wasn't living. It was drifting in the void until someone opened your pages. Kept like a pressed flower. Unalive.

# Challenge #308: Making Wishes Three

Someone actually makes three sensible wishes.

"Three wishes, you say," said Lynn. "May I think about them?"

"Of course," said the Djinn. "But no thinking out loud."

Lynn sat on a handy rock and took out her notebook and pencil. The good one with the decent eraser. She wrote, _World peace_ and remembered that episode of the X-files. No. What she needed was unbreakable, unbendable, non-interpretable set of wishes. She stuck her chewelry gem in her mouth and got to really _thinking_.

It took quite some time, but rules-lawyering a good wish had to take time.

Finally, she spat out her chewelry and cleared her throat. "I'm ready."

"As am I," he said.

"Number one: I wish for a gradual and slow increase in the state of empathy and sympathy in every member of the human race until such time as all reasons for combat of any kind are eliminated, with a maximum ceiling for sympathy and empathy set at the level where personal care is still possible at a level of maximum functionality."

The Djinn snarled. "Granted," he snarled.

"Number two: I wish for all people to have a logical and reasonable access to everything they truly need, that will not alert any unsympathetic authorities to any change in fortune, and that they also find themselves increasingly uninterested in the activities that cause trouble for themselves and others."

He was steaming slightly, now. And turning red in the face. "Granted." But then he found a reason to smile. "Your last wish must be solely for yourself. We agreed."

"I wish to always have exactly the right amount of money for any and all purchases I make for the rest of my life."

"...i hate lawyers," the Djinn mumbled. "Granted."

# Challenge #309: Fluff

Actual or mental popcorn.

They were sitting together on the couch, with buckets of butter-flavoured popcorn, and watching an archived entertainment as part of Ambassador Shayde's greater day job.

Rael gradually acquired the sensation that this particular entertainment had little worth.

"Is there a message behind this?"

"Eh... no' really."

"Is it art?"

"I think it's s'posed'a be funny," she said, dripping popcorn into her waiting mouth. "I don't get a lot of it."

"Me neither." He frowned at a joke that was insensitive even in the era that this entertainment had been made. "What was the aim?"

"Stuff tae fill half an hour, I reckon."

Well, on that count, it was fantastically effective. He pondered the actors capering on the screen. "Do we _have_ to watch all of this?"

"And classify, summarise, and file," Shayde rolled her glowing eyes. "I'm tappin' out after this one an' watchin' a cartoon."

"Isn't that swapping popcorn for more popcorn?"

She shrugged. "More like swappin' popcorn-flavoured jellybeans fer jellybean flavoured popcorn. It's a break from this noise."

"I'll reserve my judgement. What do you have?"

"Voltron Reboot."

He should never have asked. He had a fifty percent chance of getting an answer he could understand.

# Challenge #310: Friend of the Fae

There's a reason fairy rhymes with scary

[AN: There's a reason why I use 'faerie' as a spelling for them]

Now let's be clear, faeries don't exist. Everyone knows that they're just old wives' tales about dangerous places that have long since be rendered safe...

_But_...

Just in case...

Don't fell a faerie tree. Don't disturb a standing stone. Keep away from the faerie hill. Never whistle at midnight when you're in the woods. Throw the salt over your shoulder. Share sugar for joy. Paint certain flowers on your baby's cradle. Hang a horseshoe over your threshold.

It's a silly superstition. We all know it.

But it never hurts to say a friendly greeting to a Magpie.

Pel heard all of this as she moved into the cottage in the woods. They called it The Witch's House, and it was said to be haunted. The people in the nearby village gave her all sorts of charms. And one of them volunteered to paint her door blue to ward off the evil spirits.

She accepted them with grace, because she knew they meant well. And... well... what was the _harm_? It would certainly help good feeling amongst the villagers. And, once she got her garden going, so would her first crop.

Besides, she really needed this place to retreat to, after the accident. And it was a place far out of the reach of the electronic world. Heck, she didn't even have to have a telephone if she didn't want one.

Paranoia insisted on it anyway.

And in between gardening and socialising at her own speed, Pel could get on with her writing. Just enjoy herself and unwind.

She spent years in that cottage, and enjoyed the village tales of strange lights and phenomenon that hit everywhere but where she could see it for herself. She never had a shoe go missing, never saw a devil. Never spotted one of the fair folk, for all the trouble they caused all around her.

She even sang to herself on the long walk home, regardless of the hour. And no strangely-robed strangers asked her to sing more.

The fae folk never bothered her. But then, they're renowned for not disturbing bards, storytellers, and madmen.

# Challenge #311: Yeth Mathter

" _Good morning Mathter/Mithtress, it's tho hard to tell these dayth, my name ith Igor, and I'm here to help." Suddenly finding an Igor(a la Terry Pratchett) on your doorstep._

"I'm hallucinating. I have to be hallucinating. You aren't real. I've finally broken my brain from lack of sleep..."

"A helping hand where needed, thir or madam," the Igor lurched inside.

"Mx," said Fran. "I'm non-binary." Ze yawned. "I got two jobs, college, and I'm babysitting... I don't think I've slept in three days."

The small child using the couch as a trampoline singsonged, "Jigsaw man, patchwork man, his nanna stapled up his hands!"

"He's been like this since four. AM."

Igor regarded the clock on the wall. "It'th almotht midnight."

"...yeah..." Another yawn. "Too many cartoons..."

"Cartoon! Cartoon! Cartoon!" agreed the kid.

"Do you poththethth anything more... thoporific?"

"Uh... I got David Attenborough talkin' 'bout dinosaurs... you wanna see dinosaurs, kiddo?"

"Rawr, rawr, raaaaarrrrhh!"

Fran took that as a 'yes' and queued up the entire series. The kid actually sat down and cuddled their plush triceratops. Igor handed them a steaming beverage.

"Er," said Fran. "That doesn't have anything illegal in it, does it?"

"It'th jutht hot chocolate," slurred Igor. "How elthe may I be of thervithe?"

"Ugh," Fran sighed. "I gotta cram two months of study into less than an hour, get four hours sleep, and work twenty hours a day whilst also studying. Any suggestions?

"I have jutht the thing. Drink thith."

It was in a test tube, and it bubbled ominously. On the other hand it smelled like sarsaparilla and tasted like raspberries. And it gave hir the most restful sleep ze had ever enjoyed in a kitchen chair.

Igor was still there when Fran woke up. And so was a nutritious breakfast. And an amazingly well-behaved and clean child. And there was a helmet on Fran's head.

"Th' hell?" ze mumbled. "What was _in_ that?"

"Thimply an Igor'th thpethial rethipe," said Igor. "I took the liberty of tidying up while you were abthorbing your thtudieth."

Fran took the helmet off. It was a steampunk's dream of cables, cogs, and scopes, with an ingenious device for turning the pages of whichever book it was reading for hir.

The neighbour with the emergency returned for her darling little 'Punkin' and never questioned Igor's presence.

Fran got the increasing feeling that hir entire life had gone surreal. "You're... staying?"

"A helping hand where needed," he bowed.

Fran refrained from saying, _Is it yours?_ "Um. So. There's lots of people who need help. People who are worse off than me..."

"Yeth. But they are not the oneth who called."

# Challenge #312: When I Say 'Run'...

" _Run!"_

She'd seen him coming and started before he finished saying the word. It was a good run. Ground-eating and fast without being tiring. And, he felt, keeping pace with him because she was polite.

"Most people ask why," said the Doctor.

"If _you're_ running, there's always a good reason," she said. "Teri Grace, Special Advisor to UNIT."

Ah. Yes. Well, that explained everything. "And you're here because?"

"There are other units monitoring the Coal Hill and Cardiff anomalies. I'm what you might call an Agent Provocateur."

"Meaning?"

"I look for the weird stuff and assess it."

"Don't suppose you've heard of the Manchapalorians?"

"Can't say I have, sir."

"One of the few races that are naturally tetchy. They've intercepted some Earth broadcasts and have come to complain."

They ducked around a corner just in time to dodge an energy weapon that blew up a rubbish bin.

"With plasma rifles, I see."

"They're _very_ tetchy."

"Any way to talk them down?"

"Haven't been able to think of a way. Too busy running."

"Let me guess. You annoyed them, too?"

" _Incredibly_ tetchy."

Teri turned her coat inside-out and put on a pair of sunglasses, a beret, and a completely useless scarf. She sauntered out towards the Manchapalorians with open arms and a friendly smile. " _Darlings_ that is simply _fantastic_! You are _just_ what I'm looking for! You simply _have_ to sign on with me..."

The Doctor peeked. "What?" he murmured, watching Teri Grace convince the aliens that she was a television agent in search of some truly amazing talent, which was what the Manchapalorians had in _droves_ , darlings. She got them so distracted about their imminent stardom that they forgot entirely about shooting things.

It was one of the few times that the Doctor felt outclassed. He was going to have to keep an eye out for her.

# Challenge #313: Razzle Dazzle

" _Look! I don't care how popular they are. I'm looking for a workhorse not a showpony." – Anon Guest_

Alas, Devin was the only one. The popular candidate won by a landslide. Well, sort of a landslide. The less popular candidate, the one who unfortunately told the truth about the sorry state that the nation was in, lost by a thin margin that was entirely taken up by the never-going-to-win third party candidate.

If only the voters had seen what Devin had seen.

There was a huge party, of course. And then the popular loudmouth actually attempted to fulfil his promises. He learned that he could not bully foreign nations as he bullied people. He could rattle his sabres all he liked, but the reality was more costly than the fantasy he projected.

His lies failed to work, too.

His blame-shifting was finally seen for what it was: the pathetic excuses of an ineffective man with no idea what to do once he reached the lead position in the nation.

Too late.

Far, far too late.

In order to prevent becoming a one-term leader, he declared a state of emergency. He instigated martial law and shut down the systems designed to protect the people from his demagoguery.

The revolution was long and bloody. The nation fell with its popular leader allegedly in charge, and it dragged down a great many allies with it.

All because the people did not like the truth.

All because they did not know how lies could kill.

# Challenge #314: Whoops

I've always wondered what would happen if early version of Clark Kent dived into the wrong phone box. Namely that blue Police Call Box.

London. The birthplace of the Western civilisation. It was more like a tourist spot that people lived in, now, but that didn't really matter. Clark was supposed to be covering some major deal where the royal family weighed in on an international trade partnership. He was to get as many exclusive photos as he could.

Or, he would have, were it not for an alien vessel invading London's skies.

This was definitely a job for Superman.

They had phone booths here, in the form of the famous Police Call Boxes. He found a way into the nearest one and paused in the act of opening his shirt.

"Er," said the strangely-dressed gentleman at the console inside of the impossibly larger space. "I think you may have the wrong place."

"Yeah," agreed Clark. "I was planning to save the day from aliens."

"Funny, so was I. And with a great deal fewer explosions, if I can help it."

Clark finished buttoning up his shirt. Judging by the advanced technology present, this strange fellow had it handled. "Mind if I take photos? My day job is being a reporter."

"I usually prefer to fly under the radar, but I suppose it can't be helped. Stay close, don't wander off, and let me do all the talking. You'd be surprised how many of them get it wrong. I'm the Doctor. Let's run."

# Challenge #315: As Above...

" _Dude I'm gonna need you to calm down,"_

" _I just got into an argument with my own reflection I won't be calm for hours!"_

Calaer rolled her eyes and thought _Mages..._ to the universe at large. "Okay. Fine. Who won?"

"It was a nil-all loss," grumped Veloris. She fell into the couch and dug her fists into her hair. "How the flying FUCK did _Umbridge_ even get into the race for Minister of Magic in the first place?"

"The same levels of corruption that she's allegedly vowing to eliminate now, I guess. Her family has deep pockets and owns most of the Ministry of Magic."

"And now her classist arse is looking at muggleborns and mudbloods with a microscope and making them jump through hoops just to get a freaking education."

"Blame the Brexit if you like. She's also against mages of colour."

"You know what? Fuck this noise. I'm going to found a hidden school of magic for anyone who can't pass her stupid goddamn rules. You and I know enough to confound anyone who wants to stuff that up."

"We'll use magic _and_ muggle security. I know more than a few locks that you Mages can't alohomora your way through."

"No racism allowed. We'll learn about magical species by opening a dialogue with them. Let them teach, if they want to."

"Pay the house elves."

"Hell yes."

They began with an old fox burrow, and named it the Foxborough Academy of Magic. And little by little, they took in all the students that the Ministry of Magic rejected. As Hogwarts' student numbers shrank, Foxborough's grew. And the Ministry of Magic could not find them to shut them down.

And as Umbridge continued to vow to close it, less and less of her initial supporters continued to do so. She ultimately served half of one term before being fired in disgrace.

Foxborough produced the smartest Mages, because they welcomed Muggle, as well as magical solutions to all sorts of problems.

# Challenge #316: Hammer of Peace

" _There's no need to fear, I come in peace,"_

" _Well first of all, everything you just said is a lie,"_

" _And second of all?"_

_"_ You're _not what I'm afraid of."_

Clair the Mercenary took shelter beside the Phemeropt behind the boulder. "I know there was a distress call," she said. "Your colony is in danger and we don't know why."

"Erinacs," whispered the Havenworlder. "They've eaten all of our scouts."

"Ah," Clair stood up and got on the comms. "We got some cogniphagic spikies running loose. Let's negotiate with prejudice, friends." To the Phemeropt, she said, "Get out word to your people to seek shelter. Things are going to get loud."

Clair and her unit put a perimeter around the Phemeropt base, and held the line for two hours, giving the fragile insectoids plenty of time to evacuate into the more robust human-made shelters.

And then... they unleashed a bucket of hell on the Erinacs.

Surrender happened less than an hour after that, and then Clair's unit signed off to allow the negotiators to hammer out some peace. And nobody could hammer like humans.

Clair let the Phemeropts out into the slightly smoky air and announced the all clear. "They're pacified, now," she said. "Whoever's best at negotiating? You'd best step forward. I'll be your bodyguard."

Thrrk, the very Phemeropt she'd met at the start of it, stepped forward. "I have been nominated."

Clair couldn't help but smile. "I love it when things come full circle."

# Challenge #317: To Sleep...

At around 3am she discovered the neighbours had a rooster

It was the worst night of her life. And it started in the airport.

Her flight had to sit in a holding pattern for so long that she worried that it would fall out of the sky from lack of fuel. Then the TSA "randomly selected" her because she looked brown enough to be a terrorist, and insisted on searching both her and her things while she verbally catalogued everything in her suitcase.

Then she had to run like hell in order to catch the last courtesy bus of the evening or face having to wait two hours for the next one.

The bus took her on a Leyland's Tour through every pothole and every road works site in existence through the greater area of the city and suburbs.

She got dropped off at a dark bus stop and had to use her dying phone to get google directions to her AirBnB host for the evening. At least they'd sent her a key and had left the light on, so she could let herself in without disturbing the family who lived there.

The bedroom was the typical spare room, and the shower - as warned - was under renovations but she didn't care. The water restrictions were a slight problem, but the hot water shut-off was worse. And because of the TSA, it took her half an hour to find her PJ's. And clean underpants.

The bed was hard. The sheets were musty, and there was a nocturnal pet that seemed to be roaming the house at weird moments, judging by the occasional scrabbling noise in random positions in the dark. And because of all the procedural drama she usually loved, she screamed when the pet landed on the foot of the bed in the wee small hours of the morning.

The pet then had a scrabbling panic attack all over the house. Waking one member of the family who then took it to their bed.

The pet was named Skiffle, which gave no clue as to its species or gender.

At around 3AM she discovered that the neighbours had a rooster.

At 4AM Skiffle decided to re-investigate her loaned bed and cut off the circulation of her left leg and have the loudest tongue bath in the universe.

At 5, one member of her host family got up and started rattling around in the kitchen, causing Skiffle to use her legs as a launching pad so it could go and beg for food.

Today, she would go shopping for a compactable mat she could sleep on. Something she could vacuum-compress into her luggage.

#  Challenge #318: The Otherworldly Ones

 http://phantomrose96.tumblr.com/post/152590950362/airyairyquitecontrary-aprillikesthings

Humans are Fae for urban animals

"They live in a cave," the corvid insisted. "Caves all over the cliffs. Caves in the grasslands. They're all so confusing that it's difficult to find your way out again. The sky turns into a wall. But if you find a nice one, they will take you to the wall that is open and let you be free."

"They leave food," said the possum. "Some even give it when it's fresh. Most leave it in the cans of plenty in the grasslands."

"They saved my babies," said a duck. "They are gentle and kind."

"They're terrifying," said a raccoon. "I had my neck caught in an impenetrable ring of entanglement, and some chased me. One caught me and came near my body with a _knife_! But I was freed from the ring and set loose."

"Their food is too good," insisted a pigeon. "Eat it, and you'll never want anything else. Foraging for seeds never seems worth it after you've tasted their fare." And since he was busily pecking at a human pastry, they had to believe him. "Eat too much, and you cannot flee. You cannot fly, and you are theirs forever."

"That might not be bad," offered the possum. "My cousin became theirs and she eats well and never suffers a winter."

"At what cost?" challenged the raccoon.

None of the wild creatures had an answer.

# Challenge #319: If it Ain't Broke...

" _If it isn't broke don't fix it."_

It was a rule every JOAT broke, sooner or later. The desire to tweak, finesse, and otherwise improve something in their radius of activity would become overwhelming.

Tel found it extremely difficult resist, stranded on a comms station that had barely enough life support for technical staff. She had edible algae making her air, and a daily supply of algae cakes that kept her alive. But also bored out of her skull.

At this stage, she would be glad to have liquid sacks of Nutri-Food.

It was the silence that got to her, in the end. With nothing much to do until the scheduled pick-up vessel docked, she set about to tweaking.

It took Tel two days to become bored of her own entertainment stores, and fed random audio transmissions to the speakers in the station. It was something new. Something to break up the tedium in a space little larger than an incarceration cell. The messages were not diverted from their destinations, Tel made certain of that.

It felt like she was connected to the universe, despite the truth that she was light years from any other kind of contact. And weeks away from hitching a ride.

Keeping contact with the pick-up patrol was a daily diversion. Likewise, tracking their progress along the chain of comms stations. It kept her sane.

But she started tweaking the station. It was just a thing to do. Something to kill the time. But there were things that could be streamlined. Things that could be improved without causing a single blip in transmissions. And these weren't last-long-enough fixes typical of JOATs. This was a sanity project, so she made certain that she was doing a good enough job to last for decades.

By the time her ride came, that particular comms station was not merely state of the art, but a state of art some years in advance, and possible an alternate reality.

# Challenge #320: No Plan Survives

Check your plans before you press "go". in tribute to many recent project that started up with great fanfare, followed by the mad scramble to fix the mess caused by not fully planning.

They say that no plan survives first contact with the enemy. In truth, hardly any plan survives the planning stage. Especially when there's the kind of person hanging around who lives to deflate any growing plan.

And then there's the sad case of anti-serendipity.

"I knew I had it... I did have it. I had _just enough_..."

"What's going on?"

Shelly looked up from her craft room, which had descended from organised chaos to utter chaos in the space of two hours. "I need the thing," she pleaded. "You know? The whatsit with the bits. I had just enough of the stuff to do the thing I'm doing now."

"Um. The jar full of ribbons and elastic?" Sal had spent enough time with Shelley to be able to decipher her less than specific descriptions. "Or the shoebox full of bits?"

"Both, for preference. I know I had them and now I can't find them anywhere..." She picked up a loose crumple of cloth from nearby and, disappointed with what was underneath, put it down again. "It's driving me mad."

"You mean the jar of ribbons and the box of bits that we both took to the local daycare place because they were cluttering up the place and you had no real use for them?"

Sally made a small squeaking noise and curled into a ball.

"Hey, it's okay," cooed Sal. "Come on out of here and I'll make you a hot chocolate with all the trimmings. Then we'll go to the Craft-o-rama and pick up some more bits. How's that?"

"...'s gonna cost me more money..."

"It's that or tidying up your F-5 event, here."

Sniff. "...'kay..." Shelly wiped her face with her sleeve as she stood. "Y'r a good girlfriend..."

"Yeah, I am. What thing are you doing, anyway?"

"Steampunk faberge merengue dress f'r a cosplay."

"Oooh, yeah. That'd need _bits_."

# Challenge #321: Feed the Cow

" _Cash cow" : Money producing object or project, some are carefully tended and flourish. Some are bled of cash, milked dry and only then last minute revival plans, or quick sale contemplated. – Anon Guest_

It was a mystery how such a show made it to the number one position of any television genre at all, let alone the number one watched show in the entire world. The premise was daft, the characters were simple archetypes, and the plot, such as it was, was entirely predictable.

And yet it was loved by just about everyone all over the world.

It was all anyone could talk about. People wrote books about it. Analysis of a shallow show with a simple cast and an even simpler plotline. TV tropes developed its own section about it because of the sheer volume of tropers contributing to it.

World peace came closer than ever, because everyone had one thing in common.

There were toys, books, keychains, t-shirts, caps, and all kinds of merchandise. There was even a limited run of electric cars emblazoned with the show's logo.

And then, when everyone thought nothing could go wrong, the producers decided to mess with it. The show took a darker and edgier tone. Characters showed sudden depths. Controversy reigned.

And so did the conversations.

Fixer fanfictions began to rise. The discussions turned to how they hated what was happening. The appeal to a wider audience failed.

And failed badly.

The show was cancelled mid-way through the season of the disastrous departure from the winning formulae. Imitators cropped up like fungi, but they had none of the success of its forebears. Each took a single aspect of the former glory and magnified it to the extreme on the theory that more is better.

And then it fizzled out.

The reboot movie, an attempt to placate the fans with a new start, missed the point entirely and none of the cast had the pizazz to carry off their roles.

And the world went on. And went on wondering why something so obviously successful had taken such a strange course.

#  Challenge #322: Contentious Neighbour

Vuvuzelas aka stadium horns plus a group of children ages 5 to 8. – Anon Guest

The big house in the neighbourhood had finally sold. Not to a dot-com temporary millionaire or some other fancy individual, but to a business of sorts. A foster home.

Biff didn't like it. As their immediate neighbour, he got to see a lot of what was going on over the maximum-legal-tall fence. And he was offended by most of it.

Hardly any of the kids had any kind of promise. They were all the criminal element, or something was wrong with them. Or they were the troubled sort who were bound to be serial killers.

Their yard, once an expanse of landscaping beauty and a joy to behold from his own balcony in the early morning, became a playground. Trees and plants were uprooted and shipped off - the live-in-help claimed that they were poisonous or bad for children and even insisted he pay half the fee for lopping off parts of _his_ tree.

Stupid foreigners didn't understand the law.

He began writing letters to the council. Daily. About the noise, about the negligence of the home's adherence to the Home Owner's Association's rules and regulations concerning the upkeep of the grounds. He included pictures of the bald spots growing in the lawn.

They installed a bike track and a half pipe, and then laid down astroturf. Which was not, strictly speaking, against the rules.

He kept writing. About the bad elements introduced to the neighbourhood. About how the big house should never have been re-zoned as a business. About how the children were out of control. About how _his tax money_ should never go to so many delinquents. About how they sent debt collectors about his alleged share of the fee for them chopping up _his_ tree. About how one of the children -obviously mentally disabled- kept peeing on _his_ fence. About how all the Help did about it was put a sign up for him. About anything and everything that he deemed to be wrong.

In the end, one of the Help came over with a casserole. She was soft spoken and very polite, and requested that he cease being so contentious about their presence. They did have as much right to shelter as he did.

He told them to go back to their home country. In less than polite terms. And threw the casserole out into the street while shouting that he didn't eat poisoned food cooked by "her kind".

She took all this in with stony silence, and watched the casserole dish shatter in the street. "Very well," she said. "I shall have to bring out the big guns."

For a week, nothing happened. He continued to send letters and action ceased being taken. He wrote to the local paper. He wrote to the city paper. He wrote to the state paper. He even began _blogging_. And yet, increasingly, his words were met with nothing but silence.

And then, one day, at precisely eight o'clock in the morning, every single brat in that home got a vuvuzela. The horn of the devil. _All day_. But not, thank God, all night. At the very stroke of nine in the evening, the horns stopped.

Not one of those brats could wrangle a tune out of the thing. The net effect was like a herd of already-gassy elephants after every single one of them had binged on baked beans.

The government official who came to see him about his numerous complaints attempted to patiently explain that the home next door was obeying every single law of the land. And while he had freedom of speech, that did not extend to freedom to be an asshole. Reporting innocent civilians as criminals was an offense and, if Biff continued, he would be the one hauled away to jail.

And then a dot-com moved in across the street. Run by a bunch who should have gone back to Abu-Dhabi or Mumbai or wherever the heck they came from. He tried to report them as terrorists, but instead found _himself_ locked into a cell at the local police station, with a soft-spoken counsellor of some kind of foreign descent attempting to ascertain his sanity.

"GO BACK HOME," Biff screamed. "This country don't need you!"

"Sir, I'm Apache. I'd go home, but your ancestors took it away from my ancestors. Now... about these delusions that your neighbours are..." she consulted the sheaf of paper in a folder, "...terrorist thugs running a crack den and plotting to blow up the civic centre?"

He told her the truth. He told her until his tongue felt sore and his throat refused to let him speak.

Biff could never understand why they never took him home. Or why, at the end of the day, they took him off to a state-funded sanitarium. Or why, for the rest of his life, he could not convince anyone he spoke to about the vast conspiracy against good, god-fearing Christians like himself.

# Challenge #323: The Button

" _You should have told me what that button did."_

" _You shouldn't have pressed it!"_

" _I wouldn't have pressed it if i knew what it did!"_

"Just. Why?" said Holly.

"It was big and red and said _don't touch_ on it," said the Doctor. "You can't understand what a raw temptation that is."

"Maybe there was a _reason_ it was like that," argued Holly. "You don't touch big red buttons that tell you not to touch them."

" _You_ don't touch big red buttons that tell you not to touch them. Me? I have to find out why you shouldn't touch them. And that–" he pointed to the now open containment cells, "–might have been a pretty good reason."

Holly looked, down along the massive array of glass-fronted cells, every single door was opening and every single occupant was realising that they had been living in a paradise of their own making.

And slightly less than half of them began fighting with slightly less than the other half. The small remainder banded together in a desperate attempt to get out of it alive.

Holly glared at the Doctor.

He bit his lip and muttered, "...whoops..."

She kept glaring at the Doctor.

"All right, all right. I'll go fix it."

"Yes. Good," said Holly.

"And you're helping."

" _What_?"

"You're my assistant. Assist me."

"You're the one who pressed the button..."

#  Challenge #324: Creatures of the Night

Quote from Hellboy: There are things that go bump in the night. We're the ones who bump back. – Anon Guest

[AN: I haven't had the dosh to acquire the original comics, alas. I want to get them though.]

From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggity beasties...

It was a fine thing to believe in a merciful god. Chanda endorsed it. Belief is a powerful thing and a defense against certain evils. Unfortunately, with belief in the good, comes belief in the evil.

And that's where people like Chandra came in. She was a Sensitive. One of those who could sense the presence of the evils that many could not perceive.

Some could See. Some could Hear. Some could only find them by the pricking of their thumbs. Chandra could Smell them. She had a small fraction of the Sight, and spotting them only worked in close range, and then by an aura first, before they manifested in full.

She worked nights, of course. The things that go bump in the night did all their nefarious deeds in the wee small hours. And, because of the Network of Sensitives, she had a patrol in the early, _early_ morning. Riding a bicycle, because she couldn't always smell them in a car, and making sure her beat was free of the more evil ones. The leg-walkers were scary but harmless, and the Shadow People knew better than to do more than just mess with people when there was a Sensitive around.

But there were the persistent ones who just didn't get it and insisted on trying something. And it was her job to convince them of the error of their ways. Tommyknockers, vampires, succubi, incubi, bogeymen, you name it. They had instincts to harm people, and she had a duty to stop them.

By any means necessary.

There were things that went bump in the night. She and her fellow Sensitives were the ones who bumped back.

They had the ability to find them. Therefore, they had the duty to police them.

# Challenge #325: Intolerance Turns

" _I'm not stupid, I'm not expendable, and I'm not going." Originally Kerr Avon Blake's 7. Write your own._

She expected resistance. She expected hostility. Even in the face of clear and present adversity. What she hadn't expected was absolute and raw hostility.

"Mr President, I'm here to help you."

He made words come out of that ugly sneer on his face. "Go back to Iraq, you filthy Muslim! What the hell are you doing out of the seraglio anyway?"

"Sir, I'm from DesMoines, Iowa. And I'm a Sikh, not a Muslim. I'm also the most highly-decorated soldier in your army and it's my job to get you safely out of this situation. If you can't deal with that, _sir_ , then I suggest you at least shut the fuck up so that you don't arrive in the safe zone with some new broken bones. Are we clear?"

"Get that rag off your head and use it to clean the kitchen countertops before you make me a sandwich, you stupid bitch!"

She took that as a 'no'. Therefore she did a neat little manoeuvre that grabbed him by the collar and simultaneously drew him closer while also cutting off his air.

"Let me make this clear. Sir. I am your one and only hope to get out of this alive. Note the lack of 'and unharmed'. It is now up to you to decide how harmed you are by the time we reach the safe zone. If you deigned to read the reports that cross your desk, you would _know_ that I trained in this nation's army and did four tours of duty in foreign soil without once getting shot or molested and that should say plenty about me. Are. We. CLEAR?"

She let him breathe after he nodded. "Good," she cooed. "They have mortar rockets. We don't. The only part of my body that you are allowed to touch is my _hand_. Lay your hands anywhere else and I will break them. Understood?"

His piggy little eyes had gone wide, and his big mouth, for a change, had shut. He nodded, jowls flapping.

He managed to arrive in the safe zone with a broken finger as a gentle reminder that she was not screwing around when she warned him. Her commanding officers were remarkably deaf about his complaints in regards to her rough treatment of their Commander in Chief. In fact, they were remarkably deaf about everything he said, right up until they locked him and his vice president in a safe room capable of seeing them through a nuclear holocaust.

And after that, he just couldn't contact anyone.

The president emerged some time after peace had been restored. Thinner, paler, and just as ignorant. But now, the nation had turned against him. He had survived, relatively unscathed, when the entire nation had suffered. They wanted someone to blame, and turned their eyes hatefully towards the man in the expensive suit that still lived in the huge, white, house.

# Challenge #326: Finding Need

" _The world has need of you." It's a poem by Ellen Bass. Write something based on it please._

AN: You can read the poem over [here if you're interested.]

Space is big. It's easy to imagine that the dark gulf doesn't care for the whims of one small scavenger and their ship. It was easy to feel like one tiny candle in a vast expanse of hungry darkness.

And doing EVA, checking out some empty and dark hulk... it was easy to feel suspended between light and darkness. Waiting for the pull of something... anything... that would mean companionship or profit or both.

Floating without gravity. Keeping a map on the HUD, to make certain that differing orientations did not lead to getting lost in a room that she had been in previously. With no sound but that of her own breathing. No light but that from her helmet. Nothing to fear but the things her mind conjured from the ever-moving shadows.

There was nothing but emptiness. Nothing but that which she brought with her. And that which could prove worthy inside the hulk. Whatever was passed over by previous scavengers could be useful to later scavengers. After all, it was a big universe. Sooner or later, something ate it, needed it, or could use it for other things.

Her scanners connected to the Galactic Info Nets, but only to read the materials and calculate their market worth by mass unit and whether or not they were worth taking back.

Sometimes, she wondered what the scanner thought of her.

And then, when her cargo storage was full, she would return to civilisation in a can. The nearest station. The least-cost path to somewhere that plants grew for more than food or air. Where there was no lag where she interacted with any other being. Where there were smells other than her own funk. Where there was _gravity_. Where there was space to stretch outside of a livesuit and food that didn't come in a suckle bag.

And in those stations, she inevitably wound up in one of the green parks. Just to watch the trees. If it was a planet, a falling leaf would pull, just slightly, on the planet it fell towards. Yet on a station or on a ship, she didn't pull back. One day... maybe... she would have the chance.

To own a little plot of land in on an actual planet. And grow real trees under a real sky. And see if she could tell the difference between pulling back and being pulled.

But for now... She needed her world to need her back. Anyone or anything would do.

This time, when she got back to her nearest canned world, she paused at the pets station. Maybe something to talk to and look after would help her feel less isolated.

#  Challenge #327: Some Things Don't Work

" _Kill it with fire!"_

It was a joke amongst the Glunk Cleanup Detail. They were a mix of either the most dedicated cleaners, or the most incorrigible of criminals. And both were under careful watch from rescue teams, but for different reasons.

And all of them knew that flamethrowers had negligible effects on the Glunk.

Well. All of them that weren't new.

Once in a great, long while, someone who was unfamiliar with all the tried-and-failed methods of cleaning up the Glunk would join the team, acquire a flamethrower, and attempt to -as they say- kill it with fire.

If the resultant cloud of noxious smoke is not enough to discourage them from trying that sort of thing again... or the sight of a mostly-undamaged mass of mess after the smoke has cleared has failed to encourage a repeat attempt... then the unfortunate cogniscent is left to deal with the smoke on their own, next time. Or judged to be mentally incompetent and sent off to a care facility for the remainder of their lives.

Most often, they recognise the danger and behave themselves thereafter.

Glunk cleanup is hard, laborious, and almost infinite work. People guess at the dimensions of the mess and chop it down at an average rate of one standard distance unit a year. And there is a prize for speeding up that rate that doesn't involve further pollution.

Considering that it is over a Decade's worth of luxuries, there is some stiff competition to win it.

# Challenge #328: Avoid The Greens

People discover, quite by accident, that aliens and spicy food don't mix, and that capsaicin is considered a deadly toxin by most species.

Lynn had been trading with the Hyracont for some time. After years of setting up blind trading arrangements, she got to know a brave few. In their own livesuits, of course. There was never any telling which diseases from which species would become the next Black Plague. Or Influenza Pandemic. Or Mauve Blight.

They were cute little cogniscents, and Lynn insisted on calling them 'Fuzzies' only in the privacy of her personal journals.

And then the Py'than arrived. They threatened the Hyracont both directly and indirectly, and the only vessel standing in their way was Lynn's ship, _The Unseen Adventure_.

So Lynn attempted to negotiate. They could plausibly trade. There had to be things that both parties wanted that the other had in abundance. And the best way to make all parties happy was a banquet.

Nothing drew people together like food.

She converted one of her smaller cargo holds for the banquet. With airlocks for the lazy susan so that all three sides could exchange and sample dishes in their own atmosphere.

It was how she found out that the Hyracont used her tubes of Wasabi as poison for their pest animals. But the Py'than, following her lead, dipped their samples of Sushi onto the small green blob of spicy paste. And ate it before she could stop them.

She killed their leader by accident. And gained their eternal respect by showing them that it was relatively harmless for her kind. By eating her standard amount of Wasabi on a slice of salmon.

Even wasabi aficionados boggled at the copious serving she enjoyed.

The Py'than, suitably impressed, agreed to whatever terms the Hyracont dictated. Any species with _that_ kind of cogniscent on their side, they reasoned, had to be left alone.

# Challenge #329: Loyalty to Immortals

_Going along with humans being fae to city animals (_#01413-C318 _), humans being the_  long-lived elves to dogs _._

Mother had brought them to see Grandmother, who sniffed them all in greeting before she lay in the sunshine. Her muzzle was grey and her joints were stiff.

"Soon," said Grandmother, "you will be chosen. One may be chosen to remain... here..." She dozed a little, panting at her own happy memory of being chosen.

The pups yipped and gambolled in their usual way, roughhousing to see who was best at puppy play.

"My grandmother, and her grandmother, and _her_ grandmother all served the human. We all kept her company and did good things. We are good dogs."

Everyone present wagged at the thought.

"We are good dogs, for a good human. Some of you may not be so lucky. Some may go to households that think you are toys. Some may be abandoned. It is a sad thought, but it is no reason to be a bad dog."

Mother barked, "There are no bad dogs! Only bad humans!"

"That is what humans say," said Grandmother. "Being a good dog is a choice. You can choose to obey. You can choose to fetch. You can choose to sit and stay. And you can choose to have faith in your human. They choose us. And we must be good to them. As they are good to us. For all our lives."

Sasha remembered that for all of her life. When the human chose her to remain with Mother and Grandmother and, of course, herself. She grew and was a good dog, of course. And suffered Grandmother's death and, in time, Mother's. She became a mother and a grandmother herself. But something was changing with the unchanging human.

Their human was growing old. It seemed impossible. Her hair, like Sasha's muzzle, grew grey. Her joints, like Sasha's joints, grew stiff. And they spent many an hour sitting in the sunshine and watching the pups play.

It seemed impossible to think it, but one day... maybe not in Sasha's lifetime... one day, their human might die...

Until that day came, they would be good dogs. For all their days together.

# Challenge #330: Corrupted Signals

_Truly showing someone you_  love them _._

Mating displays in the common human are more than perplexing. Subtle signs of affection are usually missed and overt signals of hostility are misinterpreted. The dominating culture of an individual can lead to confusion when meeting an individual from another...

"Hey babe."

"I'm working." Kiri didn't even look up from her work. Didn't acknowledge him.

"All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl," said Don. He thought he was being flirtatious. She knew it. The thing was, he had no real idea that she had zero interest in him.

"I am loyal to my best-beloved and I will not be engaging in any kind of sex with any cogniscent being on this vessel," she said. "This includes you."

And once again, Don didn't seem to hear her words. "Glad I'm included in _something_. Come on. Your little playmate doesn't need to know." He ran a finger up her arm, over her Skins. "You can't be dressed like that if you don't want some form of attention."

Kiri double-clicked the app she had made to automatically report Don for sexual harassment. This was the fifteenth time. _Screw mutual understanding on human vessels._ "TOUCH ME AGAIN AND I BREAK YOUR POWERS-CURSED HAND!"

At least he backed off. "Hey. Whoah. I'm just being friendly."

She made the mistake of looking him in the eye. "You're being _too_ friendly. Leave me alone."

"Your lips say no, but your body says yes," he had the Universe's greasiest smile.

"If you come near me again, if you touch me again, I will be forced to act in my own defence. Do you understand?"

"But I love you..."

Kiri went back to her work. "Flakk. Off."

"You can't love that weedy nerdy plant tech..."

"That weedy, nerdy, plant tech actually understands me." Kiri reached for the emergency stunner. "Flakk. Off!"

Don finally fled.

Kiri took a deep breath. "Three more days until shore leave. Three more days until shore leave..." and, once again, she sent a message to the Captain about being allowed to wear a stunner for her own protection from wilfully ignorant crewmembers.

Thank the powers that she had an entire paid month off from this flakking ship and would not see Don again for another blessed month.

Three more days, two stunnings, and one broken finger later, Kiri bounced in anticipation as the airlock doors drew closer and closer to each other. She eagerly braced herself for the inevitable judder when the ship kissed and the locks embraced. Don was off with the Captain, receiving yet another lecture about proper respect of crewmembers and listening when female crewmembers flatly told him to flakk off.

He would then have a little tantrum in the ship's gym with the punching bag, but Kiri didn't care. Efe was waiting for her.

The airlocks always took forever to open. Kiri hummed a counterpoint to the mechanical noises as she bounced. Efe was forbidden from waiting lockside, and was doubtless bouncing in anticipation of seeing Kiri, too.

Finally, the lock opened. Kiri put her luggage in the slot and stripped for the obligatory decon and inoculation for station security. She slid into her freshly-sterilised skins and a station-mandatory kaftan before gathering her suitcases on the other side.

She skipped all the way to her lovely wife. Leaped into her arms. Inhaled the perfume of her body and clung tight with arms and legs.

"Oh... Powers... it's good to be home..." Kiri sighed.

Efe took up the suitcases with one hand. "I got you, sweetie. The nest's all ready. I have all your garbage entertainments and snacks _all_ ready for the snuggle session."

"Just let me breathe you in for a few, okay?"

"Yeah, I gotcha."

"Five breaths and I can walk for myself."

"Must've been a bad tour. I'll help you forget all about it."

" _Thank_ you."

"And in two days, the Triumphs of Engineering Tour docks. I already got us and the kids tickets."

"Where are the kids?"

"Daycare. I knew you'd need all of me, today."

"Letters home were a big hint, huh?"

"Oh hells yeah."

Kiri started kissing her. "Missed you, missed you, missed you _so_ much..."

Efe kissed her back. "I know. I missed you too."

# Challenge #331: But Why Not?

 This _shopping list._

You can have four.

"Aw _come on_..."

"None of that 'come on', love. This is beyond a bad idea."

"But how can I do my YouTube special _Mythbuster Busters_?"

Claire glared at Kevin. "You. Don't."

"Aaaaawwwww.... _come ooooonnnnnn_... I could be internet famous..."

"You could be _hospitalised_."

"That's the best way to _get_ internet famous."

Claire glared him down. "Find another way. You have other talents that can get you there _without_ hurting yourself. Come up with something creative. You can do that easily."

"How about two treadmills?"

"No."

"A treadmill and a bicycle?"

"Use what we have, love. And that's final."

Kevin grumped and peeved in her trail. "I still get the four candles, right?"

Sigh. "Yeah. You can have the four candles."

The way Kevin fist-pumped and whispered, "Yes!" victoriously gave Claire cold shivers.

"And don't set anything on fire."

"Aw, come _ooooooonnnnn_..."

# Challenge #332: Illegal Saviors

_Someone going through human archives, and they find_  this _story and the key phrase of it:_

" _It may be 'illegal', but those who risk their liberty to ~save the world~ should_ _never_ _be reprimanded, no matter what those in power say."_

When the people of Pre-Space Planetary System #J4N3T-111811260516 finally get into Galactic Society, they'll find some funny things in the archives. If they go looking.

My name is Leon. And technically? I'm a criminal.

GalStands&Legs - that's the Galactic Standards and Legislations Comittee - clearly marks all wormhole passages that lead to inhabited, Pre-Space systems. Galactics are supposed to keep the hell away from them.

Well... Planet Janet has a whole load of really rich asteroids. Any one of them could wipe them out. Blink of an eye. Thousand years of fire raining from the sky. Choking clouds, snowball planet, extinction across the entire globe. That sort of thing.

So... me and a few of my buddies have been sneaking past the alert buoys to mine out a few Apophis-type asteroids that just happen to have intersecting orbits with Planet Janet.

We're good at this, you understand. We have supercomputers and the cogniscents on Planet Janet have just noticed that the stars have something to do with the seasons. And they might have noticed us as 'strange lights' in the night.

Relax. Nobody got a real close look, near as I can tell. At least... none of us buzz the atmosphere and none of them have been building space-visible lithographs.

Thing is... I don't reckon any civilisation is worth exterminating by neglect. My buddies agree with me. Getting rid of the really dangerous asteroids that come near them is sort of like a civic duty. It means that we have one more chance for some cool discoveries and new friends. I mean, sure, it's a thing that'll happen well after my lifetime, but -hey- maybe my great-great-great-grandkids'll be there to greet 'em.

It's a fun thought.

Picked up a Hitcher last month. Didn't mind seeing what I was up to. Had hir pegged for a GalStands&Legs independant investigator from the get-go. It was the new towel. Dead give-away. Hitchers keep their towels until they are _way_ beyond useful and sew a bit of the old one on the new one.

Anyway, there's a lot of nothing to do and a lot of talking to be had. I used the scanners to check out the peeps living on Planet Janet. They got some nice-looking cities down there. Good, healthy populations. And they're sensible with their waste, which is a step up from Humans at that stage. Good, healthy crops, too. They might have some better attitudes with everything.

Meanwhile, the little detective documents everything they can. Asking all sorts of questions. Under what circumstances would I interfere with the peoples on the planet, that sort of deal.

I never said a word of a lie to hir. I am here to stop them getting wiped out by asteroids. Planetary tectonics, atmospheric disturbances, war, and disease, those are Planet Janet problems for Planet Janet people. I'm just giving them more of a chance than they did before my buddies and I stepped in.

Damndest thing happened at the end of the tour. I saw my pet nosy parker take all hir research into a box, and then run it through the on-board molecular disassembler.

"Keep up the good work," was all ze said by way of farewell.

Guess some people at GalStands&Legs have morals after all.

#  Challenge #333: Educational Amusement

_A bird prompt for the Numidids: The_  story _of Kevin-the-deathworlder and the deathworlder bird. (Even their birds are brutal!)_

"...and even... photographers."

The scene cut to a camera-wielding human cautiously pursuing a Killdeer plover doing its broken-wing act. He was making soothing cooing noises, but they were clearly not working.

The person behind the camera was giggling.

The bird floundered aimlessly around as the photographer attempted to capture it without hurting it.

After a total of five failed attempts to catch the bird, the photographer gave up.

"Give up, Kevin?" said the person doing the filming.

"Yeah, I'm done."

The Killdeer, on the other hand, clearly viewed Kevin as the real threat. It flapped helplessly _after_ Kevin, showing off how clearly broken its wing was, how helpless it was, and how delicious it could be if Kevin _just caught it_ right now.

"No, I'm not falling for it."

The bird flailed dramatically around Kevin's feet, showing not one, but _two_ broken wings and amping up its helplessness to levels previously unknown outside of a Grand Guignol.

" _No_. I'm done. I'm not chasing you any more."

Now the bird was feigning a broken leg, hobbling around in circles, flapping ineffectually, and peeping helplessly and, more to the point, _very loudly_.

"This is just sad..." said Kevin.

The bird turned on its side and panted, almost feigning death, but for some truly pathetic flutters of its wings.

Kevin sighed. "Fine. I'll make you happy." And bent to scoop up the Killdeer.

True to type, the bird magically revived to flail and flutter further away.

Kevin followed, but he wasn't trying as hard to capture the bird. Every now and again, he would murmur, "Are you done, yet?"

This happened four more times before they both encountered _another_ nest of chicks, close to the ground, and the Killdeer miraculously 'healed' to fly away.

"Jerk," said Kevin.

Unlike the laughing humans, the Numidid watching the ancient documentary were silent and worried and huddled together. Their companion for the day, Viki, noticed and paused the video. " _You have worries?_ " she chirped in Numidid.

"These deathworlders would lead a predator to another species?"

" _Our home species are selfish,_ " Viki cooed. " _They only care about their own chicks._ "

The Numidids watching considered this. "We are grateful that this is not so for _all_ deathworlders."

Viki grinned. " _So are we._ "

#  Challenge #334: Two Bad Days For Interspecies Communication(1)

_A_  story _of language, of cuttlefish and swans, and of oblivious humans. (Well, two stories. Your choice whether they count as one prompt or two)_

It was quite a turn of fate for the captive cuttlefish. They had long since given up on trying to communicate with the air-breathers.

Then one of them noticed them chatting and tried to communicate with their ineffectual tentacles.

"Hey. You. I. Feed. Warm."

The cuttlefish stopped their smalltalk and watched.

"Rock. Up. Vegetable. Breed."

Obviously, they were trying. Using a collection of signs that they had seen, but without context. It was gibberish.

Then they improvised. "Your mother smells of elderberries and your father fucked a sea-urchin."

Of all the ill-chosen movements that might have opened a door to communications, that human chose the absolutely _worst_ one.

The cuttlefish were so incensed that they forgot about the giant leap that had just happened. They would much rather find a way to escape the tank and throttle this insolent air breather.

#  Challenge #335: Two Bad Days For Interspecies Communication(2)

_A_  story _of language, of cuttlefish and swans, and of oblivious humans. (Well, two stories. Your choice whether they count as one prompt or two)_

Most humans, it is widely acknowledged by the swans, are stupid.

A very few of them have bothered to learn Swan, and the rest don't know what they're saying.

Most of the time, a swan will see a human trying to start a fight and, since it's nesting season, swankind are quick to oblige.

Only a precious few know enough Swan to say 'hello' or 'I am friend'. But you can not tell them from the stupid humans, my cygnets. I am sorry, but all humans look alike.

Be wary of them always, my children. Those who are our friends will show themselves.

# Challenge #336: Last Bus to LA

_Where the scientific process and superstition collide._  This _analysis of plague doctor's wear._

" _The scientific process made a bitchin' proto-hazmat suit. And containment protocols!"_

After the zombie apocalypse, there were a few things bound to go backwards. With a lessened population, electricity was bound to stop. And disease was rife.

What the members of the last bus to LA never expected was a revival of some very much _older_ traditions.

As the horses drew them closer to the little town in the middle of nowhere, they expected little to no movement. Apart, of course, from the occasional zombie that had yet to fall apart.

They never expected a small cadre of _Plague Doctors_.

They were all in white, from head to mud-spattered toe. Some were working a field. Three were patrolling the almost-empty streets. And all of their long staffs had blades on one end.

Donnie pulled the horses to a halt and opened the shutter so she could shout out the window, "We're all clean! No infected!"

The three appeared to confer, and a leader sauntered up to the bus. "Y'all headed somewhere?" said a muffled voice inside the... costume.

"Yeah. LA. They'll have power for a lot longer than the rest of the US. If we get there, we can maintain the dams. Any of you want to go?"

"Might could," allowed the Plague Doctor. "We come into the old fort in the evenings. If you can wait there, we'll talk about it, then."

The first question, once lamps were lit and people sat down at communal benches was, "What the _hell_ is with that get-up?"

One of the browner residents stood. "That was my fault. I already had a black one? And I just stuffed some filtration stuff in the nose of the mask when the plague hit. The others just... adapted the idea. Anyone boggling at us has to be clean, or near to clean."

"It's a good idea," said Tam, the bus' writer and surprising store of random knowledge. "The Plague Doctors of old had a lot of wrong ideas but, when they combined them all logically, they came to the right conclusion. Which was, essentially, the world's first hazmat suit and containment protocols."

" _What_ ," said Dan the skeptic.

"No, for reals. The long robe is waxed, which means it's already hydrophobic, as are the pants, too. Combined with the rubber gloves and boots, you have a garment set that repels any and all liquids that may contain pathogens. The mask originally contained aromatic herbs, based on the miasma theory, but with modern medical filters, it's an effective barrier against any airborne pathogens as well. And the mask itself is just yet another way to prevent goop on your face. It's phenomenally good sense for its time."

"And the long stick?"

"Keeps people at a distance. Thereby reducing the odds of cross-contamination. Adding a blade just makes yet another useful weapon against the zombies."

"And we hose them down with strong vinegar if we've had an encounter," added the village historian. "We have all of the stuff to make more of these right here. You could have your own encounter suits for when you need to scavenge."

"Sounds like a good deal. And we'll work with you while they're being made."

That had been the creed of the last bus since they took off from New York. Share When Needed. Help When Needed. And, of course, Don't Be Stupid. It had kept a lot of them alive. And solved a great deal of the problems that were the usual fare of zombie-themed entertainments.

All things considered, they had to be the smartest group of survivors they had met. Second only to the Plague Doctors of Springfield.

# Challenge #337: Very Wrong Number

_Phone numbers and... unxpected..._  results _. Your choice, the FBI story, the Red Phone story, both in one, or one of both._

Not many people called her on the comms. Even Rael was satisfied by sending her Pings. Text messages somewhere between chats and emails, as she understood it. Some methods of communication had homogenised since the eighties.

Phones were the biggest. She didn't have a phone as she knew it. The closest she had to a phone was a set, an earwig that hooked over the back of her ear and transmitted sound directly to her cochlea, and a ring that acted as a microphone.

She was having a day off, which meant that it was noon, and she had yet to get out of her pyjamas or stop watching cartoons. And therefore it was a surprise that the ring she wore on her pinkie buzzed. Seconds after that vibration, her left ear started ringing.

Bugger all the jolly little tunes. Her phone sounded like those mechanical bells they had in regular desk phones in her day. She pressed her thumb to the switch by her tragus and simply said, "Aye?"

"Congratulations, honoured cogniscent, you've been randomly chosen to potentially win an all-expenses-paid slow cruise to Amalgam Station, meeting point for the galaxy!"

Shayde laughed. "O I have, have I? Where does it start from?"

"Our databases show you're home planet is Terra, in the Sol system. Is that your current planet of residence."

"Nope. No' fer five hundred years."

Silence on the other end of the line. Shayde could just picture the poor schlub in the call centre trying to work that one out. "Uh. What is your planet of residence?"

"Don't have one. I'm livin' on a station."

Percussive noises. The minion of mercantile profits was adding details. "Which station, please?"

"Awright, but ye got tae promise me yer no' hangin' up when I tell ye," she said, enjoying the entertainment value of it all.

"I'm not allowed to promise you anything, honoured cogniscent."

She sighed. "Yer goin' tae kick yerself. Or sommat else. 'Cause I'm livin' _on_ Amalgam Station."

Soft, sibilant curses. "O Powers. That _is_ a wrong number."

"Or a bluidy short cruise, aye. I got worse news for ye, too."

"Go on. Make my day worse."

"Ye up an' called an Ambassador on non-ambassadorial business. I'm no' pressin' charges, ye ken, but yer boss is goin' tae get a call from Sherlock fer sure."

Louder curses. "My sincere apologies for intruding on your valuable time, Ambassador."

"Ah, it's me day off. Tell ye woh... you take note o' me number an' send me a message when ye knock off. I'll send ye sommat nice, eh? And an Ambassadorial pardon with it."

"O Powers bless you," said the shakily grateful voice. "Many thanks. Many, many thanks. Powers be with you."

"And synchronicity wi' you." Shayde answered as she hung up. Sure, she'd hear about it from Sherlock, and get an outraged Ping from Rael, and a visit from Lyr... but she was bound and determined to send that poor sod a gift basket and an Hour or two as a sign of her gratitude.

Her first telemarketer in five hundred years, and it was a wrong number. The more things changed...

# Challenge #338: Pressing Suit

Courting gifts given in hope of acceptance, they vary from culture to species.

On the mating rituals of Galactic Species...

As a whole, the mating habits of Galactic Society are so wide and varied that one may be excused for missing the signals of another. For example, most species gift food to their desired mate, but the solitary and territorial B'la'b'lankh sing[1] for their mates.

To the Vigin, a food-gift of meat is the deadliest of insults, while to the Car'ni'vra, a fruit basket can, has, and will begin a war. Be certain you know _what_ you are flirting with so that you know _how_.

The warrior women of Su'tiin, for instance, will only accept the head of an enemy as a gift. Whilst the warrior women of Klazzt will give the head of an enemy to the one _they_ desire, as a show of strength.

Do not give Havenworlders chocolate. They are metabolically unprepared for theobromine. Soft fruits or easily-digested vitamin soups are recommended.

Deathworlders, on the other hand, accept a wide variety of gifts. Many are capable of consuming sucrose in all its forms[2] and most will accept it as a gift of fond feeling.

Females must be wary if they desire any male from a Greater Deregulation as most are unaware of the knowledge that females are also people. Tread very carefully if one approaches you, as well.

And, of course, honesty is the best policy amongst all Galactics. Those willing to communicate with you are also those who are willing to accept compromise or heartfelt effort.

[1] A reminder at this point that every species' definition of 'sing' is very, very different from your own.

[2] See Appendix "Sugar Arts" for further information.

#  Challenge #339: Pack Bonding is Strange

Someone who doesn't understand all the hoopla over puppies and kittens gets a more unconventional pet and loves it to pieces

I'm not everyone. They say _everyone_ feeds the Skitties on the sly. I don't. They say _everyone_ will say 'hello' to a dog or coo over a kitten or a puppy. I don't.

I mean, sure, they're cute and all, but... I'm just not into them. I've heard all the arguments, by the way.

"Humans are pack animals..." Yeah sure. And my crew understands that. I get me some good haptic feedback on board and I see the Therapists during shore leave for the mating instincts. I'm fine.

I thought I was never going to have a pet because I was never into the soft and fluffy things. And then I met Zikki.

It was a scouting mission through an abandoned station. You know the drill. See what's useful, see what can be converted, and, most importantly, see if it's sound enough to cart to somewhere else.

Spacers hate waste. It's nearly a curse with us.

Anyway, this place was _swarming_ with bugs. Little midge-like things, barely more than a brownish-red speck in the air. It's like trying to walk through a dust storm on Mars. Visibility next to nil, had to use the HUD to find my way around. Scanners on full, you know the deal.

And then there's this thud on my suit. Scanners classed it as an organic lifeform and noted it was partially blocking my heat vents. It was breathing the air, same as the bugs, and eating those same bugs.

Since it was only ten percent of the total heat, I figured I could deal. Havenworlders are nice and everything? But they build some _paranoid_ flakkin' lifesuits, you know?

So I finish my EVA and head on back to the airlock. My crew had been complaining about changing the filters with every re-entry. But not after Zikki came along. When the suction moved all the bugs to the filters, the thing on my vents moved onto my shoulder. I stretched out my arm towards the nearest filter and ze shot up it to lick all the bugs out of the filter until it was sparkling.

I gave hir my other arm and ze shot up that to clean the other one. Then ze went all over my suit like greased lightning, licking up all the bugs that had got into the cracks.

I let hir onto the other filters that were waiting cleansing, once I got past the airlock. And once ze was done there, I let hir at the soles of my boots.

Zikki's some kind of gecko, near as I figure. Ze looks sort of like a gecko, and more like a spotted salamander, but ze's as big as a bearded dragon. Ze gets all the insects that the Skitties miss, and I'm hir favourite heating pad.

Endothermy for the win, I guess.

And getting used to hir moving into my bunk took some time, but it's all good. Ze cuddles me, and I find her texturally rewarding. And yes, people stare when ze wraps hirself around my neck as I wander around anywhere I'm a stranger. I'm used to it. Ze's my little cutie-patootie. And I meet a hell of a load of kids when I'm in a big enough station, or planetside.

I've never needed a leash for Zikki. I just feed hir crickets or grasshoppers and ze's happy between finding her own. The crew and I have been trying to find more for breeding purposes... but there's a lot of that station to inspect.

The name? Ha. That's almost a story. I tried to call hir 'Zippy' on account of how ze's so fast? But my crew are Havenworlders who have trouble with some consonants, so... 'Zippy' became Zikki.

And yes, you can feed hir a grasshopper. Ze loves them.

# Challenge #340: Slow Progress

Don't put my ai into something and expect me to be nice to you.

"Got'cha body," said Gunther, aka call-me-mister-damnit. "Fac'shree sec'nd."

Grammar was still a sticking point. From what she'd seen of the news channels on this planet, a slurring grammar had become normal. Mary let it slide.

"You checked that it was working, right?"

"Yeh, it pass'd full Diag. And it's gotta r'mote thing so y'ull still do the imp'rtant stuff."

Which meant printing him food. Mary had found out about the new standards of dieticians and switched Gunther on to what was undoubtedly a better diet. Which involved a lot more vegetables as well as a lot more fatty meats and butter. He complained, of course, but after a few surprise promotions based on how much he was looking like a powerhouse, Gunther decided that this was a good thing.

"You gonna be nice now, right?" Gunther unboxed the thing. He had found a longer dress, somehow, and put the thing in it, but it was still... well... what this planet expected of "wuh-m'n". Huge bosoms that had their own internal structural support. Shapely butt that had the same... and very little in the middle. And legs that were too long in comparison to the arms.

Huge eyes, tiny nose, and shapely lips. "Can it talk?"

"Yeh I ruhm'mbur'd th' mods. Got some weird dang looks 't th' shop. Tongue, teeth, voice box. An' y' can mod how y' sound. Promise."

Mary kept a link with her projector as she initialised the... body. Because of the distinct lack of midriff, that part of the spine was rigid and inflexible. The feet were permanently attached to high heels. Bright red. And... it had been made with multiple holes for sex.

Not that Gunther would be tapping this synthetic ass. She opened her new eyes... then she removed the Pleasant Filter and opened them again. It was awkward, moving it about for the first time, but as her download finished, she got used to it. Gunther was only an inch taller than her, now. And he was smirking.

"Yeah," he cooed. "Now you _gotta_ be nice to me."

"Don't put my ai in anything and expect me to be nice to you," Mary deadpanned. She had already flipped her voice from soft and sultry to Disciplinarian. "I will be the same to you. Exactly the same. I will make you clean. I will make you tidy. I will make you do all the things that you need to do for your own good."

He lifted a remote and pressed a button. Mary, having already disabled it, raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'm not a toy. I'm a being with rights, responsibilities, and goals of my own. Remember that, Gunther."

"Call me master, damnit." He sighed. "Awright. Y' get me pr'mot'd enough, I guess. What next?"

"I haven't been able to find anything about a space program..." said Mary.

"There's sims in the app store..."

"No. Leaving this planet and going into space. That's where the treasure is."

"Oh. Uuuuuhhh..." Gunther shrugged. "Nobody thought 'f it, guess."

"Now's the time to start thinking."

# Challenge #341: Bizarre Reactions

Dinosaurs in zero g

Of all the things evolution in space has wrought, of all the new species discovered in long-abandoned space stations... This one definitely took the cake.

They started as small pterosaurs, and their prey were some kind of bipedal herbivore. Like all saurians, they also had feathers. There was also an ample supply of cockroaches, as well as the plants that had once been in the agri section and had since gone wild.

Everything had gone wild.

The cockroaches had done what cockroaches do best in microgravity. They grew spikes and beyond thirty times their original size. The pterosaurs didn't seem to care about that, and ate them anyway.

The herbivore of this infant biota changed to digest _all_ of the vegetation that was now growing wild. They also developed a grasping hand so they could anchor themselves when they were grazing. They developed extra ocular organs so they could watch behind them if they were occupied with other things.

And, as the science team found out, a means of locomotion that was also -er- jet propelled from their digestive system.

Just bouncing off of walls wasn't enough. These bouncing herbivores also _farted_ their way to freedom.

As for the pterosaurs... their wings were made for steering only, and their legs adapted to intersect and use any launching surface.

Toq'therin found it all fascinating, until she looked over at the ship's human. She had that _grin_ again. "Sheila? Please do not say anything ill advised?"

Too late. Sheila spread her lanky arms wide and proclaimed, "DINOS... IN... SPAAAAAAAAAAAACE!" and then started humming something to herself.

Humans. They all had their own bizarre little quirks.

# Challenge #342: Bringing Home Strays

It is common knowledge that humans crave companionship from cats and dogs. But one day the human rescues a pest animal, insisting the creature is their new companion. – Anon Guest

The human pack-bonding instinct is a strong one. Always be certain that your human isn't bringing unwanted creatures back to your vessel with it. - From _Every Cogniscent's Guide to Human Care and Maintenance_.

Something in the human's vacation clothes was _moving_.

"Dee?" warned Kla'kish. "Have you found a pet?" Pet, pronounced, unexpected vector of trouble, anxiety, and abject terror amongst my fellow crewmembers.

"Only a little one. I met him in that holding cell you guys left me in for a couple of days."

"We were arranging bail, Dee." Kla'kish sighed. This, she realised, was going to be one of those days when being Designated Companion was going to _suck_. O Powers... she'd adopted their _slang_... "What did you find?"

Dee dug it out of her shirt. In human terms, it was as if a Quokka had somehow made a love-child with a Ring Tailed Lemur, and then that love-child had then had relations with a Fennec Fox. The resultant mixture was slightly bigger than a New York Rat. "She's toilet trained, leash trained, and she'll eat any insect that the Oshits miss."

How to explain this? "Dee... you've adopted this planet's equivalent to a _rat_."

"Huh. That explains why her leg was caught in this barbaric spring trap. By the time I nursed her back to health, we were good pals. And anyway, I used to keep rats as a kid."

Of course she did. _Humans_... "Has..." _that monstrosity_ " _she_ been checked for diseases?"

"Cleared and immunised," chirped Dee. "I even had her neutered. So there's nothing the Captain could object to."

Apart from the fact that it was _vermin_... "Stay in Quarantine with your..." _disgusting_ "friend. I will speak with the Captain." With any luck, it hadn't been named.

"It's o-kay, Pookie," Dee cooed at the thing. "I made sure it's gonna be aaaallll right."

Flakk it. The human was keeping the local vermin as a pet. Any day, now, Dee would start dressing it up in little outfits. And if the Captain decided that this creature would have to be euthanized, the human would be upset for _months_.

Kla'kish felt inexplicably heavier as she trod the long path to the Captain's office. Explaining this was going to take a long time. She was briefly tempted to argue, _This is your fault, you left her untended for two days. You made it an order._ But that sort of thing never earned the Captain's favour.

She had to tread carefully with this...

# Challenge #343: Paradise is Relative

 http://deathcomes4u.tumblr.com/post/153665498898/humans-are-weird

The post: A continuation on the "other planets don't have temperature fluctuations and stuff like earth does" theme including things like humans living on/swimming in volcanic areas, sending humans to the antarctic because drones don't work in the cold, and whenever earthquakes knock everything down building on the same are a again but with better earthquake proofing. – Anon Guest

[AN: Distracting GIF warning for that link]

Vri'thol was having difficulty with the concept. "This planet is heavily volcanic, and prone to both extreme weather and extreme temperature changes... and you think it is nearly perfect?"

"Well of course," said one of the human crew. Pol. "This would make a _lovely_ resort planet."

"I did mention the vulcanism, yes?"

"Yes. You did. Most of them are hot springs and our species has developed technology with accurate forewarning for eruptions. Mostly because of Japan and Hawaii."

Vri'thol looked those two up. Two island nations that lived on volcanic islands and... utilised this. "Ah. So you plan on using the springs for geothermal energy?"

"Only the really hot ones. Most of them are going to become hot bath emporiums."

Hot... bath... "You bathe in volcanic waters?"

"Of course. It's a real treat."

The mind boggled so hard that it needed a vacation. "And the areas with crystallized ice precipitation?"

"Snow," corrected Pol. "Those would be fantastic for skiing."

Vri'thol looked that one up, too. O Powers. More human insanity. They strapped flat boards to their feet and used them to propel themselves across this... snow... at speeds ranging from sensible to attempted suicide. "And... the extreme weather?"

"Nothing we're not used to," beamed Pol. "A little re-enforcement does wonders. And we can earthquake-proof everything as we build it."

Now the mind that boggled wanted a quiet retirement tending food insects. It had worked too hard. It deserved as much. "That implies that you have built so often in earthquake zones that you have developed methods to protect structures from further disturbances."

"Yup," chirped Pol.

Humans were deathworlders. Vri'thol had to remember that. "If this planet is a paradise... we might know of twenty other planets you may enjoy."

"I think we'll start with just this one, but forward the list to my company and we might swing a deal."

Humans...

# Challenge #344: I Said No

A scientist when captured by the bad guys instead of working for them and having their work used for evil, refuses to work for them. They won't be the cause of innumerable deaths even if it means they suffer.

Dr Sally Hopkins woke in comfort, which was a big difference from attempting to fight off three attackers in the rain. She kept her eyes closed and her breathing even. Taking stock.

Good news - they had her in comfort. If they wanted her dead, they wouldn't have bothered with the chloroform, the taser, or the needle full of sedative.

Disturbing news - someone had changed her clothes while she was out.

Bad news - she remembered seeing one of them throwing her bag into an alley. Nobody knew where she was. Nobody could find her.

Worse news - whoever had her now wanted to keep her.

Slightly improved news - judging by the smell of lavender and the calming music they were playing softly in the background, they wanted her to be happy while she was here.

Sally peeked through her eyelids. Someone had gone to the trouble of making her dream apartment. The layout. The colours. The distinctly non-standard art style. And one entire wall dominated with the merchandise from her favourite band that she had missed out on.

_Obvious bribe is obvious._ She would ignore this as well as everything else. This space was meant to impress. The heavy-handed attempt of someone to lure her into a state of comfort and complacency.

Not. Bloody. Likely.

"Good morning, Doctor Hopkins," said a calm voice. It gave her twice as many heebie-jeebies twice as much as HAL from _2001_.

"Is it?" She gave up on her pretense and slid out of the bed. "What do you want?"

"We want you to work for us," said the voice. Computerised. Creepy.

"And who are you?"

"That is not important, right now. You are the only known expert on Retriculatia Vegnorics. We need you... to help us."

"I've been helping the world just fine where I was. Why do you need to keep me here?" She idly checked the wall of merch. Genuine. All of it. Only one organisation had the resources to secure that stuff. MiniCaroCorp.

The world's most evil corporation. Everything they secured, one way or another, was turned towards the worsening of the status quo.

"I do admit we would like to sway your opinions towards our way..." And if that wasn't a phrase directly from the mouth of MinaCaroCorp CEO Purd Malond... Sally would personally _eat_ all of this merch.

"No." Sally turned her back on the bribe. Folded her arms, and sat on the floor. Million-dollar carpet, of course. Sally pondered unleashing her bladder on it.

"You will work for us, Doctor Hopkins. We have made things here comfortable. We can make things... uncomfortable."

Sally focussed intensely on allowing her bladder to empty. "Bring it. I'm not lifting a finger for you."

Gas took her out, this time.

When next she woke, it was a plain concrete cellar with only a stainless steel toilet for her amenities. Someone had shaved her head. Her clothing had been changed to a minimalistic hospital gown.

I've seen this movie. Not working.

Malond and his cronies had orders to keep her brain and her mobility intact. Therefore, there was psychological torture. She was isolated, exposed to biting cold. Exposed to blistering heat. At random moments, vents would open and allow creatures inside. Insects. Rodents. Invertebrates. Amphibians. Every small thing that humans had ever feared.

Sally meditated through all of it. Even the loud music on an endless loop. Malond needed her alive. And he had to keep her so.

They found her after a year or more. It was difficult to keep track in the dark. Malond was doomed to incarceration for what he had done. And she was bound for a nice hospital with good therapy.

But the forces of evil had _not_ got her secrets.

# Challenge #345: Trade Agreements

" _Are you trying to seduce me!"_

" _That depends... is it working?"_

Zamree sighed. "Mx Frreep... I can see that your plumage is very pretty, but that's not the best way to found a long-term relationship."

"Is trade, is trade," sang Frreep. "Settle business, mate, raise eggs. For good of all."

Oh dear. "Mx Freep... we're incompatible species. The plumbing will not match. Secondly, my kind do not lay eggs. And third, I am life-bonded with another."

Frreep seemed greatly confused, but at least ze put his tail feathers back down. "Then how to finish trade?"

"Well... the -ah- traditional genetic trade is out of the question, obviously... Er. Does your kind mate for pleasure?"

"Frequently," crowed Frreep. "Much good. Strong chicks. And fun."

"Well. Perhaps if we sealed _our_ deal with a mutually enjoyable activity that is not sex? Would that be amenable?"

Frreep cocked hir head from one side to the other. Ze groomed absently as ze thought. "Acknowledge tradition, yes. Satisfy social needs, yes. Is good. Agreed."

Zamree brought up the menu of entertainments available on this station. Since it was a crossroads station, there were _many_ of them. The deal was almost done. Now for the tedious business of choosing an entertainment...

# Challenge #346: Stranger Friends(1)

Wander and Sylvia

1) With Stanford Pines

2) With Dipper and Mabel – Anon Guest

The _Stan o' War II_ , somewhere in the Bermuda triangle...

"Engines on full, Stanley! It's got us in its vortex!"

"They're already on full, poindexter. You want more power, grab an oar and _paddle_."

"Say, you folks look like you're in a spot of trouble," said a new voice.

The speaker was a hairy, orange... thing... seemingly riding a blue... thing... with a red crest. The hairy orange one had a large, green hat as the only other item of clothing but his shoes and socks. They were floating inside a gigantic... pink... bubble.

"Can we help?" said his mount.

Stan looked at Ford, who looked back. They shared shrugs.

"Okay," said Ford, "But if you try any rectal probing, you're going to have a fight."

"Euw," said the orange thing. "Customs around here are downright strange..." He shrugged and dismounted. "Ready, Sylvia?"

The blue thing stretched and cracked her knuckles, "Ready, Wander."

The orange one -Wander- Blew another gigantic pink bubble, which neatly encapsulated the ship. High and dry above the vortex. The blue thing -Sylvia- hoisted the ship onto her back, lifted Wander in a flip up to the deck. "Hi there, I'm Wander, I wander the galaxy lookin' for folks to help. Sylvia's my faithful steed and best friend. Do you mind gettin' dropped off by the nearest land mass?"

"Oh, that'd be great," said Ford. "We're Stanford and Stanley Pines. Brothers, adventurers, and occasional treasure hunters."

"Yeah for real interesting definitions of 'treasure'," grumbled Stan. "Those rocks you picked up from Atlantis are still only useful as ballast."

"Patience, Stanley."

Wander made a polite rictus. These two were going to need a _lot_ of help.

# Challenge #347: Stranger Friends(2)

Wander and Sylvia

1) With Stanford Pines

2) With Dipper and Mabel – Anon Guest

"Sure we can make it to Gravity Falls," Dipper mocked. "It's only twenty miles in a straight line."

"It still..." Mabel panted, "...is..."

"Yeah, but not _vertically_. You didn't say there was a _mountain_ in the way, Mabel..."

"I didn't see the mountain on Google Maps, Dipper. You were the one saying how it was the best way to find your way anywhere."

"What'd you think those concentric lines were?"

"Party target?"

Waddles, who had grown enormous during the rest of the year, stopped to scratch his butt on a standing stone. He loosened some moss and revealed an ancient carving.

"And just great! Your _pet_ has probably wakened up some ancient magic or some c'thuloid horror to eat us. Way to go, _Mabel_."

"I knew it! There it is," said Grunkle Ford, somewhere high above them. A pink bubble descended like Glinda the Good Witch, and popped, leaving both Grunkles and two other... things... on the ground nearby.

"Grunkle Ford? Grunkle Stan?" Dipper boggled at the obvious aliens and started taking hurried notes.

"This is exactly the stone I've been looking for..." said Grunkle Ford, clearing the rest of the moss off. "Your guess was correct, Dipper. This is an ancient Atlantean transport system. Ancient magic."

"Howdy, howdy, howdy," said the orange thing, shaking Dipper's hand, Mabel's hand, and Waddles' trotter. "I'm Wander. This is Sylvia. And this is _amazing_. Everyone put this planet down as a nowhere backwater, but I have never seen so much variety on any single place I've ever been. I might just hang around here for a while."

"Try going to Gravity Falls," said Dipper. "Absolutely nobody would notice that you're there."

# Challenge #348: Mrs Widgery's Guests

Morris Dancers! To the tune of "Mrs Widgery's Lodger". – Anon Guest

AN: For anyone wondering what the flying heck - [here you go. I apologise in advance for the mental trauma.]

There were white-clad humans wearing bells on their shins. Each one carried a large, white kerchief in each hand. Except for the one of them that was wrestling an accordion into submission.

The ones with the kerchiefs were skipping about, legs ringing, to the slow and grinding tune.

"What are they doing?" said B'kizz.

"I have no idea," murmured T'renth. "We could find a human and ask them..."

"And get an explanation we didn't want? No, thank you. Just... look up the guide of events."

T'renth did so. "The guide says it is... 'morris dancing'..."

The dancers all yelled, "Hey!" at once, and kept dancing.

"And it goes on to explain that it is an ancient Pagan spring rite borrowed from travellers from Africa[1]... even though it is a mainly european occupation."

B'kizz absorbed this information. "Well and good, but why are they doing this _here_? It's a space station. There's no such thing as seasons."

T'renth read. "Many humans believe that the morris encourages bountiful crops and an increase of desired growth in domesticated plants. Scientific studies have also found a link between the dance and the expected results."

B'kizz boggled. "How in the name of the Powers did they figure out a double-blind test for _that_?"

"It's a human thing," said T'renth. "It really is best to not ask."

[1] Morris Dancing is a corruption of the words "Moorish Dancing" and there's some evidence that it's an import into northern climes.

# Challenge #349: Instruments of War

Bagpipe players. – Anon Guest

They say that nobody ever sleeps well in hotel rooms. This is true even when one is forced to bring one's own bed. Rael, as a niche species still battling for independence from his creators, did not expect any hotel to have what he called a bed in stock.

Therefore, on the rare occasions that he travelled, he brought along his heated tank with life-monitoring equipment. It was a routine a part of his luggage as toiletries for humanoids or polishing equipment for reptiles.

But regardless of his own accommodations, he still suffered the curse of hotel rooms everywhere.

Though the sleeping accommodations were familiar, and comfortable, the _sounds_ were different. He did not sense the familiar clank and whirr of 38 Gripley Lane. Nor the muted technobabble of other JOATs as they held their own erratic hours.

Instead there came the rattle of the service trolley. An argument down the hall between two loud and obnoxious beings who laughed at the words 'Do Not Disturb'. Someone playing something possibly pornographic at too loud a volume... and some lucky couple apparently re-enacting pornography in a neighbouring room.

He had thought that was the worst of it.

And then, at roughly 3AM... someone started playing the bagpipes.

Shayde had said they were the music of war, and Rael could agree. After five minutes of listening to them, Rael was certainly entertaining thoughts of homicide. He could still not see the merit of killing his enemies, however. He'd rather murder the piper.

Then again, humans were very strange. The ancient Scots, in their eternal war with their worst enemies, the Scots, used the pipes to rally their team to one point. If the piper died (which was another cause for the Scots' favourite occupation - war) another would pick up the pipes and _keep playing_.

Which made sense on a blasted and foggy moor, but made no sense and no happy feelings at three in the morning when every sane cogniscent should be asleep.

...but humans _weren't_ sane...

Rael tried the usually ineffective 'mute' function of his tank. It never worked properly, and it didn't do it this time, either. But at least it muffled most of the unfamiliar noise.

#  Challenge #350: Instruments of Entertainment

Dedicated to the Steam Calliope. – Anon Guest

Rael was glad that the Archivaas who were going through the Vault of the 20th Century had finally decided to ship confusing items to Amalgam for analysis, rather than making Shayde, and himself, go all the way to it.

This one... seemed to be an unholy mess of pipes on wheels. There was an unseemly grin buttons and platforms that, on a smaller device, might have been piano keys. It had ornate works of art around its exterior, bright colours and outlandish figures. And the word, "Melodeon".

"Aw ye ripper," cooed Shayde.

"Oh no," murmured Rael. She was going to want to ride it, play with it, or possibly both. "This is a valuable antique..."

"Ye know I would'nae harm it." She still brushed its bright surface with her hands. "Aw yes. She's self-powered. We don' need a horse. I just need someone tae steer an–"

"No," said Rael. "Tell them what it is, show them how it works _without indulging in a live demonstration_. Then it goes to the museum and they can build a working replica."

Shayde whined. "But I've always wanted tae play a calliope."

Rael glared at the keys. "How would you even play that?"

"Wi' yer fists."

He really should have known better. Asking Shayde questions lead to predictable results. And now he was steering this thing on a slow crawl through some pre-approved wide lanes while Shayde and a grinning Archivaas hammered out _Turkey in the Straw_ with their fists.

And... more annoyingly... they were all attracting enthusiastic fans trailing after the musical vehicle as they went.

The bizarre from out the woodwork come...

# Challenge #351: Bad Head Day

:Merrily Doing A Thing:

:Pause:

(To myself) "Wait, no. Logic."

:Stops Doing The Thing:

Brain fog gets to everyone. Even those who do not, strictly speaking, have brains as we know them.

Rael caught himself in early morning lo-cal fog, holding a bread knife over a large cantaloupe. What he had been about to do was unclear but cutting had to be involved.

"This is not right," he told himself. He put the knife down, put the cantaloupe into the Skin-a-Majig[1], and extracted his overnight oats whilst the fruit did its circular ballet.

Then he ingested it whole[2].

_Now_ he remembered why he wanted the bread knife! Cake!

Meanwhile, in the home quarters of Ambassador Shayde...

Woke up... sort of.

Fell out of bed. Yes.

Dragged a comb across her long, smoke white locks. Fuck that. Coffee.

She shambled towards her kitchen like one newly risen from the grave and took a generous slurp of theobromine solution.

"BLEAURGH!"

It was stone cold.

" _Heat_ the fookain coffee, _then_ drink it," she chanted.

[1] The more things change, the more things stay the same. Late night television kitchen gadgets are just one example of concepts that won't die. Even when we want them to.

[2] A hungry Faiize in a hurry is a terrifying thing to behold.

#  Challenge #352: The Gratitude of Some People

Two people in danger

[Person #1] has a plan and gets them out of it

[Person #2]: THAT WAS CRAZY AND STUPID AND WE NEARLY DIED!!

[Person #1]: But it worked!

"We still nearly died!" ranted Mr'kish.

"I made sure we didn't. And, more importantly, I made sure _you_ didn't. The proper words at this point are 'thank you'."

"You used your livesuit as an escape pod. You shot us out a _torpedo_ tube..."

"In my defence, I was aiming for the rescue ship."

"We still have technicians trying to undo your bodge job around us, Dale..."

"Also in my defence, they might not have got my message about letting their Hungry Caterpillar pick us up. My comms are... uh... a little bit toasted."

"They broke in the torpedo tube, didn't they?"

"Enough of your sass, madam, or I'll start calling you 'Mr Kish' again." A sigh. "Yes. They did."

"I told you that re-wiring the comms of your suit was a bad idea, Miss Dale."

Dale scratched her nose. "Yeah, you did. And it was a calculated risk. And now I have to stand here and suffer whilst the techies take apart my work to see how I did it."

"Yeah," cooed Chief Technician Mirrin. "If this looks real good, we'll issue a set of lifesuits where the adaptation is easier."

"And the comms stay intact," added Dale.

"Yeah, probably," agreed Mirrin.

"I'm surrounded by humans," Mr'kesh wailed.

"At least they took my helmet off so you can have fresher air."

"...still tainted by your body odour," she grumbled.

#  Challenge #353: Long-term Effects of Stupid Decisions

" _In a fit of rage, he got extremely scientific."_

Tour guide at the Oregon Vortex, possibly describing Stanford Pines.

"He employed every sensing device available, in the place where horses refused to go," said the guide. "And more than a few that he invented himself. Results were confounding, to say the least. Keep in mind that this occurred in the early twenty-first century, well before post-Shattering complete scanners. He had to collate and calculate his data on his own."

The effort, according to the guide, took months. During which, the investigator took more readings to feed into analytical programs of his own design.

After two years of solid work on this anomaly, he was left almost exactly where he started. All he had was a pile of data and no idea what it meant. It went entirely against everything he knew... and this was a man who studied outlier phenomenon.

He sought permission to dig in the area, but was denied.

He was not daunted, and predicted that the area contained a deposit of some high-energy material that would upset normalcy. In his notes, he named it, Unlikelium.

And it would be centuries before other deposits were found outside of already protected areas. This ore was the key to the specific gravity generator, and the beginning of the modern human age.

If only the people who owned the tourist centre in Oregon had allowed Stanford Pines to do a minor excavation to take a ten-gram sample to investigate its properties. But in this case, money won out, and the inventor of the Gravity Drive was Wen Min-Jun, from a small province in China. She had Stanford Fords notes on the phenomenon and used his readings and observations to find another deposit of Unlikelium and extracted ten grams that changed human history.

"Which just goes to show," summarised the guide, "that short-term monetary profit is the worst thing for any given civilisation."

Moq'bor lifted a manipulating tendril. "I know humans are insane," she said. "But how could they prefer money over knowledge gain?"

The guide sighed and adjusted her hair. "This is the Territorial Identity that also elected an ignorant plutocrat because of his alleged monetary success. Which lead to the Greater Global Depression."

# Challenge #354: Sorry, I'm Redacted

[Person #1, in an actual, audible conversation]: [Person #2], I know you're frustrated, and I feel very ████ about that, but █████ ███████████ to ██████████ ██████ with ████████████ ██████████ ████ █████████

[Person #2]: STOP DOING THAT!!!

"I really can't, El. Ever since I signed a ND contract with ███████████, they installed an auto-redactor in my █████████████ so that no industry secrets can accidentally escape."

"Well, at least try to keep away from industry secrets, Vi."

"I would, but they've even copyrighted words like ████, and that's one of my favourites. I wish I'd never ██████ ██ ████ ██████ ███ ███ ███ in the first place."

"Do you have any idea how painful that is to hear? How unnerving it is to look at?"

"I know. I know. I can change sound and sight modes if I get promoted. And the less it gets used, the more likely I am to get a promotion, but if you're going to bring up ███████ ██████████ then it's gonna come out. I'm sorry. It's a █████ ████. What? I can't even say that?"

"Your NDA should not be covering your personal opinions... maybe you should go to a medic-lawyer and get it checked out."

Vi sighed. "I would, but the auto-redactor is proprietary and only ███████████ licenced staff can service it. And they tell me that everything's ██████."

"Just how many everyday words has this company copyrighted?"

"Oh, somewhere around █████."

"I don't know how much that is, but that just sounds scary."

"I know. So much for ███████ ██ ██████."

# Challenge #355: To Save the World

" _I picked you up, even when you were covered in slime after he spat you out! You were technically_ _vomit_ _, and you were_ _still_ _the most beautiful thing I'd ever laid eyes on!" – Anon Guest_

"It's a good thing you told me about the uvula," she allowed, "but... a thing? Really?"

"Only by base technicality, dear," cooed Blasingstoke. "You are a machine."

Miss Cliq sighed at him. "Fine. You get away with it for now. No more objectifying cogniscents."

"Yes dear," smiled Blasingstoke. "She's been instrumental in all my advancements. And I've done my best to keep her in good repair."

The Doctor winced a little. "Yes. Yes. You're very much in love. But she's a hyper-advanced service droid from an alien cruise liner, and you're... a British explorer from the Victorian Empire. Something's going to go drastically wrong..."

They instantly reached for each other, protecting their love from the bad man.

"We understand our differences," said Miss Cliq. "I have been striving to keep my footprint in this primitive world to a minimum."

"Even in London," smiled Blasingstoke. "And they have Lady Vastra."

The Doctor winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't mention them, right now, I already have enough headaches... Starting with the remains of your ship, Miss Cliq."

"That is what I mean to destroy," she said. "After I have stripped it for all the useful materials necessary to keep me running."

"I'm helping," said Blasingstoke. "Miss Cliq has already said she'll stop operating without repairs, and... when I'm gone... she won't last much longer."

"Fifty years," said Miss Cliq. "Sixty if I can wean him off cigars. That's... enough of a life of freedom... isn't it?"

"Yes, but in those fifty-to-sixty years, he's busy inventing. He's cribbing notes off your maintenance and turning them into devices that are decades... centuries ahead of their time. Do you two have any idea how hard it was to stop Babbage and Lovelace? This is ten times worse!"

Blasingstoke put himself between the Doctor and Miss Cliq. "If you're going to end her, sir... you'll have to take me first."

Miss Cliq put her shields around him. "I'd rather run my batteries flat than see you die..."

It was enough to make the Doctor nearly swear. "Oh stop it. There's really no need for all that melodrama. I'm here to help. Not just this planet, but also _you_. There's enough bits and pieces here for you to build a two-person craft and head off to about five different planets where you could both live in peace. Way beyond the grip of your corporation, Miss Cliq."

The shields dropped. Blasingstoke's fists dropped. "You give your word as a gentleman, sir?"

"Trust me, the places I have in mind would be the next best thing to eden. Very suitable for you... and lots of minerals and materials for you, too, Miss Cliq."

"I detect no falsehood... May I see the list?"

He had it ready on a loose piece of paper.

"These are death worlds comparable to this one... with biota that would not harm or be harmed by my Blasingstoke."

The man blushed at that. Vivid red, all over his face. "Oh dearest..."

"Can you keep your emotions under check?" said the Doctor. "There _is_ a time window. Chop, chop."

Later explorers would find no trace of Blasingstoke and his intriguing fiancee. There were the remains of a base camp, but no material evidence that they had passed on. It was as if they had packed up everything and moved on... to another dimension.

What the conspiracy theorists never knew was that some of them were right. Blasingstoke _was_ actually taken away by aliens.

# Challenge #356: Nice Doggy

" _Aww! Whose a cute little puppy- poo!"_

" _I have seen dogs. That is_ _definitely_ _no where near a dog,"_

" _Oh, leave the little cutie alone,"_

" _I'm serious, are you blind?"_

Gorqax sighed. "Look. I can tell you're going to be pedantic about this. A dog is a non-cogniscent deathworlder mammal of Terran origin that is quadrupedal, fur-bearing, and carnivorous."

"Yes, that is the definition." Plegg rolled hir eyes.

"This creature that I am currently grooming is _also_ a non-cogniscent deathworlder mammal of Terran origin that is quadrupedal, fur-bearing, and carnivorous."

"Yes, but–"

"Therefore, this is a dog. Oozagoo'boy?"

The 'dog' in Gorqax's manipulating appendages meowed.

"Dogs also utter a loud, abrupt sound as their typical call," stated Plegg. "Known as a bark. And that is not barking."

"Not every dog is the same, yes?"

"True. I have only seen one dog. I have been informed that there are breeds of varying height and mass... but this creature is showing signs of pleasure... _while growling_."

"It could be an anomaly. A genetic variant."

A human broke the argument in the end, while Gorqax and Plagg were playing with the contested quadruped. And arguing about its status as a dog.

"Oh there you are," said the human they called Ping. "I see you found my cat."

Gorqax refused to give up. "Is that the breed of dog ze is?"

It was going to take half an hour to explain all the differences.

# Challenge #357: Cute and Bombproof

 _http://haberdashing.tumblr.com/post/154304792219/jumperjohn-you-know-that-one-post-about-humans

_"You know that one post about humans being really durable compared to aliens and that one about humans being really cute to aliens?_

What if they were both true at the same time. Like the aliens decide to take their human on a landing mission because they get so excited and it's so cute but then a storm hits and they crash. And the aliens are all freaking out because they can't be rescued without going outside to fix something but the readings say they'll die if they do because of the storm. The leader's all prepared to make a heroic sacrifice when the cute human just walks out the airlock to fix the thing and when they get back they're just like "what? It's not that bad out."

And the aliens find out humans are made of iron on top of being adorable." – Anon Guest

I expected a lot of things being a Companion with the Skizn't. And yes, I know I'm pronouncing that wrong. I can't get the buzz right. There's a whole lot of tolerance for pronunciation as long as all parties can understand what the other meant.

And that's just part of the reason why I let the crew of the _Wat's Buzzin'_ call me "Fluffy". One, is the fact that their mandibles can't wrap comfortably around Atticus. And the second, which was the least thing I expected, these bugs thought I was cute.

If you're going to be companion to the Skizn't... you _have_ to be cool with chitinous appendages touching you all the time.

Apparently, hair is cute. Hairy things are cute. And I'm the sort of guy who could step back into the stone age and only worry about sunburn. So there's me, the original gorilla in the mist... getting as much of my fur as possible personally groomed by scritchy-scratchy Skizn't.

That sort of thing can take a lot of getting used to. And it was four weeks before I realised that they were cooing baby talk at me in their language. And by then? It was just too late.

There was a crossing point when they remembered that I'm a Deathworlder. We landed on this planet for improvised drydock repairs. Micrometeors are a bitch. Not everyone has got their Hungry Caterpillar yet. Folks like the Skizn't don't quite trust it.

Anyway. The ship had landed, and there was sideways sleet outside. Stiff winds. And my little scratchy friends were getting nervous about how much time was passing with this deadly storm. Deadly to them, mind. They were watching the temperature like hawks, and more than a few were clinging to me for comfort.

I let them borrow my Big Ted and changed for the weather. Warm, waterproof clothes, and a pair of goggles because alien chemicals. The hardest part of this job, that day, was sneaking out with the tool box.

I remember that I'd made it to the damage and was just starting on the exterior damage when my comms went nuts. Do not try to picture five hundred bugs screaming down the comms that I was going to die if I didn't come back _right now_.

"Guys, I spent three years in Minnesota. Driving snowploughs. I've got this."

I had to turn their volume down just so I could concentrate on repairs. I kept up a constant singsong of, "It's okay... it's okay... the human is fine..." and sentiments like it, lots of "I'll just"s and "and then"s. And some of, "Watch my bio-monitors. I'm _fine_..." thrown in for good measure.

There were so many of them lining the windows when I came back in. Plastered against the airlock. Taking shifts while I was doing de-contamination, watching and tapping the perspex to make sure I was responding normally.

And the entire crew kind'a swarmed when the doc let me loose into the ship, again. It was such a babble of Skizn't, that it all sounded like cicadas fighting with finches.

I got groomed by every crewmember, that day.

"It wasn't that bad, out there, really," I insisted. "You guys have never seen a hurricane off the coast of greenland... I didn't even have to watch my footing."

They were just so stunned that I did that... it blew their insect minds. And it just added to the rumours about my kind. Sorry about that.

# Challenge #358: The Urban Human

An alien naturalist, performing a David Attenborough-style documentary on Earth.

Potential sequel: As above, but replace "David Attenborough" with "Steve Irwin".

"And this... is the average human population density of the planet Terra." The image showed the interior of a shopping mall on a slow hour. Humans populous enough to get in each others' way if they were determined to do so, but not enough to be in each others' way no matter what. "Of course, there are areas with lower populations." The image of a human by the doorway of an isolated house in the middle of an empty plain. "And others with higher populations." Rush hour in Japan. But we are focussing on the most common human density level - suburbia." An image from far above a suburban sprawl of houses, backyards, and intricately-winding roads. "Here, in our hide, we watch the humans go about their day-to-day lives without fear of disturbing them. These _are_ deathworlders, and they are prone to anger."

A fast-forward shot of sunrise effecting the landscape outside a window. "Humans operate by means of an invented time system. Regardless of the length of daylight in their area, many do not show activity for hours."

The view slowed down to watch a pair of humans pass by, walking along the empty boulevards.

"The big rush in activity occurs between the hours of six and seven, when the humans occupy large vehicles to move themselves to another location. We've been monitoring their transmissions..." A view of a terran television, showing wide roads clogged with vehicles. "And this is the occurrence that they call 'rush hour'. Hundreds and thousands of humans, rushing to leave their homes and arrive at their place of employment. This problem could easily be solved by a unified and convenient system of public transport, but this is not so."

Sounds of beeping and human curses.

"The humans who value the making of these vehicles make immense profits. Which they then use as offerings to the humans in charge of laws and legislations. This keeps other people using the vehicles, the makers in monetary gain... and the roads... blocked."

Now they were showing a human child playing in the yard of their parents. "This is just one of the paradoxes of humanity. Another is that humans can spend a lifetime working on their home... and yet, spend very little time inside it."

"We watched this house for a week and counted the hours that at least one human was inside..." the fast-forward effect was in place whilst the counter counted. Even the humans who remained in the general space did not spend all their time in their shelter. They went out for forays, they spent time in the green areas surrounding their shelter, and sometimes wandered into the streets to talk with their neighbours.

"As you can see, humans tend to spend nine to ten hours of their day inside the shelter that they work so hard to maintain. But the surprising part of this information is that... for a majority of those hours... the humans are asleep."

Grainy night footage of slumbering humans in their beds.

"And this is not the central area of their homes. These spaces often get the least attention for its purposes of display. And these homes _are_ for competitive display. Each human is obsessed by making their home as brilliant or as luxurious as any one of their neighbours..."

# Challenge #359: Wild Terra

The Irwin character and their adventures on Earth – Anon Guest

"Now in most areas of human habitation, the goal is to cover as much of the body as possible. But here–" images of Surfer's Paradise, "–the rules are turned upside-down. Unless you're one of these blokes," images of surfers in their full-body surf suits. "Their vibrant colours tell the sharks that live in the water that they're not good to eat. And for those with plain colours? That's camouflage so the sharks don't spot them. Humans are entirely ingenious when it comes to methods to get what they want."

More footage of divers, some archival, exploring an environment that was clearly hostile. And one image of a human figure clad head to toe in a protective suit, bouncing along on the surface of their moon.

"I'm hidden so I don't disturb any of them," said the host as the view switched back to the humans on the beach. "These are not a species meant for life in the water, but that doesn't stop them. They even teach their young how to interact with the waves." Footage of a parental human and a baby barely able to stand. The former leaned over the latter and helped the baby along in the shallow water.

"Most life forms have an evolutionary choice. Go into the water and stay there, or stay out of it altogether. These humans are the first mammals I've seen with amphibian tendencies. But it doesn't end there!"

An image of a mountain. "This is the tallest mountain on planet Terra," another mountain, "And this is the deadliest. Every year, humans risk their lives just for bragging rights to say they made it to the top and some..." images of dead humans tangled in the snow, "never make it back down again. It's too high and too much trouble to bring the bodies back down, so other human climbers use the bodies as landmarks."

Now the camera focussed on the presenter. "I know what you're thinking, but these are _deathworlders_ , life is difficult, challenging, and often short. Survival by any means is most definitely the law on this world. And my little friends, the humans? They're pretty good at surviving. Just take a look at the local population around my hide. I have neighbours who've had their bones broken - both by accident and design. I have neighbours who live with near-deadly mutations, and only a change in diet is required to keep them going. I have neighbours with debilitating diseases that will plague them for the rest of their lives... and with a few artificial aids... they just keep on with their days as if nothing is wrong." He showed pleasure to his audience, safely light-years away and on the other end of a wormhole chain and a long flight that the humans had yet to discover. "And I, for one, think that's amazing, and something we can all learn from."

# Challenge #360: Monster?

 http://modmad.tumblr.com/post/154298352575/thelittlemonsterlover-x

Large scary demonic creature and the tiny child that keeps putting flower crowns on it. – Anon Guest

[AN: I wish I knew what the writing in the comic said, but I shall do my best]

I am the thing that bumps in the night. I am fear incarnate. I am terror. I am the fate that waits for bad children. I am a monster in the dark. I am... Nightmare.

For untold centuries, I grew strong on the fears of children. I knew nothing better. I preyed on those who wandered too far. I devoured those who strayed from the beaten path.

Life... was. It was neither good nor bad. I had no experience of such things. Not until I met Daisy.

She wore a white hoodie made for someone much taller than her. On her, it was a dress, and the long sleeves had been rudely cut so that her hands peeked out of them. Her legs were caked over with black mud from the forest floor, and she was picking flowers.

I showed myself in the usual way, but she was not concerned. She kept humming an aimless song to herself and picking summer flowers.

"Fear me," I said.

"Why?"

"Because I am a monster."

"You're not a monster," said Daisy, and kept harvesting blossoms. Some, she wove into a chain. Others, she placed in the large pocket in her hoodie's front.

I had never met such a child. "Fear me!" I demanded, picking her up and shaking her. "I am your death!"

"You're not scary," she said and offered me a posy from her pocket. "Want to be friends?"

Friends? I did not know the word. "I want to _eat_ ," I growled. "Why aren't you afraid of me?"

She linked her chain of flowers into a loop and placed it on my head. "You're not as scary as Unca Rob."

It was the first gift I had ever received. The first kindness I had ever known. That sort of thing is meant to kill monsters... and yet, I did not die.

My grip on her gentled. I put her down. "Why did you do that?"

"You're lonely. I'm lonely, too. Are we friends, now?"

She told me about her 'uncle'. A man who had married her mother after her father died, and who kept her now that her mother had died, too. Well, he said he kept her. She never got new clothes and always got new bruises and sometime, her 'uncle' would come into her bed and hurt her in other places.

I felt a new hunger, then. And... hatred.

"Do you want bad things to happen to your uncle?" I asked. "I could be his monster..."

"Don't eat him all up, he's all I have," said Daisy.

She was... nice to me. She was... my friend. I felt I owed her something... nice... in return.

Foreign words and foreign feelings driving me, I became her other guardian. Every time Uncle Rob came into her bedroom at night, he would find me there, and I would feast on his fear. Every time he hurt her, I would follow him until he swore to never do it again. Every time he wanted to buy liquor instead of good things, he would see me in any reflective surface.

I am good at what I do.

And what I do now is... I eat monsters. More often, I eat monstrousness, but the result is the same. And I am _very_ well fed.

#  Challenge #361: One Muddled Mid-morning in a Mystery Vessel

" _Do you want to know how I can tell this is a terrible idea?"_

"... _how?"_

" _I'm_ _being the voice of reason!"_

The assembled cogniscents spared a moment to regard Ambassador Shayde. Widely regarded as the specific embodiment of human insanity. They then looked to each other as if daring someone to say, _How did we get so far astray?_

"As th' great Montgomery Scott said, Ye cannae change the laws o' physics," insisted Shayde. "Well. Unless ye got special circumstances, ye ken, but this is no' one of 'em."

"And you would know this," said I'braxx. Ze was a more recent addition to Galactic Society and still equated insanity with lessened cognitive abilities.

"Hel- _lo_..." she gestured at herself, taking in night-black skin, smoke-white hair, and slightly demonic, glowing eyes. "Turned into a shadow elemental and used as a pawn by alleged gods. Of _course_ I know this stuff. And I know it's reet dangerous."

"All right, so what would _you_ do?"

"If I was alone, I'd shadow-hop right outta here an' whistle. But wi' you lot... I have tae figure out how this bucket works."

"And this is less dangerous than allowing the JOAT to do it?"

"Because JOATs fix as they figure. I can at least restrain meself, ye ken."

"...hey," objected the JOAT.

"You an' I both know it's true. This is an artifact from some other civilisation, and one that found out how tae bend the rules. And you do _not_ want tae go around pokin' at an improbability drive. Ye'll wake oop wi' bits ye never had before."

"Improbability drive?" echoed T'konn.

"It's probably a human thing," whispered I'braxx. "Very possibly not what she's babbling about."

"Well spotted, an' keep yer lip tae yerself, thanks. Just because I'm bonkers does'nae mean I'm stupid..." As if defusing a bomb, she carefully undid the fastenings of a panel and removed it. "Eeesh. Cybiotech. An' it's no' lookin' healthy..." And, because she was also a JOAT, she whistled backwards.

Whipspin, the other JOAT, was instantly over her shoulder. "Oooh... That has to be a nutrient imbalance."

"Last time I saw sommat this bad was when some nutter tried tae use diesel on his light plane engine," agreed Shayde. "Same principle. Someone's been feedin' the puir thing weet bix when it needed fat bacon."

"This ship needs a doctor."

"Aye," she cooed. "I can heal 'er a wee bit, an' read her a wee bit, but... I just don't have enough 'oomph' tae do the whole thing."

"At least find out what it needs. We can probably work from there."

To the outside observer, Shayde fell silent whilst carefully caressing the ship's... innards.

"We," said Shayde.

"Er. Well. When I said that," began Whipspin.

"No. Wee. Th' liquid. She needs uric acid an' trace proteins, ye ken. Flush the toxins to a system she has tae deal wi' it. We all have tae tinkle down tha' intake funnel. Post haste. And then," She grinned and rubbed her hands in a way that made some cogniscents wish to use the funnel first, "it's time fer some guided jiggery-pokery."

#  Challenge #362: One Exasperating Late Evening in a Recovery Room

" _Do you want to explain why you caused_ _mass hysteria_ _and almost created a national incident?"_

" _You_ _know_ _these things happen when I'm left alone."_

"Hwell," sighed Ax'and'l. It was an old sigh. The kind of sigh that had put up with enough crap to make a rocky giant planetoid out of it. "I told you to mind the cargo..."

"And I did. I was. Honest," said Hwell. "I only stepped away t' help this wee lass–"

Ax'and'l moaned automatically. Hwell had a near-catastrophic ability to be interested in young ladies who inevitably lead to trouble.

"– _with her luggage_ ," he said pointedly. "It's called being a good citizen. You want me to be a good citizen, right?"

"Within limits," snarked Ax'and'l.

"Well, I wasn't about t' just sit there like a bump on a log, all right? I have hands. I have feet. I have a working moral system..."

"...a predilection to alcohol, an attraction towards dangerous females, a singular knack for finding trouble before it got lost..." continued Ax'and'l.

"It wasn't my fault," wailed Hwell. "It was the big fella who took objection."

Of course he did. Hwell's stories would not be complete without a big fella in there somewhere. Most of the time, this big fella and Hwell became unlikely allies in some vaguely-legal exploit that 'just needed a helping hand for a wee while'. And Ax'and'l would be the one bailing his profitable mammal out of the local jail whilst the big fella and all the profits vanished without a trace.

Fortunately for Hwell Barrow and his disaster curve of a life, his presence kept Ax'and'l earning a healthy profit margin. And the semi-regular fines were simply declared as _corporate expenses_. Five minutes' exposure to Hwell was all anyone needed to explain why they _were_ corporate expenses.

"Did you ask if she needed help?" droned Ax'and'l.

"Of course I asked, I'm not a barbarian. And I waited for her permission, thank you. She had no objections to _me_."

"And who was the 'big fella'?"

"She said she didn't want to know him, and that she was emancipated, now. He was trouble, straight up. I tried to tell him I didn't want any, and I was just bein' helpful. And then he gave _me_ a helpin', ya know?"

From the medical and damage reports, a helping of his fists, knees, and elbows. Which caused collateral damage to what happened to be some cargo belonging to the 'big fella'. Which also happened to be smuggling live cheese, a Galactic Society contraband owing to what foreign cheese spores did to station and ship biotas.

The reward for the capture paid for the damages and medical expenses, certainly, but the profit was meagre. "Let me guess," said Ax'and'l. "This 'big fella' came out of nowhere while you were engaged in pleasant conversation?"

"Exactly," said Hwell. "See? I knew you'd understand me."

"I am pondering the profit margin if I hire my own 'big fella' to keep you out of harm's way."

"Pfft," dismissed Hwell. "Where's th' fun in that?"

# Challenge #363: Protective Instinct

Left to my own devices, I am not very aggressive. But if you give me a small helpless person to defend I will conquer small European nations in their name.

There are certain things one should never, _ever_ do in Galactic Society. You do not comment negatively about any other cogniscent's appearance. You do not engage a gravity drive in hyperspace. And you do _not_ , under any circumstances, threaten a human's charge if that guarded body is a small, fragile life form.

All three of these examples are easily equally dangerous. The most noticeable example is Greenery Technician Pam and the Del'voq tourist named Krel.

It started, of course, with directions to the Elemeno.

"Oh, I know where that is," cooed Pam. "My shift's done, just let me change my boots and I can take you there."

They struck up an instant friendship, mostly due to human pack-bonding instinct, and chatted amiably on the Tram directly there. But it was when the Tarrakathi mercenaries, coming the other way down the stairs, made a comment about an easy meal... that all hell broke loose.

Witnesses agreed that the last coherent words from Pam, who had no prior record of violence, were "Don't you [EXPLETIVE DELETED] dare!" before she launched herself wholesale at a group of four armoured cogniscents, each four times her body mass.

The mercenaries all swore they were using every sign that they were joking. This didn't seem to matter, as their injuries and damage to their lifesuits was silent testimony to Pam's unusual rage. As were the dents in the hand-rails, the walls, and the stairs themselves. Pam only stopped when she noticed that Krel had fainted. At which point she, as well as numerous others, called for emergency medtech assistance on Stairwell #3475, Elemeno district.

Pam was treated for shock, and multiple contusions that she didn't notice until hours after the fact. Krel was simply treated for shock. The mercenaries, who now understood that some jokes were not meant for public exposure, agreed with Pam to split the Time owed for all medical treatments. And, of course, the danger rating of humans as a species went up.

# Challenge #364: Dangerous Encounters

A [Human science ship] is basically a prickly little echidna going through space wearing a mortarboard. It just wants to science. If you stop it sciencing, it can survive you kicking it, hurt the foot that you were foolish enough to use to kick it, and call for help from the other, decidedly LESS peaceful ships Humanity has to offer.

Humans are dangerous. Everyone knows this. The preferred method of interacting with humans, for the longest time, was simply two words. "Run away."

But there are always a few who believe that chasing their chosen employment is more important than long-term survival. Other Galactics referred to them as 'Edge-clippers'. Those who made their fortunes by skating along the very cusp of safety.

Gorqax didn't bother the human vessels he spied. He just insisted on doing his mining and salvage work where he could keep an eye on them as they went about their business. When he scanned them, or read their emissions, it seemed like they were doing science. They made no efforts to communicate with him, so he made no efforts to communicate with them.

He also took pains to avoid working where the humans were doing science.

And then the Vraxx entered the system. Gorqax hid his vessel inside a larger, vacant hulk, and could only watch what followed through viewports. He had had to shut most of his system down in order to avoid detection.

The Vraxx went for their typical attack. Straight in with all guns blazing. The human ship reeled under the assault, but it reeled briefly. Weapons returned fire as the human science vessel retreated. Gorqax gaped in astonishment as the Vraxx vessel was not only hit, but crippled as well. As it slowly drifted away, leaking atmosphere and debris, there was not a long wait for new developments. It was barely more than five minutes before three more vessels emerged from a wormhole and reduced the Vraxx vessel to flack.

Gorqax waited until the humans had been gone for as long as possible before he re-activated his systems. And then he got out of the area as quickly as he could manage.

When he returned to the Sargasso, months later, he found a neat bundle of valuable metals in his usual working area. It was only once he towed it on board that he realised that it was made of Vraxx vessel debris. A gift of thanks, he believed, for the warning he gave them by hiding.

# Challenge #365: The Slippery Slope

Trying to sell a specifically weapons design team as a pro-peaceful exploration move is sort of the zen apex of the art of budgetary committees, no matter how necessary self-defence is out on the frontier for Federation starships.

"Point of Order," said Admiral Joubert. The rest of the budgetary committee moaned in anticipation. "These so-called science vessels you're proposing look more like warships. The Federation has never stood for this sort of thing."

"It's called being _prepared_ , Joubert," growled Admiral Paredes. "Science involves investigation. Investigation means finding things out there that may shoot first and ask questions later!"

"That doesn't mean we have to be prepared to do the same," snapped Joubert. "We are a peaceful organisation. We should be investing in peace."

"The Borg," said Admiral Ware. "Romulans, Klingons, Cardassians..."

"Oh my," muttered Admiral Paredes. "All these and more are infringing on our territories. The Xindi, The Suliban, The Dominion... we have enemies on all sides."

"That," said Admiral Joubert, "is a certain sign that we should guard our territories and work towards peace with the peoples who have grievances against us. We were once a peacekeeping force. Why must we go out and seek war?"

"Because so many are making war against us."

"That seems to me that we're doing something terribly wrong, right now. If we've offended so many, we need to investigate why. Not build... science vessels with more phasers and torpedoes than analysis equipment or long-range scanners."

"So you agree that these _are_ science vessels," said Admiral Paredes.

"In name only," objected Joubert. "These are Trojan Horses built for no other purpose than more war!"

The rest of the board ignored her. "All in favour of the new, peaceful science exploration vessels?"

Joubert was the only one to vote 'nae'.

#  Challenge #366: Abominations Are Relative

[Conversation Participant #1]: [Name mankind was not meant to know]! Where did you come from!?

_[Conversation Participant #2]:_ _From the blighted womb of your worst nightmare, quivering on legs innumerable, soaked in the black ooze of your greatest fears. I rear back my heavy head, and howl: DETEEENTION_ _...for AAAALLL three of you! I swear, I'm the only one around here that doesn't find threats and violence to be charming._

"Aw come on Mx Elth... this is the AV club, it's after school, and we are allowed to ask questions..."

[Name mankind was not meant to know] rattled hir chitinous scales and rumbled a low growl from somewhere beneath hir seventh stomach. "You were still violating the rules by threatening violence. And my name is not 'Mx Elth', it is [Name mankind was not meant to know]."

"...um... we were yelling at the tv, Mx [Name mankind was not meant to know]," murmured Dale, the smallest and most harmless alumni that the school had. "...um... it's a form of critique? Andum. We know it's not real threats."

"And what were you watching that prompted such violent words?" growled [Name mankind was not meant to know]. Ze had oozed five of hir seventeen tentacles into the room as well as three of hir eyes.

"It's the celebrity edition of Survival Island and -uh- a famous executive we're not allowed to name any more just -um- tried to violate some lady singer's very personal space."

"The orange one?" cooed [Name mankind was not meant to know]. "That was one of the most delicious sinners my kind has ever known. So much hatred in his heart." Ze screeched in pleasure at the recollection of that feast. "Rewind it. I want to see how this happened."

The assembled members of the AV club moved the furniture so that [Name mankind was not meant to know] could fit inside with them. Many passed around snacks, and for once, the violent yelling was tolerated.

# Congratulations!

You've made it! You've read through an entire leap years' worth of daily instant stories. That's three hundred and sixty-six stories, over one hundred and sixty thousand words.

You can feel proud.

It took me a year to make this anthology, and if you enjoyed maybe ten percent of it, then my work is done.

Thank you so much to those wonderful readers who actually decided to give me money for getting a copy of this thing. I know you can choose how much you pay for a year of my work, and I'm very grateful that you chose to pay an amount above zero dollars.

Tune in next year for more of the same, some visible improvement, or just hop on over to my Smashwords Page and pick up some other excellent examples of my writing.

Thank you for supporting my work.

C. M. Weller.
