Challenge #00235: Dealing with fridge thieves

Coffee jello. Inspired because of this video.

Sara fumed. This was the fifth time someone had stolen her obsessively-labled lunch. It was almost enough to make her insectivorous again. And providing a lunchbox troll hadn’t discouraged the fiend, either.

The inconsiderate soul behind this was obviously trolling for some passive-aggressive antagonizing, but he (it was almost always a ‘he’) had yet to match wits with Sara.

She had Methods.

The “moldy” sandwich wrapper hadn’t stopped him. The food colouring in the bread hadn’t stopped him. The spring-loaded 'orrible 'airy spider hadn’t stopped him… for longer than forty-eight hours.

And shy of poisoning…

Hmmm. Sara could almost hear Todd murmuring, Sara, no-o-o-o-o… in the back of her head. All right. Maybe just severe gastric reflux.

So, after stopping by the sushi place down the road for a heinously expensive lunch, Sara went shopping.

The next day, her lunch consisted of “special” fried rice - with mealworms replacing the rice, beondogi replacing the peanuts, and crickets, amongst many other things - “special” coffee jello - made out of her heart-stopping wake-up juice - and a flask of gourmet apple juice - tainted with cascara.

She included the lunchbox troll for verisimilitude. And waited.

Sure enough, come lunchtime, her luncheon was gone. She calmly went and bought some replacement sushi and ate it at her desk while she composed an informative missive about what, exactly, was in her repast, this day.

It finished with, “And the apple juice, as you are no doubt discovering, was doped with cascara. I will be picking random items of my lunch to poison in future. Only I know where the poison is. And, thanks to a generous coating of genitan violet, I will also know who the thieves are.

"Don’t try to wash it off. You’ll only make it worse. Sara (The green one).”

Interestingly, four people at the office had to go and get their stomachs pumped. All four had purple hands. Internal Relations had a field day as a direct result.

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Challenge #00234: Intricate details

The black fellow and Scott’s riveting discussion about felt.

“I knew you were lying about something,” the fellow in tweed grinned from ear to ear. “You said you only work in artificial plants and things that aren’t alive.”

“Yeah, I did. So?”

“That’s clearly moss on Echoes of Summertime.”

“No, that’s felt.”

“Seriously? Felt?”

“Yeah. I wanted a moss look and none of the substitutes were right until Sara told me about back-brushing felt. Then it was just a problem of finding a thick enough felt.”

Most people started to zone out at this stage. Not his speciesist friend. “Really? I thought felt was felt.”

You really want to go down this road? Okay… “Most felt on the market these days is the minimum thickness you can get without the stuff falling apart. You hold it up to the light, you can see the fibres. Which is great for lamps, but rotten for back-brushing. I ended up having to go around to places that made the stuff themselves. If you want a really great moss you need a minimum of three millimeters, the right kind of dye, and five different brushes. There’s the horsehair, the straw, the nylon soft-bristle, the nylon hard bristle, and the super-soft baby toy brush I found in this yard sale, but it’s perfect for getting just the right amount of counter-fluff going.”

Amazingly, he was not nodding and nearly nodding off. “What’s counter-fluff?”

“Sara warned me about this. You get into something deep enough, and you start developing your own lingo. Counter-fluff is the fibres that end up going in different directions, which is hard to do when you’re using natural fibres. I’m picky about my moss, so I’ve ended up making my own. Do you have any idea how hard it is to make the right gauge of felt out of alpaca fleece?”

“Alpaca? I’d have thought wool was the way to go.”

“Sheep’s nice, but unless you treat it with all sorts of chemicals, it doesn’t behave properly… and I’m already on one terrorist watch list, I didn’t need any more visits from the FBI.” A negligent wave to Agent Pertwee, who was supposed to be undercover. “I did experiment with rabbit, but the staple isn’t quite right. Dog’s too rough, and nobody nearby has llamas, so I went with Alpaca.”

“I’d love to see your experiments, I’m into textiles, myself…”

That evening, Scott made a friend out of an enemy with artificial moss.

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Challenge #00233: Tenpool Lottery

Poverty matures, affluence retrogrades.

You had to be in it to win it. Ten were chosen, nine of whom walked away with a modest prize and entered again and again like everyone else living in poverty on Greater Deregulation.

Only one really won, becoming an Executive, a Celebrity and sometimes even a Pundit, all at the same time. Lives of the winners were followed almost as religiously as the poor bought tickets.

Fawn could only ever afford one a week. She kept them for the audition week, in case they had a re-draw, and then turned them in for the pittance that the paper was worth at the recyc’ centre. She made a little bit more from sorting, cleaning, and recycling her trash, and the trash of anyone else who just left it lying around.

It all went on little emergencies, like medicine for the last time she had a cold, but she kept afloat and that was more than some managed. And every night, she watched the Tenpool Lottery show to see who’d washed out and who was still playing. She always rooted for the one who made the smartest decisions, even though they rarely won.

And every night, they announced one of the next winners of Tenpool.

“And tonights’ winner is… FAWN JACKSON!”

Fawn stared at her own face. That was her ID photo. Those were her fingerprints. That was her address. That was one of her ticket numbers. The cameras would be coming tomorrow. She knew from watching the show. They only showed TV-spycam footage if the winner freaked out or did something hilarious, but Fawn just sat and stared.

Well. First thing she had to do was get her trash out of the house. She kept it sorted, stacked and filed in separate bins after washing, and usually only turned it all in when they were full. She started with the bigger loads and walked twenty blocks between her flat and the pokey recyc’ centre she usually saw.

There was no time to wait for the bus, and everyone was inside watching the Tenpool Lottery After-show. Which made her walk eerie for the absence of people. Streets should be crowded. There should be at least one guy hanging out of his friends’ car and hollering to her about her ass or her tits or her hair or whatever turned him on. Or hanging out of the passing busses filled with other folks desperate to earn their keep.

She felt guilty for turning in her thin hauls, in comparison to the stuff she saved up, and she warned the people running the recyc’ centre that she was making many more trips, tonight, before the cameras came and filmed her house full of garbage.

She put the change in her jar on the counter, like she always did, and walked the silent streets back for another run. Again and again until her feet felt like they were all blister. Until all her containers were empty, washed, dried and put away. Neat and clean.

*

The cameras followed her everywhere. She was barely getting used to it. They followed her at work. They followed her on the bus. They followed her in her home. About the only places they didn’t follow her were into assorted bathrooms, and only then because there wasn’t enough room for three guys and their equipment.

Half of their footage in her home was of her cleaning up their mess! It’s like their mommas never taught them how to pick up after herself.

They even filmed her hearing about how Tenpool Lottery ran the footage of her recycling everything. How they got footage from all the securicams of her walking with bags and bags of trash, to and from the recyc’ centre. How hilarious it was to watch that funny, clockwork march she used to cover a lot of distance in a little time.

Then the limo came, and whisked her away to TV-land.

They gave her the Pink Suite, where everything looked so delicate and breakable. When it didn’t look like it was made out of candy. They gave her three stylists. Hair, makeup, and clothing.

Fawn felt sorry for the poor, thin creature who had to dress her ample frame. Fawn could never afford the things that looked good, and the things that looked great never came in her size.

They knew from footage that she preferred to walk when there wasn’t a bus. So of course one of the first things they asked her was what she ate.

“Beans, rice and a little spice,” she answered honestly. “It’s all I can afford, so it’s all I get. Sure, it’s boring, but I do what I can to mix it up. One time? When I was really rich? I rented a mochi machine and made bean-rice bread-balls. That was a fun week.”

She learned, after that, not to watch the show. They made fun of her weight. They made fun of her walk. They made fun of the way she spoke. They way she dressed herself. The way she had her hair.

If she wasn’t careful, they would have made fun of the way she talked, too.

They did make her sit and listen to audience reviews of her. Just to film her reaction. She sat as proud as she could with the hate streaming over her and kept her face still. Despite the fact that they filmed every meal, and showed the results on the show, everyone thought she must be eating every speck of food in her whole district.

The first weeks’ challenges were all exercise related. Fawn paced herself and just kept going. She out-endured her fellow competitors and won the first round.

And one thousand dollars’ spending money.

The first thing she took care of was all of her debts. She invested in a life-pass, which got her transit anywhere, on any transport, for the rest of her life. That took care of most of it. Even if she lost, the next round, she would save on going back to work.

*

Fawn played smart, but she never played any of her competitors against each other. She stayed honest. And every week, she tried to maintain sensibility with the money she won.

Second round: ten thousand dollars.

Third round: one hundred thousand dollars.

Fourth round: one million dollars.

The other five were splurging, Fawn could tell. They had spent all their winnings on useless things and animals and bling. They were buying themselves all the pretty things they’d pined for or the next stupid thing they saw on the infomercial channel on the TVs in their suites.

Fawn had only really watched one show. Now she was in it, she couldn’t bear to watch any more. She expected to lose, so she didn’t get involved in cable she could not afford when she was back to the grind.

They told her that washouts never kept the money they won.

It just made Fawn think harder about what to do with it all. So that she would be set up for the long haul.

She did, however, buy herself a mochi machine. A nice, robust one with a big warranty. And indoor garden units, so she could have a little variation with her beans and rice.

And, when they gave her ten million dollars on the next round, she became her own landlord and paid for fixes for everything everyone complained about, without raising the rent one cent.

They had her doing all kinds of ridiculous stuff for money that she couldn’t keep. May as well do something useful with it.

Her competitors on the other hand, bought limos, bought drivers, bought entourages. They bought stupid haircuts and tattoos and lived the life they had only dreamed about.

They expected to win.

And every week, somehow, Fawn did not wash out.

It was the guy who bought a pack of llamas. It was the girl who invested in an all-monkey circus. It was the man who built himself a dollhouse and played at being a big baby in it.

And then it was just her and Steve. The final round. How would they invest their grand prize.

Steve chose a new skyscraper for his new lifestyle. Fawn chose a whole-subway overhaul, replete with extra overland transits for the folks who were inconvenienced by the overhaul.

Steve presented interior designs for each floor in the skyscraper. Fawn presented detailed business plans with stages, deadlines, and a budget.

Both sat and watched the survey results, hypnotized by the coloured pie charts and what the segments meant. Steve spent half his time talking about his new life as a celebrity, and the other half dissing Fawn and her sensible decisions.

Executives never made sensible decisions, he said. Look at what they’ve done to the planet, he said. You’re a stupid fat whore, he said. Nobody’s going to vote to have a stupid fat whore on their magazines, he said.

Fawn kept reading her graph.

You’re a fat fucking frigid whore, he said. It’s all you ever were and it’s all you’ll ever be, he said. You’re so stupid you pay your johns to fuck you, he said. You’re so fat, nobody wants to fuck you, he said.

The positive responses were in shades of green. The negative in shades of red. Fawn’s gaze flicked over to Steve’s graph for comparison. His red side was growing. Every time he dissed her, his red side was growing.

Forty-five percent of people phoning in for the survey were saying, Shut the fuck up, Steve.

And he wasn’t paying any attention.

Steve was focussed solely on making Fawn cry, before his -to him- inevitable victory.

Her own green pie segments were creeping past fifty percent. The more Steve talked, the more people hated him. The more she stayed resolute, the more people liked her.

I killed a fat buck on my hunting trip to planet Elysium, he said. It wasn’t nearly as fat as you, you fat fuck, he said. I’m getting it stuffed, he said. You wanna know the difference, he asked. The difference is, when you stuff a deer, people can tell, he said.

Fawn snapped. “All o’ that meat could'a fed some folks as were starving.”

“You are just too stupid,” said Steve.

In two minutes, the gap between filming and broadcasting, Steve’s green segment jumped down by half, while hers jumped up the same amount. Steve had shot himself in the foot in five words.

Fawn was winning. As time dragged on, Fawn was winning by a landslide.

Just like winning a chance, Fawn didn’t initially believe she’d won the whole thing. By staying sensible and making sound choices. And not speaking out loud, her opinion of anyone else.

She didn’t have to go back to her pokey flat in the middle of urbanized nowhere. She could sell it, fully furnished. Or rent it out like all the others. She was, after all, the landlord.

And five seconds after the director yelled ‘cut’, the welcoming Executives turned savage.

Don’t expect to stay in the limelight long, they said. You’ll never be really popular, they said. A build like yours doesn’t get ratings, they said. A build like yours doesn’t sell magazines, they said.

It was the 'fat stupid fucking whore’ speech all over again. Only with better words.

“Well,” she said, “I’d better make a difference while I can.”

It took them ten years before they started sending the assassins.

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Challenge #00231: We’re Mostly Harmless, I Swear!

In case you missed it, this post happened: http://aaceofhearts.tumblr.com/post/57693374988/untitled-jazuthevulcanprincess-bogleech-its-funny

*falls to knees* I will worship you and give you my super secret world’s most awesome and diet-breaking brownie recipe if you will write anything at all inspired by this.

(I am totally serious about the brownie recipe, or any other cake recipe since I can’t deliver to your house. I do healthy food too sometimes) 

[AN: I’m saving the rest of this for a book. Keep a weather eye open]

Before humans were insane…. they were dangerous.

Excerpt from the Galactic Core Manual of Hazardous Entities, prior to Planet Amity Incident:

[Pictured: Humans in their own warning message]

Species name: Human [h'yoo-mun]
Planet: Terra
Star: Sol

Details: Humans are bipedal mammals occupying all the land masses of the planet Terra. Data from their transmissions indicates that they are extremely hostile. Despite the fact that they are constantly killing other humans, they are breeding at an exponential rate.

The human female is capable of carrying as many as three live young in internal gestation and successfully birthing them live. Humans can also reproduce once every 360-day cycle. However, single and double births are far more common than triple.

Humans are capable of a maximum foot speed of 12 Distance Units per second, and a jumping height of 2 Distance Units, which exceeds their own height.

Humans are omnivorous in the extreme. They can devour toxic levels of capsaicin, and involve themselves in challenges where they expose their sense organs to the same toxic chemical [Reference File: Pepper Challenge. Not safe for minors].

Humans can withstand temperatures below the freezing point of water and up to the boiling point of water. With armor, they can go beyond those extremes.

Humans can survive dismemberment. If you encounter a human in an attack posture (bipedal figure on left) do not remove the limbs! Humans can not survive brain stem disruption. Destroy the head to render the human harmless.

Humans use and devour assorted acids, alkalis, toxins and controlled substances [Reference File: Cooking With Marie. Not safe for minors]. They engage in recreational activities in which bludgeoning an opponent is a primary goal [Reference Files: Boxing, Wrestling. Not safe for minors]. Other human recreational activities show they have little regard for personal safety [Reference Files: freehand rock climbing, base jumping, hang gliding, diving, parachuting. Not safe for minors].

Despite needing a nitrogen/Oxygen atmosphere to survive, they insist on entering hostile environments without sufficient survival equipment [Reference Files: Jaques Cousteau, Early Space Program. Not safe for minors].

Humans are hazardous for any environment they occupy. Humans will adapt their environment to suit themselves and push out or otherwise endanger other species [Reference File: World Wildlife Fund. Not safe for minors or cogniscents of a sensitive nature].

Humans are highly adaptable and can turn any object into a weapon [Reference File: Jackie Chan. Not safe for minors] and when without weapons, will use their bodies as a weapon [Reference File: Chuck Norris. Not safe for minors].

Humans can adapt to low-light conditions. Their eyes may be their primary sense organs, but they can navigate and orient also by sound and touch. Eliminating light or blinding a human can only temporarily incapacitate them.

HUMAN BITES ARE FATAL. The human jaw can exert pressures of 54 weight units, and the human mouth is a cesspool of bacteria and acidic fluids. If you are bitten by a human, seek immediate medical attention. Do not waste time killing the human. Allow others to do so for you. If you act immediately, you may survive a human bite.

Humans are intelligent. If placed in an unfamiliar environment, they can reason and experiment their way out [Reference File: The Cube. Not safe for minors]. Experiments conducted by brave explorers indicate that humans can navigate through structures alien to their initial range of experience [Reference File: The Abduction Files. Not safe for minors or cogniscents of a sensitive nature. Seek medical advice on sedatives to assist sleep following viewing].

Humans are inventive. They have travelled to their native satellite and sent machines beyond their solar system [Reference File: Pioneer. Parental guidance necessary for minors]. Evidence indicates that they have/will initiate deep-time colonies.

AVOID AT ALL COSTS. HIGHLY DANGEROUS.

*

There were precautions, and all of them had been taken. However, there was always a gap between probe data and actual colonization. And even then, it was a risk.

Planets once infested by humans were disaster zones, at best. At worst, they were still infested by humans.

T'reka adjusted her lifecorder and checked the signal strength. Good. Base camp was getting everything she was seeing, hearing, smelling and tasting. They were getting data from her handheld analyzer. And, most important, they were getting any vocalized notes she uttered on her expedition.

This island was teeming with toxic life. Potentially hazardous, yes, but also potentially beneficial. Science had proven that interesting biological toxins could have equally interesting medical properties. Under proper supervision. In controlled environments. With volunteers desperate enough to try something that was kill-or-cure.

T'reka’s job was to find new things on their new home that might advance the status of Numidid medical science during their long wait to catch up with the rest of the galaxy. Thus, she recorded everything.

If she hadn’t been indoctrinated in the dangerous philosophies of science, it might have ended differently.

But it began with an unfamiliar voice and an unfamiliar language. And a human hand petting her arm-feathers.

“Pretty birdie.”

T'reka froze. She’d been so involved with the local insects and trying to capture them that she hadn’t noticed the larger wildlife until it was literally on top of her.

Carefully. Slowly. Observer, analyze, record. For posterity.

This human had not attacked, yet. Therefore, it might not. This may yet be a breakthrough for science. And since she was a scientist, she was already doomed for an early death.

This human was not almost two Distance Units tall. It barely made it to one Distance Unit. It wore clothes, according to the transmission files, but no shoes or hat. It was in the middle of a toxic jungle with only pants and a shirt to protect it from the environment.

And, evidently, fascinated by T'reka’s arm feathers.

“Hello, pretty birdie,” said the human.

T'reka turned. Slowly, so as not to alarm the human. “This must be one of the human young,” she said into her vocorder. She kept her voice low, almost inaudible. “It indicates that there may be humans nearby.” T'reka set her audio pickup to maximum.

Humans used sound waves to communicate. If she was lucky, the computers could filter out some of their language. It wouldn’t be enough to create translations, but any knowledge was more. More knowledge was always worth the sacrifice.

The human turned away, listening to something T'reka couldn’t hear, and vanished into the undergrowth with a loud, “COMING MOM!”

T'reka crept along on the same vector.

Yes! There was a colony. Humans, building structures. Humans, digging in the soil. Humans doing things that looked like things that her own people were doing on a much safer continent.

And none of them were attacking each other.

“Fascinating,” she whispered. “Co-operative effort for the group. No hostile moves.”

One human did the attack posture to another. The other returned the gesture. No battle ensued.

“We may have been wrong about their hostility levels…” Even this brief observation told her that the source material was wrong on very many levels. It told her that humans did not do all of the things, or even a scant few of the things in the warning files, all the time.

Many humans she observed were not doing anything inherently hazardous.

“I will observe them from concealment,” she decided. “This warrants further study.”

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Aftereffects of Tequila

Kitty and Rogue have shared their first night partying and drinking… and now they also share the hangover and brain-fog that results.  But that’s not all, they discover they also now share something else - ornate tattoos of each others’ names on their butts, and no memory of getting them.

(#00230)

“…ow…”

“Quiet, I’m dying.”

“Oooh, my hair hurts. How can hair hurt?”

“I said, shuddup, I’m dying.” Kitty rolled over and buried her head under her pillow. This did not improve things.

“What did we do last night?” Rogue moaned. “Feels like somethin’ crawled into my mouth an’ up an’ died.”

“Mine reanimated for a zombie party,” Kitty moaned. She readjusted her position and flinched. “OW!”

Rogue whimpered. “…quietly…?”

“My ass hurts.”

“Mine too, just complain quietly.” Rogue struggled free of her bedding. “Why’m Ah in a corset ‘n’ stockings?”

Kitty evicted something from underneath her midriff. “Why do I got a cop’s hat?”

“Where inna hell’d we get traffic cones?” Rogue picked up the one immediately in her way and tossed it somewhere soft. She staggered uncertainly towards the bathroom they shared. “…ow…”

“Hey,” said Kitty. “Y'got somethin’ sticking to your ass.”

“Yours too,” noted Rogue. “Argue later. Pee now.”

Both winced at the sounds of pouring liquid.

“…o God that stinks…”

Kitty made it upright. “Dunno if I wanna pee or ralph worst.”

“Do both, save time.”

“Oooh, what did we do last night?” She managed to empty her bladder without throwing up, and inspected the medical bandage on her butt-cheek. Peeled a careful corner off.

“I GOT A TATTOO?!”

“…owwwww…”

“Rogue, I got a tattoo on my ass!” Kitty lunged at Rogue’s bandage, tearing it off.

“Ow!”

“You got a tattoo on your ass!” Kitty crumpled from the exertion. “Of my name.”

Rogue peeked. “You got mah name. And it’s spelled right for a change.”

“How the hell–?”

“Tequila,” groaned Rogue. “That’s how the hell.”

“Summon…” Kitty managed.

“Uh?”

“Summon left a lotta bottle water,” Kitty croaked.

“Oh good,” sighed Rogue. “Drink half each and we might start to feel human.”

Kitty snagged two, handed one over. “It’s a start. Meantime, I’m'a hide from th’ sun.”

“Goo’ plan…”

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It’s not easy being us…

Mystique has a chance encounter with (a somewhat older than Evo-time, say 17-21) Wolfsbane, while both are enjoying a day “off duty” from their respective roles of villain and hero - idle conversation takes a turn toward venting about teammates, and an odd sort of mutual respect comes about, due to their shared connection; namely, both of them understanding the frustrations and aggravations and perks and benefits that are unique to being a shapeshifter (even if one’s forms are limited like Wolfsbane’s), especially the sort related to dealing with those around you who are not.

(#00225)

It was supposed to be her day off. She needed self-time as much as any other being in the world and had literally won the entitlement in combat.

It made the cheesecake and coffee all that much better for the winning, but really, Raven did not appreciate having to fight for basic human rights. If all else failed, she could vanish for the time she needed, but that sort of thing never ended well.

“Aw… fook…”

Raven turned just far enough to identify the speaker as her almost-opposite number. Wolfsbane. The X-man named Rahne Sinclair. The younger woman was looking very much alarmed to be parked with a cheesecake, coffee, and an inhibiting swathe of shopping bags just a table away from a potential fight.

Raven turned enough to face her politely. “Easy. I’m trying to take a day off.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that right away,” said the scot.

“I’m here for the same reason you are,” said Raven. “This cheesecake is fucking awesome.”

“Damn straight. An’ I’m not gonna pick a fight and risk wrecking the only place that does it, neither.”

“Same here,” said Raven. “So. In the spirit of mutually enlightened selfishness, let’s call it a truce.”

“In the name o’ fookain awesome cheesecake, then.”

They sealed the pact with an appreciative mouthful, and relaxed their guard a little.

“Does it never seem to ye that sometimes we fight jus’ because we’re used to it?” mused Rahne. “It’s like a trained reflex or somethin’. Even if we got the same goal, we gotta go an’ have a big bloody battle all over the place.”

“True,” Raven allowed. “But even if we have the same goal, the difference lies in accomplishing it.”

“Sometimes I reckon you and the Brotherhood are way ahead of yourselves. You’re fighting fer liberation before they even had a chance to put the chains on. We’re just after recognition and representation. Then we’ll be lookin’ at liberation.”

“A step ahead of ourselves, or just you?” Raven found herself smiling. “Humans can barely cope with people with a different shade of skin. And that variation ranges from beige to black. You have no idea how reflexive their hate is when they encounter someone blue.”

“I’ve spent my time as a ‘demon’,” said Rahne. “It gets muckle awful when religion gets into it.”

“Peaches and cream little you? A demon?”

“Aye. When my power came in I could'nae control it. All my fears helped with the whole mess and created a big tangle o’ triggers.”

“And I thought growing up as a sideshow attraction was awful.”

“Let me guess, the word 'alive’ was in large print?”

“And 'freak’.”

Rahne rolled her eyes, as if that didn’t need saying. “There, but for the grace of God and a really big lycanthropy-fuelled freak-out go I…”

“Fucking Amos goddamn Jardine,” Raven growled.

“Ee! That’s the same feller as tried to buy me. I was almost glad of the opportunity, when he came. Except for the chains and all. Same numbskull tried to buy Kurt’s circus, once upon a time.”

“Centaurs and all, no doubt.”

“Oh, especially the centaurs.” Rahne sipped her coffee. “If he wasnae already dead, I’d get it in me head to track the bugger down.”

“You’re welcome,” smiled Raven.

Rahne tried to look horrified, but couldn’t muster the emotion well enough. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, then.”

They toasted the sentiment with their coffees.

“So…” Rahne began. “Why’re you wearin’ Principle Darkholme, after so long?”

“Call it a default state, if you want,” Raven allowed. “Back when I was starting to hold a shape, I modeled myself after my mother. The features were close enough and all I had to do was change colours, really. Stealing one of the really good biomimetic suits helped a lot. Later on.”

“They’re still lookin’ fer that one,” said Rahne.

“They can take it off me when I don’t need it any more.”

A reverential pause for cheesecake.

“D'you blame her? Your mum?”

“She was trapped between a rock and a hard place. Jardine at least offered some protection. He had a vested interest in my survival, after all. The military… had no such limits.”

“Mine had a normal little girl until the demon took over. Reverend Craig had the whole town in a fluff when it started. He was always after the 'demon within’ and then he got one.”

Raven considered what a hell her life must have become. “I could arrange an… 'accident’.”

“Na. He can’t learn if he’s dead. All 'is kids are mutants. Every last one. The whole towns turned against his own rhetoric since he’s a father of demons. Means he has to be one, too, dunnit?”

Hm. Pickling in a broth of his own making. That was almost… poetic. “Do you sit back and watch?”

“I get news from home now and then. Me brothers send letters when they can get away with it. I send more back. The miserable old fart lives alone and only has a few die-hard loyalists on his side. Everyone else ignores 'em, now. It helps that there’s a special clinic in the next valley over.”

Raven had never kept ties. She ran and changed and ran some more. Never looking back. Rarely keeping friends. She had no roots and she liked it that way. Most of the time.

Jardine had died by her hand. Raven at least had made sure her mother went peaceably and without pain, masquerading as a chipper and cheery volunteer who always had time to chat about anything. Where she found the strength to forgive the old woman, she never knew.

“Must be nice to have your family back,” Raven offered.

“It’s rocky, still. Da doesn’t like it. He’s one of the loyalists I talked about, see. He reckons all this mutant stuff is the devils’ work.” A shrug. “People like Warren are deceptions from the devil an’ people like Kurt just prove his point. Ye cannae reason with 'im.”

Raven just had an expressive eye-roll at that. “Can’t live with them, not enough time to wipe them all out…”

“Ah, ye make more trouble that way. There’s always a relative or a friend willin’ to hate a mutie 'cause they went and killed a right bastard. Best tae let 'em stew in their own mess. Keep tryin’ tae show the world we’re just like them.”

“Have you seen what humans have been doing to this world? Being just like them is reaching too low.”

“Aye. But how is trying to conquer 'em bein’ any different?”

Raven had no argument to that, and the cheesecake and coffee were almost gone. “Next time we’re both after the same thing…” she offered, “perhaps we can call a truce in the name of cheesecake.”

“Work out which is really the best? Sounds like a plan, then.”

Raven finished her last forkful as she watched the staff at the cafe. They had no idea their dessert could change a world’s path through history. Probably better that they never knew. That sort of thing went straight to the ego.

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Challenge #00221: Relics

Easy come, easy go-go.

The name of the vessel was the Remembrance Maru, and according to her registry, she was a pleasure vessel. All passengers and crew had evacuated after a micro-meteor shower had pierced both her defenses and the hull. Now, after a slow cruise from eternity, she’d turned up again in Amalgam’s local space.

Shayde was instantly interested, of course. She all but carried Rael down the long and winding route to Dry Dock’s observation ports to watch the old wreck getting towed in.

Rael hadn’t even known Dry Dock had observation ports.

Even after hundreds of years in space, the Remembrance Maru was still magnificent. Rael, perpetually worried about picking up Human insanity from long time association with them, would never admit he could read the ghost of the original vessel in her pock-marked hull. The mixture of horror at that revelation and awe that such a thing had once been, and was here again, was downright vertiginous.

The gravity generator on board the vessel had died, and the Nae'hyn were allowed in first to both remove the device and give it funereal rites. Following them, the Archivaas historical documentation team and Shayde. And wherever Shayde went, Rael was obliged to follow.

Shayde’s job, when she wasn’t being an Ambassador for 1986(Old Terran Calendar), was old things. Part of her duties, today, was to go aboard the Remembrance Maru and point out all the things she recognized. Also to provide historical details as she recalled them.

Rael’s job was to translate her idiosyncratic dialect so that the Archivaas could understand it.

She burst into laughter when she saw the dance floor. “They got th’ disco floor in wi’ the go-go cages an’ a moon swing… Aw God…” Further hilarity erupted when she discovered a set of ‘stripper poles’ behind a drift of old tables.

“There appears to be an array of anachronisms in this room,” Rael translated. He waited for Shayde to at least wind down to giggling to gain an explanation.

What they got was a demonstration. Often amended with, “Ye understand the ladies weren’t wearin’ much at all ye ken.” The 'stripper poles’ were a display of sexualized acrobatic prowess. The moon swing used the out-of-reach feminine ideal for display purposes only… and the go-go cage…

O Powers, the go-go cage. It was so astonishing to watch that Rael had a hard time interrupting. Then an equally hard time making her stop before her Glamor ability conjured up the short-shorts, bikini top and the titular boots on her lithe frame. It displayed feminine power in such a way that the men of the time could handle it - restrained in a cage like a wild animal.

It was all he could do not to shrivel in sympathetic mortification.

Lunch finally pried her out of there and he quietly advised the Archivaas to keep the relic locked away for everyone’s mutual safety.

It was a short trip to the Docker’s favourite den of unsuitable food, Deep Fried Everything Eat, for a quick fix of calories a la carte.

“Did you have to do that?” Rael whined. He did not appreciate it when she demonstrated. For her, they were toys. For everyone else, they were valuable historical artifacts.

“Ye know what they say,” she grinned. “Easy come, easy go-go.”

Rael glared at her. They were going to be going through the vessel for days… “Can you at least try to restrain yourself?”

“I thought I was…”

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Challenge #00220: Tempus Flakkit

Time as currency and the dreadful issue of small talk while handing your life away and being 30 seconds short whilst on your commute.

Nomadic life was fine, so long as one was healthy. However, there were still illnesses that forced a stay. Stays cost. Hot-rack hotel beds were fine for sleeping, and you could harvest any food you wanted in the working gardens, but if you didn’t know an apprentice Gyik chef, the odds of getting it cooked for free were minimal.

As a Hitchhiker, Dirae knew most of the tricks. There was no such thing as all the tricks. Everywhere there was to go, there were new tricks to learn. And the old reliable ones that never really failed.

Such as being able to play an instrument on public transit. It bought in the Seconds, and sometimes Minutes, and they all added up to the Hours it took to get more than self-medical care.

Transportation cut in on living costs, but it saved the energy Dirae needed to get the things she needed to get better.

A man in engineer blues tapped her harp, interrupting the tune. “You’d do much better business playing something more lively.”

She took a thirty-second coin from her floppy hat and handed it over. “Thanks,” she said, and started up a different number. The passengers on the tram remained completely unmoved to put more change in the hat. Dirae played as fast as her fingers would let her, but there was no return on her investment.

He got off on the next stop without so much as a minute return from him.

She played what she felt like, an angry little number, one of the very Australian human songs about things that could kill you including, according to the surviving lyrics, the original author.

That didn’t earn anything either. Dirae had to get off on the next stop.

Her income was thirty seconds short.

Damn that man!

She needed more medicinal attention than her own knowledge. And that was going to cost, and as long as her voice was out, she couldn’t sing. And if she couldn’t sing…

Tears sprung up at even the idea of the idea of not being a Hitchhiker any more. Wandering was her life.

“Ah, there you are!”

Dirae looked up.

A very vibrant lizard in festival gear was grinning with all their sharp teeth. “I enjoyed your music, but I was stuck in the next carriage. Here!” Half-hour coins spilled through their claws. “This is from my cousins and I. We were all singing along and having such fun. Where’s your hat?”

Dirae dug it out of her bag. It was the one with the secret drawstring that turned it into an instant coin purse.

The lizard-child insisted on listing names with each coin. “So you can thank us if you pray.”

He danced off, whistling the Australian number as he went.

Rule five hundred and twenty-three. Always depend on the kindness of strangers. The creed of the Hitchhiker saved her skin again.

Not just enough for treatment, but for supplies.

She’d have to make a little offering at the next Nae'hyn shrine she saw. And thank all of those lizards having their festival. Rule one: Gratitude is always welcome everywhere.

Dirae walked into the Medical node with lighter feet and a flying soul.

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Challenge #00219: Drained

The worst way for Rogue to gain her sense of touch. Heavy angst.

She only knew him as Leech. Since he turned up as the Acolyte’s secret weapon, turning off powers just by standing around, he fascinated her. It was his job to be in their way. And it forced them all to hone the skills that did not require their powers.

He always worked alone. No backup. Just clever trick after clever trick until she found the cleverest trick of all.

She kissed him. Her first kiss, a kiss of necessity. A halfway violent thing to thrust his attention on her and away from her teammates. And during that first, desperate attempt, she noticed that he, too, was hungry for touch.

It was a love affair without words. Either he didn’t or couldn’t speak, she never bothered to find out. The communicated strictly through desperate grasps and gasping breath, finding the quickest excuse to separate from the plan and find bliss in each other.

Then came the day at school when she accidentally brushed skin-to-skin with some random normal… and did not feel her powers fire.

Rogue looked for him then, knowing his radius of effect, but could not find a trace of his sallow green skin, nor his lean and lanky frame. He wasn’t anywhere.

Her powers didn’t stop. She knew that. Only Leech’s powers could…

She cut class to get the little test.

And now she was staring at the twin blue lines that meant, should she proceed, that her powers would be turned off. She could touch. She could do all the things that normal people did.

For nine months.

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Challenge #00218: Goodbye, Good Boy

The last good year. Make me weep.

Every day, since she adopted Boy, had been the same. Etta got woken up by his slobbering kisses and his eternally cheerful, “Good morning, Boss.” and some vestigial orders he used to give his old master. Even after all this time, Boy obeyed his programming/training and looked after his owner.

This morning, the alarm went off before Boy’s cold nose pressed against her skin and his tongue lavished her with kisses.

She’d been trying to ignore the grey appearing in the darker patches on his pelt. Now she was trying to ignore the shakiness in his hind legs as he perched his forelimbs on her bed and greeted her. “Good Morning, Boss. Breakfast. Shower. Meds. Time for go.”

He hadn’t cleaned himself properly again. Etta took him into the shower with her and made sure he was clean and dry and groomed, and then neat in his uniform. It included, despite all logic, a decorative and ludicrous hat at his insistence. He always put it on himself, set it just so, and muttered, “…good boy,” under his breath.

She cooked him breakfast. His favourite, blue steak in peanut sauce. And cut it up for him because his old teeth couldn’t chew the way they used to.

It had been a routine since his gene-reader told her his telomeres were running out. She hadn’t touched it since. She was dreading the day she had to say goodbye and didn’t want to face it. Therefore, the gene-reader had lain untouched on a high shelf that Boy couldn’t reach for an excess of nine Standard months. Three hundred and sixty days.

She’d been kinder to him than normal. Making sure he would want to take his medicine by insisting that it tasted of bacon. Making his clothes thicker so that he would be warmer in the cool station air and his thinning muscles would be slightly more padded whenever he sat or laid down.

Etta went on longer walks with him, played any game he wanted. Made certain he had a wonderful time.

Because she didn’t want him to go.

“Time for Boy go,” he said, apropos of nothing on their way to the tram to work.

He had been saying it more often, lately. Etta feared what it might mean, but, just like a crazy human, she had to ask. “How do you mean, time for you to go? We are going. We’re going to work.”

“Yes. Good dog.” He waited for her to stop. Sat, and put his hand-paw in hers. “Boy go, see Master. In forever-sleep.”

Her heart almost stopped. Unbidden tears sprang from her eyes. Her knees buckled and saw her crouching on the floor like a petulant child.

Boy kissed her tears away. “No sad. Forever-sleep good. No pain. See Master.”

She hugged him, wept over his nice clean vest and harness. “But I no see you any more.”

“Good boss,” said Boy. “All forever-sleep soon.” And just like that, his conversation was over. “Tram! Tram! Tram,” he barked. “Ride time.”

He sat on her lap, that ride. Or at least, as much on her lap as he could manage. Called her ‘good boss’ as often as he could get away with it.

All this time, she was making sure he was comforted in his last time. Now he was comforting her because he knew she was sad about it.

That night, at bed time, he said, “Good bye, boss.”

She said an absent goodnight as she tucked herself in. And, just as she drifted off to sleep, she heard him mutter, “Good dog,” in a satisfied tone.

The alarm went off on the first day without his cold nose or his warm wet tongue. He was still curled up in his bed, cold and still. Gone into the forever-sleep to whatever beyond suited him best.

She arranged for Services to bury his body at the feet of his old masters’ grave, and reserved a spot beside the old man who she had never met - for some time a long time later. Etta didn’t cry. Not during the burial, not during the services. Not even when she planted his favourite flowers in the fresh-turned soil above his body.

It came on her way home, sitting in the tram opposite Julie and Nanny, when the blonde girl asked, in all innocence, “Where’s your dog?”

That was when she wept. Not because he had gone into the greater beyond, but because he had left her behind.

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