Challenge #00894-B163: The Unexpectables!

Beauty, brains and brawn. The traditional makeup for any team. Have fun.

There’s hundreds of ways to be a hero. And more than one way to be a heroic team…

Munashe finished the delivery forms for her auction winnings. An entire library of childrens’ books from a now-defunct school. Purchased for a dollar from a government auction because nobody was interested in buying things from a school.

The story books were going to a children’s hospital. The educational stuff was going straight to an indie school in the same area that was doing weekend tutoring for donations.

“Excuse me, miss Castell?” said the clerk. She was a rangy teenager type, still growing into her full dimensions. Gangly, awkward, and probably feeling out of place wherever she went. “How do you do it?”

“How do I do what?” she asked.

“Um. Well. You look so… amazing. But you got everything wrong. I mean. According to all the beauty tips? You’ve gotta straighten, dye, bleach, pluck and lose weight? And you’re not even close to fashionable? But you look… adorable…” She was lost, and terrified, and she knew what she was saying was coming out wrong, and the blush that dominated her face and neck was now threatening to set her ears on fire. “How do you do it?“

“Beauty is more than what the magazines tell us it is.” Munashe tucked a stray Egyptian Twist behind her ear. “Most of it is confidence. Some of it is doing what’s right and the determination to do so. And you need a healthy dollop of ‘fuck the magazines, I do what I want’.”

The “Oh,” that came out of the kid was laden with relief. “But… I don’t even know where to start…”

“Start by finding what makes you feel good. Then move on to what suits you. And if you’re like me and you like clothes that both fit and last? Learn to sew.” She brought out one of the many contact cards in her purse. “Here’s a local place that does lessons for cheap.”

The kid was re-ordering the world inside her head as she took the card. Her narrow world was opening. Good.

Munashe loaded up her minivan with the extras she currently didn’t have a place for and headed for her U-Store shed.

It was looking like a beautiful morning.

*

Corinna was holding Mimi’s hand as they walked through the shadier side of town. Constantly on guard, even though her wariness was hidden.

“Somewhere here,” murmured Mimi. She had her eyes riveted on her tablet, and only let go of Corinna to tap an interface.

The tinny, find-me jingle of Guy’s phone sounded from an alleyway.

“Hey, ladies,” smoothed one of the local menacers. He was the athletic type who could do no wrong because he had a promising sporting career. “I could convince you to give up the lesbo life if you just give me some of your time.”

And of course Mimi had to open her mouth. “I’m not a lesbian, I’m asexual and I’m autistic. I’m trying to find my friend, leave me alone.”

Corinna winced. “Look. You probably have a busy day of yelling at women ahead of you. How about you pretend that you didn’t see us and then nobody gets hurt.”

“You threatening me, pocket rocket? I could make four of you.”

“You’d better listen to her,” monotoned Mimi, walking into the alley to find the jingling phone. “She can bench-press you.”

“…god damnit, mimi,” Corinna muttered.

The menace laughed, “Shyeah right,” and threw the world’s sloppiest punch.

It probably worked to ‘show’ hundreds of women ‘their place’, but it didn’t work on Corinna. She used her low centre of gravity and knowledge of the collected defensive arts to toss him casually towards the nearest trash pile.

“Listen,” she said. “I’d really hate to give you a broken limb, but if you insist on fighting me, I’m gonna have to do that. Tell you what. You leave now, and I won’t bench you for three months, how’s that?”

He picked himself up from the trash in a roaring rage.

“Try to be nice,” she sighed. She was in a good mood, so the breaks she gave him would not impede his ‘promising career’ for longer than it took to heal. Then she called him an ambulance.

He was still cursing when she ended the call.

“We did warn you,“ said Corinna. “You go ahead and tell your friends that you fell down the stairs. It’ll be our little secret.”

Mimi was down the alley. Rocking herself where angels would fear to tread.

“Jemima Wirth… what now?”

“Phone,” she said, busily oscillating. She was crying.

“Guy’s phone?”

Nod. “Promised.”

“I know he promised to keep it with him. Maybe he didn’t have a choice.”

“Phone. Promised.”

Corinna Dalca dialled up Munashe. “Yeah hi. We got a problem. Some asshole’s kidnapped Guy again.”

“That’s it. I’m getting him tagged,” said Munashe. “Okay. Get Mimi to play Sherlock until I get there. You’re gonna have to play Dolly and Watson.”

Right. Mimi liked alliterative adventure titles. Got it. Corinna worked her way into Mimi’s iron grip. Let the taller girl rock with her until their breathing matched.

“Okay. Sherlock… This is the case of the Purloined Pal. All Sherlock has is this mobile phone and the surroundings it was found in. Extrapolate as much as you can.“

One of the EMT’s came to investigate just as Mimi went into vacant, staring Static Mode.

“She’s okay,” said Corinna. “She’s autistic. This is a meltdown. I’ve got her. She’s going to come back out in five… four… three…”

Mimi snapped aware again. She wasn’t quite Mimi, any more. She was Sherlock. “The trash surrounding this phone has been here for several days, as evidenced by the mould growths. Therefore the phone was tossed down this alley at a vector indicating that our perpetrator was standing in or near the mouth of the alley. If I were to hazard a guess, there were many assailants who took the victim into a van and fled eastwards.”

Mimi stood, Corinna still absently under one arm as she brought up a map on her tablet. “Felons tend to flee in a diagonal pattern, and given the plethora of one-way streets in this neighbourhood, combined with the need for relative privacy and isolation, I would hazard that our best options are here, here, and here.”

The ambulance left, revealing Munashe and the mini van. “I got Vincent, just in case.”

Vincent was the ridiculously purple plush lion that Corinna had won at a carnival some subjective eons ago. Mimi almost literally dropped Corinna and dived into the sanctuary of Munashe’s minivan. In the absence of Guy, Vincent was the next-best security prop.

Corinna took the next seat in the back. At 4′10″, she was frequently cause for pull-overs because officers thought she was too young to ride shotgun. Not that Munashe didn’t get enough trouble for Driving While Black.

It was the most careful chase in the history of crime fighting. Munashe took deliberate pains to obey every single traffic rule, just in case. And even then, there were still three pull-overs because her minivan or herself managed to ‘match a description’ on their blotters.

Yeah. Like many perps used rainbow-painted vans with “FAIRY GODMOTHER FOR HIRE” blaring across the sides.

But it was okay. Munashe always carried a small stash of carrot cake muffins and diet-buster brownies to ensure the good feeling of every policeman she met. The resultant nostalgia was usually enough to allow them on their way.

Mimi, in Sherlock Mode, could pick out signs of use on any abandoned building in short order. Thus accelerating the locating of Guy.

Then they had to get her to be Miles Vorkosigan to come up with a genius strategy for trashing the bad guys.

The local criminal element was eventually going to learn that capturing Guy on the eve of their cunning plans was not going to cripple their team. They had hundreds of work-arounds for Mimi. And thousands of ways to use the city to their advantage.

It was why Mimi kept calling them The Unexpectables. Nobody ever did what the bad guys expected of them.

In short order, the meth ring was foiled and Guy was temporarily freed so that Mimi quickly wrapped around him.

“Now will you say okay to the locator jewellery?“ Mimi pleaded into his chest. Listening to his heartbeat and feeling his chest fuzz always grounded her. “I made it look and act like a sports watch. It’s pretty and everything.”

“I’m sorry,” Guy soothed. Petting her hair. “I thought I had a lead on those gum pops you like.”

“Not important,” said Mimi. “Next time, no surprises. We go together. Rule one: stay close. You promised.”

[Muse food remaining: 14. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00889-B158: Nonse

With the amount of sense the last few hours have not made, I’m tempted to believe that this is all a simulation someone or something built into the universe for people foolish enough to have attempted what I did…

[AN: I am having intense internet trouble at the mome so I’m giving this to you from my phone. Forgive the lack of the usual formatting]

The trees were gathering water and farming people.

This… this was wrong. The sky was the colour of earth and the earth itself was blue. And… slightly marshy? But it was dry. A dry and supple sponge that nevertheless conspired to squelch.

A triffid on its leash was hissing at her. It looked exactly like the ridiculous rubber monsters of the movie. She guarded her eyes, just in case, and stumbled onwards down the soggy road.

One tree-child, naked as a jay, ran screaming from her. Yelling what sounded like, “Groot! Groot!” to the others.

She was out of range of the hissing triffid, at least. Shayde looked the lead tree squarely in its… face? and carefully, slowly, assumed a position of surrender.

Fingers interlaced and hands on top of her head. Kneeling in the squishy ground with her ankles crossed. And, because she was two heartbeats away from messing what was left of her clothes, Shayde did the one thing that always helped her calm down.

She sang.

“Picture yourself on a boat on a river… with tangerine trees and marmalade skies… Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly. A girl with kaleidoscope eyes…”

She peeked. Okay. This was good. They weren’t exactly aiming their weapons at her. But they were approaching with caution.

This was not the time to grin and show her sharp teeth. This was a time for staying very still and not doing anything at all threatening.

“Fimbalism finger fink,” the leader demanded. “Krelborn groot lalama!”

“Rapacious radishes,” she replied, and almost kicked herself. “Look. You cannae understand me. I cannae understand you. Mebbe a wee bit o’ pantomime?”

“Sconculous! Erid flelow carnarvon?”

Shayde sighed. This was going to be a long day. “Would ye believe, I’m mostly harmless?”

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Challenge #00888-B157: Station of Babel

Everybody panics in their own language.

This was where JOATs came into the fore. Electronic translators had their limits, and one of the most prevalent of those limits was breaching the Understanding Barrier.

Grammar is important. Especially in a panic situation.

Thus, in an emergency, the most level heads of the JOAT community come to the fore.

Shayde stood on one of the plinths, using her own passive magic to make herself understood to all listeners. “Please proceed in an orderly fashion to the emergency transport. Keep all children with you at all times. Unattended children will be cared for and may be adopted by needful nurturers.” She waved people through, careful not to touch anyone.

She couldn’t tell, in an emergency, which citizens were more fragile than others.

On the next plinth, just a few Standard Distance Units over, Rael was repeating her message in every language he knew. He’d been at it for twenty minutes and had yet to come back to GalStand.

And once the emergency was deal with, she’d have to report to Sherlock that she might have been responsible for some idiot opening the door to The Glunk.

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Challenge #00879-B148: Tokens of Adulthood

multitool,

They threw him a Going Away Party. Just like they threw him an Adoption Day party on the anniversary of his arrival on Hippo Mining Station. And, like all the things the mining crew did for him, it involved available materials.

So far, he’d been given a pair of The Drongo’s old work-boots - refurbished and ‘gussied up’ with a layer of gleaming black ductape. This parcel contained fabric scraps from Dode’s stash. Every colour of the rainbow, and then some.

“These are your fat quarters,” he said. “I can’t–”

“Every JOAT must make their own coat, kiddo,” said Dode the JOAT. “And for that, you need cloth. I’m not about to send you out through five jumps with a bare back.”

“I’ll make good use of every thread,” he whispered.

The last gift came from all the miners. Meaning that they’d cumulatively gleaned, scraped, and fabricated it. Hard work, for such a little parcel.

It was, indeed, small. The red of two sides of the oblong was a kind of ochre. It had a H instead of the white cross.

The blades had a knife, two screwdrivers, a saw, and a pair of pliers. As well as scissors and a really big blade. And a spoon.

They’d hand-forged a swissarmynyff[1]. Rael wished he could weep for the joy of it. “Thank you,” he said. “I know how much this cost you. This is my first and best treasure.”

Dave was the last. “You’ll need this to go with Dode’s. Bon voyage, eh?”

It was a sewing kit. And a cheat sheet of basic patterns.

Work boots. A coat in potentia. And a First Multitool.

“Today,” he said, “I am a JOAT. And an independent citizen of the Galactic Alliance. Wherever I go… whatever I do… I’ll always treasure my time here. Thank you for everything.”

Then it was tears and crushing hugs from all the miners. And a couple of bawdy songs before they all-but carried him to the departing shuttle like a victor of some horrible war.

He had the things he needed to live. His tank. His kibble supply. The clothes on his back and the warm memories of the first place where he was loved.

He had the things he needed to work. Good boots, a coat, and his first toolkit.

And he had the entire universe to find a place where he would belong.

All in all, Rael found it… terrifying.

[1] It’s natural for some phrases to become words.

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Challenge #00877-B146: Walk This Way

The ministry of silly walks.

“Absolutely not. That walk is the wholly-owned property of the Consortium of Steam.”

Ribuffo sighed and stood still. “Fine. It was just an experiment. What about this one?” Once again, she paraded in front of the motion capture cameras.

And once again, the alarm blatted.

“Don’t tell me. I accidentally did Wilgro. I knew it. One more. One more.” This time, Ribuffo added the little fillip with the half-skip left step.

“That’s Wilgro with a half-skip left fillip,” said the clerk. “And it’s owned by Dedtrii, you know? The–”

“–one who does all the Wilgro parody pieces. I know.” Ribuffo fell into the interview chair. “Dale… I want to be funny. Are there any -Idunno- public domain walks?”

Dale raised her eyebrow. “Uh… I could get into trouble for looking.” Then she lowered her voice to a whisper, “And I can’t tell you to go looking for Archivaas Blaiiz in the Fiftieth district, subsection forty-eight. I can’t tell you to go meet at the Undisclosed Coffee Shop because it doesn’t exist. There’s no such thing as a cafe with no surveillance on Ghiisham. And I definitely can not tell you to get Archivaas Blaiiz’s help with form WWITGI-84529G. Got that?“

Ribuffo winked and tapped her squeaker-nose. “Absolutely not,” she said. “I won’t do any of those things at all.”

Comedy was serious business on Ghiishem.

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A call home from college…

((Inspired by this rather strange image: http://i.imgur.com/wq1qvY4.jpg ))

“…um… and one more thing.  Daddy, I’m dating… a black man.”

“Well, that’s no problem. I’m no racist; I’m not gonna be upset if my baby girl thinks her old man should have a future son-in-law with brown skin.”

“Daddy, we’re not even thinking about marriage yet!  But anyway… no, Daddy, I didn’t mean a colored person. I said black. He’s literally black. My boyfriend absorbs light. I’m dating a living void from beyond the edge of space.”

“… well… that kinda distance’s gonna make travel for holiday visits tricky.”

(#00871-B140)

[AN: I think I might know what happened with that pic. Once upon a dime, before digital imagery, I took a photo with my best friend at the time, pre-prom. The people at the photo processing place “corrected” my deathly pallor into a healthy tan and my friend, who was already a healthy tan, into really dark. Even if this pic is digital in origin…. The image is further proof that engineers really need a wider scope when photographing brown people.]

He arrived in a perpetual shadow and a subtle chorus from an eldritch origin. His otherwise normal street clothes delineating his form.

“Thank you for inviting me into your home,” he said in a voice that sounded like honey at midnight where the jar had been wrapped in black velvet.

“Yeah, I hear it’s quite a haul from where you live.”

“I am an exchange student. And I am seeking to immigrate. You have an interesting civilisation.”

“Thank you, we do work at it.”

“You are at a crux point. I wish to observe the conflict at a much closer range.”

“Oh… kay…” Steve cleared his throat. “And -ah- your intentions with my Donna?”

“I was not aware that you owned her.”

“Uh….” he cleared his throat again. “Well… Um…” the awkwardness of this Thanksgiving was only going to get worse.

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Challenge #00865-B134: One Blood-Soaked Evening in a Norse Battlefield

Valkire. They were the choosers of the slain in Norse mythology, see what you can do with it.

“OI!” Thagr the Unbelievable waved down a passing Valkyrie. “What’s the matter with you lot? I’ve been waiting for ages!”

The battle maiden sneered down at him and declared, “You are not worthy,” before attempting to move away.

“OI! OI! You can’t do this to me! I died in battle, I did. I’m entitled to entrance to Valhalla! It’s the rules.”

She sighed the long sigh of someone who’d been through this argument too many times. “It’s not just that you died in battle, Thagr… It’s how you died in battle that counts.”

“What?”

“You died in an arrow volley.”

“Yeah. So?”

“All the arrows are in your back.”

[Muse food remaining: 9. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00864-B133: Versatility

string, 1001 uses.

“Um,” said Rael.

“What?” said Pix.

“It’s more than a thousand and one,” he said, reaching slowly for a handbook datachip and slotting it into his reader. “The uses for string pile into the billions, if not quintillions. Of course, some of it is dependant on the originating fibre and the definition of ‘string’.”

Pix glared at him. “I might not have enough funds for an infodump, sir.”

Ah. Right. People paid to hear information. He was still very much used to being tested. “Does it show that I’m fresh out of tutoring?” he readied a few Seconds, just in case.

“Very blatantly. You’ll get over it.” She waved off the offer and got back to her own entertainments.

For Rael, fresh out of Hippo Mining Station and so figuratively green that he could sprout new leaves and become a hedge… the strangeness of being a fully autonomous individual was just beginning.

[Muse food remaining: 10. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Come up to the lab, see what’s on the slab…

A Frankenstein-esque mad scientist (re)creates life from parts of the dead, and one of the first responses from his new (female) creation is an exploratory grope and a frustrated…

“Dammit, you could’ve at least tried to get a matching pair…”

(#00858-B127)

“What? They aren’t the same size? But the clothing label on your donor said D cup…”

“This one is a thirty-five D,” explained the monster, juggling a bosom. “This one is a thirty D. The cup size changes depending on the chest circumference.”

“Um,” said VanQuiche. “Oops?”

“Um. Oops. Um, oops? That’s all you have for me? You are marching right back to that donor pool and finding me a matching set of boobs this instant, mister!”

There was nothing else to say, but, “Yes’m.”

“And did you even try to do neat needlework? This is my face! People have to look at it!“

“I’llgetrightonthat, Iswear.”

“And how the hell did you give me such a narrow waist? Did you scrimp on the internal organs?”

“Uuuuuuuuummmmm…” VanQuiche retreated for the door. “I’ll make sure you have a complete set… shall I?”

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Challenge #00846-B115: Vortex Realm

“Help! I’m trapped in a Craft Show.”

How many aisles must a man walk down? How many different booths could stock yarn? And what the hell was tatting?

Maisy stopped at yet another booth that sold merchandise almost identical to the last booth.

“…uuuuuuuuuuuugh…” groaned Paul, designated human packhorse. “My feet hurt. How big is this show floor? Can I please put this crap in our room and go for a coffee?“

“Hmm?” Maisy looked up from an array of beaded… somethings. “Let me guess. Your amuse-by date expired.”

“I’m hungry and I’m tired and I need caffeine,” Paul whined. “I wanna go…”

“Why would anyone want to leave?” smiled the person in the booth. “We have everything you want.”

Euw. Creepy.

Maisy smiled. “Fine. Go put that lot up and get caffeinated. Ping me if you need to find me. I’ll put up a flag.”

“All the crap, here, you could make a flag.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Paul laughed as he strode through the crowds at FiddleCon. There were doors near the corners that lead to the elevators that would take him either up to the rooms or out to the streets. As he recalled, there was a nice little bistro across the road that sold all things sugar-dusted and sinful.

As long as he walked towards a corner, he’d be fine.

Five turns later, he almost walked straight into Maisy. “How’d you get ahead of me?”

“I thought you were going to our room?”

“I’m trying. I’ll see you again.” This time, he walked faster. Kept his eye on the corner that should have been his destination. And walked into Maisy’s arms.

“I stood exactly still,” she said. “You have a lousy sense of direction.”

“Fine. I’ll head straight for a wall. Can’t miss one of them.”

Ten ‘streets’ later, he was facing a very confused Maisy. “But… I was watching you. How–?”

“The better question is ‘how do we get out of here?’“

The stall-keepers all turned towards them. Each with an identical, plastic smile. “Why would anyone want to leave?“ they asked in creepy unison. “We have everything you want.”

…the feast was about to begin…

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