Challenge #00205: Letter and Spirit of the Law

I found a line worthy of one of yours in a fanfic, and just had to submit it.

“That’s one of the most… creative interpretations of regulations I’ve heard since one of my old chief engineers got caught with a feather boa, a hog-monkey, and six dancing girls.”

 - Embers, Vathara (highly recommended, but long and involving AtLA fic)

Hwell woke up to a face full of orange plastic and his own drool. The light made his hair hurt. Why, O why, did he have to keep trying the green stuff?

“GOOD MORNING!” Ax'and'l roared. “YOU’RE IN A LOT OF TROUBLE!”

“…ooooooooowwwwwwwww…” He rearranged himself across the traffic cone he didn’t remember picking up. “Le'me alone t’ die…”

“I have a batch of ‘Thank the Powers’,” said the familiar, measured tones of Sherlock. “If you’re willing to co-operate…”

Thank the Powers. The best and only cure for hangover. Withholding such a cure from a suffering cogniscent was not illegal… yet. Hwell tried to sit up. “I 'membur… some green stuff?”

“Yes, that was at about nine PM…” said Sherlock. “Do you remember where you went?”

Hwell tried to glare through a protective layer of his eyebrows. “Y’ got footage 'f everythin’… don'cha?”

“Not after you blundered into the Dark Zone.”

Not all places on the station were still operative. Some areas fell into neglect, were abandoned, or merely inhabited by the sort of people who became denizens. They did not like being observed. Security tolerated a certain amount of underhanded goings-on, on the basis that clamping completely down meant that keeping track of them would be impossible. They’d go to other places, or find ways of avoiding security that meant more problems in the long run.

“…uh…” managed Hwell. “I did that?”

“It’s not illegal,” said Ax'and'l. “You did quite a lot of things that aren’t illegal. In rapid succession. According to the evidence.”

“'F it’s not illegal, why’m I inna cell?”

“Because, Mister Barrow,” said Sherlock, “yours has been the most creative interpretation of the law since three JOATs were caught with fifteen recreational mating therapists, three jugs of Space Lightning, an Augmented pig and five cracked left-handed Lurning wrenches.”

There was something in the traffic cone. Something small and shiny with a preternatural weight to it. “Guess I’m in trouble f'r findin’ this, too.” he bought it into the light.

Ax'and'l hissed backwards through his teeth. “That would pay for twice the damages you incurred… I swear, the drunker you are, the luckier you get.”

“There’s a reward?” he cheered up a bit. “Tha’s a bit better.”

“But first,” said Sherlock, “We need to talk about Daisy, the Augmented Capuchin…”

…uh oh…

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Challenge #00186: Time Out From That Good Fight

Getting to a point when good enough, is really good enough. Insert a banana cream pie anywhere in the story, preferable eaten.

Rael had grown used to working hard. Not just working hard, but working smart, since his rest cycle decreed that his hours of usefulness were limited. He was so used to it that he almost flew into a panic the first morning that the Stations’ freelancer roster was empty.

He hadn’t woken too late. He had alarms rigged to his heated resting tank that would not let him. Besides, he always managed to achieve consciousness five minutes before they went off, anyway.

And during his breakfast of overnight-slow-baked Tukkatukka, S'quiib and cheese casserole, he checked the boards as a matter of course.

This morning, they were blank.

Nothing needed fixing -or even a temporary patch- in his immediate area. Nothing needed fixing through the entire impossible mass of Amalgam Station.

Rael, to whom work meant regular meals, and regular meals meant a life without pain, fought to keep calm. Deep breaths did almost nothing for his physiognomy, but it gave him something to concentrate on while he checked the news.

Aha. A once-in-lifetimes event was occurring for the entire week. A plethora of galactic calendars had managed to sync up on varying holidays, including one of the famously colourful human ones that always bought in the tourist dollar.

So, as a result, the entire station was having a week off.

A week!

Rael had long since equated joblessness to starvation and turned completely silver from abject terror at the prospect of a week without a guaranteed meal. A week of his personal accounts being drained by his own biological necessities.

Then his gaze found salvation.

It was also the Gyiik Harvest Festival.

The next thing he knew, he was standing inside the main doorway of Unsuitable Food Eat, staring at Nik as he juggled three orders in four arms. For anyone else who was not a Faiize, Unsuitable Food Eat was just another restaurant. For long-haulers between loads, it was a place where you could get a big heaping pile of something they could chew after long weeks on liquid baggies of cheap Nutri Food™.

For Rael and his fellow Faiize… it was almost a place of worship. It sold calories, deep fried, coated in chocolate, and served a la mode. And it was almost always hosted and staffed by Gyiiks, who shared a reverence of the plate.

Nik noticed him and gestured to a stool at the bar. “You look under the weather, friend Rael. Has an illness finally found the indomitable Faiize to be tasty?”

“No, I just found out that the entire station is taking a week off.”

“Ah! Panic time. Sit, I always have a test or two to taste.”

Which was why Nik the Gyiik was one of Rael’s best friends.

“The Archivaas shared this ancient Terran recipe. It is called bananacreem pie. My own research tells me it is served by assault to the face.”

“I think that’s ancient Terran humor,” said Rael.

Nik relaxed. “Ah. Praise Nyomhnahm… It seemed like such a terrible waste of good food.”

Rael rolled hie eyes ceilingward and muttered, “Humans…” and when his gaze returned to the bar, there was a large pie in front of him and a fork by his preferred hand. “Blessings,” he called to the busy chef.

It was delicious. Rael spent the entirety of his meal pondering what kind of insult it was to waste something so tasty.

“Ah, there you are,” said Lyr. “Aunty Fan-Fan saw the boards this morning and sent me to make sure you hadn’t gone survivalist on us.”

Rael laughed. “You know me, Officer. I can always find some work I can enjoy.”

She smirked. “So I see. Are you going to camp here all week, or are we going to see you enjoying the Uberfest?”

Rael did his best not to read, Am I going to have to keep you out of trouble, into that question. Lyr worked in Security, and Security was perpetually obsessed with making sure that they didn’t have to work. “I thought I might volunteer as crowd control or something else even a techie-JOAT can do. Bodies on the street…”

“Not this week,” said Lyr. “All work and no play makes the JOAT a dull cogniscent.”

He stared at her. This had to be a human thing. “What?”

“You have plenty of savings. What are you saving up for? Every cogniscent being has the right to time spent enjoying themselves.”

“But I need to–”

“You haven’t needed to for a long time, Rael. You can officially relax.”

It was like running at a brick wall with a battering ram, only to discover it was painted paper. The obstacle he had long thought blocking his way with its impossibility was just… not there.

“I think,” he chewed some of the bananacreem pie. “I might begin with a festival tour train.”

“Good choice,” said Lyr. “Stay legal, so I can have some fun, too.”

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Challenge #185: Those Who Harm

More on Sara at TED talks.

She had her green skin out, this time. And a simple little black dress that was both flattering and demure.

“Some of you are here because you know me,” she began.

“WOOO!”

“Thankyou. Some of you have already decided everything they need to know about me. And I bet these are the words you thought.”

The slide behind her showed a word cloud. Biggest amongst them were “Mutie” and “Freak”.

Murmur murmur murmur.

“Rarest amongst you, the precious few, are those who thought, ‘Oh. She’s green. Now let’s hear what she has to say’. They’re so rare that there might not be one in this auditorium that seats three thousand. And that’s why my topic, today, is Those Who Harm.”

Murmur murmur murmur murmur.

“Yes, I am talking about you. Everyone who judges first and doesn’t bother to ask questions later does harm. Not only to others, but to themselves. And I’m not only going to explain how and why this happens, but how and why to change your habits.”

Sara loved this part. Minds were about to be blown. Eyes were about to be opened. And one mind at a time, she was changing the world.

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Somewhere, over….

Sara discovers the person in this video and shows off why she’s so enthused. Scott watches in the wings while crying a bit.

(#00184)

“Isn’t she awesome?” Jubes said after the video on her laptop wound to a halt.

“Uhm,” sais Sahra. “I… would say she’s more… technically correct.”

“Are you kidding? She played it note perfect.”

“Yes, dear, but not emote perfect. Here, I can show you. Come, Gladys.”

Scott, overhearing in the hallway as he passed, slowed to a halt and peeked into the music room. It always amused him when Sara treated inanimate objects as living people. He’d even hung around to hear Sara play once in a while.

But he’d never heard her Play.

“Somewhere Over the Rainbow is a wistful song, full of longing and sadness. You need to know an instrument, heart and soul, to capture that. Otherwise, it isn’t music. It’s just a bunch of notes that go together. Listen.”

This wasn’t note-perfect. It wasn’t exactly the same. But what it was was soul-rending. It got to every last speck of lonely-and-wanting in his inner self and filled it with bittersweet hope. He stayed rooted to the spot, mesmerized. Traitor eyes leaking at the corners.

This was why Sara loved the harp and, amazingly, why the harps loved her back. This was how she took in hundreds of dollars in change at bus stations, and why she made a living at wedding bands. This… was making him really cry.

He wiped his face and heard, “Yeah, I know, right?”

He almost hissed out, “Don’t you dare say a word,” but noticed that Todd’s face was running wet, too.

“Liquid pride,” he whispered with a half shrug. “She can make you forget th’ world’s so bad.”

They stayed in the hall until the last note faded and the spell broke, care of Jubilee’s gum snapping. Both hurriedly wiped their faces before coming in with applause.

“Day-umn,” said Jubes. “That was… whoa.”

Sara, a little tear-streaked herself, patted her face and smiled. “And that’s the difference between technically and emotively correct.”

“How do you do that?” Jubes demanded.

“In all things that grip the soul, embrace them, enthusiastically.” She straightened herself as she stood and made a beeline for Todd. “I do believe we’re late for our date?”

“Worth it,” said Todd.

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A new Drop Bear-like story.

Have you ever noticed that sometimes, when a device is working improperly/not at all, we speak to them in an attempt to get them working? And have you noticed that some people have a much higher rate of success in doing so, to the point that some devices only work around some individuals, and other individuals’ presence seems to inhibit proper function? For instance, as long as I am present, a lot of my friends’ devices function properly. Once I leave, they stop working - they’re stuck with the disc in the tray, their ‘net craps out every few minutes, stuff is just generally buggered. One of my friends has the opposite effect, and computers are lucky to last six months with him.

Now take that, and add human perversity into it. Suddenly, we’re telling aliens about “Machine spirits” that have to be kept happy, and “techwhisperers”, along with their opposite “techbanes”.

And the thing is, it seems to have just enough evidence that they aren’t sure if we’re pulling their legs or not. Humans regarded as techwhisperers have even had their effect seemingly work on alien equipment…

[AN: It’s precisely because of my fickle fingers and my best-beloved’s contrasting technomancy that I created the Nae'hyn, the animist movement/culture that actually make working gravity generators.]

(#00183)

“So we must allow this… human… to board our vessel?”

“This human can hear and understand you,” said the little mammal in the black coverall. His head-fur was cut close to his skull, and thinning in patches. “And consider your options. One: continue to float. Two: purchase a new ships’ heart. Three: allow lowly me to see what can be done.”

Captain K'desh leaned over to her second. “Is he doing that snark thing?”

“I think this one may be female.”

“This one is waiting,” said the human. It was disturbing that ze not only knew enough Pathraki to understand and speak it, but also spoke it perfectly.

Definitely snark, thought the Captain. “Very well. But I must insist you keep your human insanity tightly confined. We had enough nonsense when the gravity generator was installed in the first place.”

“Nonsense is only nonsense to those who fail at comprehending,” said the human. Ze glided through the ship with minimal awkwardness, not saying one word about the Captain’s own lack of adaptability to zero G.

“Here it is.” K'desh unlocked the access panel. “We made attempts at repair, but… nothing worked.”

The human sailed through. “That, Captain, is because you think of it only as a machine.” Unlike most workers, who kept their feet protected by hard boots, the Nae'hyn human wore foot-gloves that allowed them to grip projections around what ze called “the ship’s heart”.

“Very sick. She’s very sick indeed…”

K'desh restrained herself from violence. “I will send a junior to assist you. You will not infect him with your human insanity.”

“I can only promise to offer what must be learned,” said the Nae'hyn.

K'desh monitored the procedure, recording it for future reference. And such bizarre questions. How the wind happened in the chamber. How many came to talk to the engine. Who fed it.

The machine, said the Nae'hyn, was lonely and needed company. It was scared of being alone. Thus, it rejected the perfectly sensible input and output tubes so someone would come and 'feed’ and 'clean’ it by hand.

And that was, in essence, true. Not one techie, no matter how knowledgable, could get the input and output tubes to stay coupled, no matter what they tried.

Evidently, company would solve that.

The solution was just about fit for a low-class junior male. Come and read it a story, once a day, and talk to it about anything that came to mind. Talk as if there was someone inside the machine that their eyes saw. Talk as if they were all alone, in there, and needed company to feel better.

Ludicrous insane human nonsense! K'desh ranted about it in her log. An elderly Lieutenant heard her and waited her chance to speak.

“Your pardon, Captain,” she said, “But I’ve encountered this like before.”

“Nae'hyn?”

“An offshoot of their people. They called themselves technomancers. I saw one bring a defunct computer to life by wiggling his fingers and chanting, ’work, you bastard’ over it. It lasted just long enough to rescue all the data. He told me there were some who could make the impossible possible by just touching a machine.”

“Insanity!”

“Truth, Captain. There is footage in the omninet. One human performs a set of actions and fails. A second human performs the exact same set of actions on the exact same machine and succeeds.”

“I do not believe in miracles.”

“Humans are the only species to have mastered artificial gravity, Captain,” the Lieutenant seemed shamed to say it. “Perhaps, this time, their insanity has… merit.”

K'desh rolled her eyes. “Ugh… Set that junior to do all the tasks that human has outlined. We may as well keep this idiocy contained.”

The most annoying thing, out of all the annoying things connected to that day, was that they never -ever- had another hiccup with the gravity generator.

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Paraphrasing Zaphod Beeblebrox, pt. 2

Same challenge as before, only she’s not being literal instead of sarcastic.

[AN: I hope you mean “is being literal” because otherwise, it would just be the same story]

(#00180)

“Oops.”

“Oh my goodness,” all six Saras chorussed. “Oooh. Echo!”

“This isn’t supposed to happen,” said Jamie.

“I’m well used to things that are not supposed to happen… happening,” said one of the Saras.

“At least I have all the extra hands I need for Genracon.”

“What? You can’t all go to Genracon…”

“We can afford the tickets…”

“That’s not the issue!”

*

Two of her were dressed as Darkness and Light. Three wore CLONE FARM T-shirts. One wore a shirt that read, SpokesClone. And everyone… just accepted it.

Jamie quietly boggled from his vantage point at Thylacine Industries’ merch table.

“Wow, wow, wow!” said someone in Wubsy cosplay. “You’re THE Sara Adrien!”

“No,” said SpokesClone Sara. “I’m just A Sara Adrien. Didn’t you hear? We come in six-packs, now.”

Wubsy giggled and they got a photo together.

“See?” said one of the CLONE FARM Saras. “These are my people. We’re used to the extraordinary.”

Jamie curled up and kind of whimpered.

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Challenge #00179: An Affront Taken Aback.

Sara tries her hand at fanfiction.

(Woo, a fanfic about a character invented for fanfiction writing fanfiction. How very meta.)

[AN: Meta, indeed. See how much more meta I can get it]

“Oof. Ugh. Bluh. Oh my good gracious…”

Usually, those were the sounds of Sara on Grease Trap Duty, but these were coming from the library.

Hank knuckled in to investigate, and found Ms Adrien reading the first of the _Twilight_ series at a rapid pace.

“Problematic literature?” he enquired.

Sara smacked the book down into her lap as if swatting a cockroach. “My assignment is to read something outside my comfort zone and then improve on it. I picked the obvious target.” Long fingers held up the volume as if it was a dead rat. “Caveat, I have to finish reading this… thing.”

“A feat worthy of exile from purgatory, methinks?”

“A feat solely ensconced in the nine circles of Hell, rather,” Sara muttered darkly. “Sooner done, sooner starting something fun.”

“…oh dear,” Henry made a beeline for Charles’ office. Best forewarned and forearmed.

He was right, of course. It took two weeks before the cease-and-desist orders came in to prevent Sara finishing her magnum opus, _Tghiliwt_, described in the realms of Fanfiction dot net as, “Twilight with a properly romantic relationship, instead of an abusive one.”

It took another two weeks before the movie deals started filing in.

Sara never did anything by halves.

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Taken from a conversation

“Mad! I’m not mad! Your brain is just too small to see the beauty in my ingenious master plans! - [name], Federally Funded Mad Scientist in Training

(#00173)

"My brain is just fine,” said Stark. “You, on the other hand, have had way too many red bulls and treacle toffees, and definitely not enough sleep.”

Sara wheeled on him. Her pupils were pinpoints and her eyes were red. “SLOWLY I TURNED! Step by step. Inch by inch…”

“Thaaaat’s right,” Stark cooed, staying out of her reach. “Awaaaay from the diabolical engine of… whatever the hell you’ve been building.”

“I’ve figured out how to make it rain MARSHmallows…”

Stark smiled. “Oh goody. I thought it was a death ray, for a second.”

“Well, if a plane gets in the way, there might be problems. Might want to move this thing to the middle of nowhere… Just in case.”

“I’ll make a note,” said Stark. “In the meantime, we have a niiiiiiice comfy little -uh- pillow… nest… thing.” He pointed out the construction using every cushion in the floor, several blankets and a Love Sac™. Three cats had already found it and made it their comfort patch. The one that was awake glared at him in feline insolence. “And we’re going to give you some very special hot chocolate and you can tell me aaaaalllll about making it rain marshmallows.” He gestured urgently to Todd, who was finishing up the dusting of chocolate powder.

“Well, my legs are kinda tired…”

“And I bet you’re thirsty, too.” Stark’s grin was getting a little manic. “You’ve been ranting for hours…” He took the cup from Todd and passed it to Sara. “Todd’s made this for you juuuussssst the way you like it.”

“….tastes a li'l funny…”

“‘Cause it’s made wit’ Stevia,” Todd improvised. “Can’t have too much sugar, yo.”

“…’m also d'tectin’ a soupçon 'f an'ihist'mine…”

Todd caught the cup before she could drop it. “Make a note. Don’t let 'er get to the Red Bulls.”

“Noted and logged,” said Tony Stark.

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Challenge #00172: One Fine Afternoon in the Halls of Higher Education

“When I said that it was nice that you could recite the same dirty limerick in 5 different languages and have it rhyme, I was not asking for a demonstration.”

“Aaaw… but I’m almost up to Pharsi. Do you know how hard it is to rhyme ‘Calcutta’ in Pharsi?”

“No, and I don’t particularly care. We’re supposed to be working on theoretical math, not filthy poetry.”

“…aaaaawwww…”

“Fo-cusss…”

“But this isn’t as much fun.”

“Ai! Focus.”

Sara pouted. “…the Pharsi one was fun…”

“Math. Now.”

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Challenge #00171: Ideosyncratic Biology

Prompt: Kurt and/or Sara, or another of the interesting-reactions-to-medications group, meet the infamous Dr. House. (Optional: Dr. McCoy and House in the same room)

It was a discrete, free clinic for mutants. So discrete that you had to know it was there to find it. And that was mostly because of the anti-mutant vitriol regularly flooding the organization’s inbox.

It had been a set of flats in a previous life, but now it held a surgery, two small patient wards, a mutant daycare facility, a tiny examination room, crowded with equipment, and an equally tiny interview/examination room.

The waiting room was a combination of the hallway and the stairs up.

It was always busy.

It was always crowded.

And it was never boring.

Greg was in his element. In rare, free moments, he caught up on every medical journal there was on mutants and their extreme diversity and medical needs. Of course, everyone here knew him by a different name.

“Doctor Mykopf,” said the green thing who was the closest they could get to a second doctor. Sara. “You’re break’s getting cut short again, I’m sorry. We have a rash in Two that I need a consult on.”

“How bad is this rash?”

“It includes purple mucous.”

Greg smiled. “Hot damn!” and left his paperwork in the claustrophobic break room. He did, however, take his coffee. This place ran on coffee, chocolate, and lots of sugar.

The little girl with the afro puffs was what the clinic was quickly nicknaming ‘amphibi-esque’. There were also mammalian, avian and lizardine mutations. Piscine was plausible, but still hadn’t been spotted.

“Oooh,” Greg winced. “Someone has the big ow’s…” He lowered himself to look into the kid’s teary eyes. “Do they burn?”

“…they ache,” said the kid.

“Cleaning has proved anti-efficacious,” said Sara. “Even with saline.”

And saline washes were the medical norm, here.

Gloves on, Greg gathered the purple mucous and tried gently spreading it on a rash patch. “Does this make it better?”

Nod nod nod. A grin so big it nearly paid for everything. She even let go of her Teddy so she could spread it all over herself.

Mom was making a face. “Oh, that’s just nasty. How’m I supposed to keep her clean with that muck on her?”

“Child services?” prompted Sara.

Mom’s face said it all. It said that the over-reaching arm of the government was far too over-reaching in her general direction.

“Child services.” Greg shook his head. “We’ll do an epidermal scan to be certain, but it looks like we need this 'muck’ for a healthy skin.”

“Would you like me to explain the details, or would you prefer it from Homer?” offered Sara.

Loser got to break out the Macroscope from storage. This time, the loser was Sara.

Greg kept to the G-rated areas of Little Thelize’s skin. “Mutants react to our environment in different ways. In this case, we have a skin that creates a healing goo that counter-acts all the toxins in the environment. I’m guessing you live in one of the Projects?”

“Cheap-ass flat in a fallin’-down building that ain’t had a renovation since it was built,” said Mom.

“We’re going to give you a free asbestos test kit. Along with the usual water-borne antagonists. Once we’ve cleared or outed the usual suspects, you might have to pay for a full-spectrum kit, but we have multiple payment plans if money’s a problem.”

“But that ain’t clean,” protested Mom.

Thelize sighed with relief. “It doesn’t burn, Mama.”

“We can write a note explaining Thelize’s mutant reaction to environmental factors beyond your control. And we have a lawyer willing to support your case.”

“Serious?”

“Pro Bono,” said Greg.

Sara came back, “Macroscope’s up in room five,” she said. She also had a paper. “This is the standard blather for special circumstances kids, all full legalese for the red tape crew. It’ll do the job in the interim if the case worker shows up before we can do the rest of the tests.”

“All right,” said Greg. “Let’s go take a look at your skin.”

The rash was fading as she moved. Social views on cleanliness versus this kid’s reactive skin was going to cause… friction.

“Gonna sell Xavier’s to them?” he murmured to Sara.

“Of course I am. 'Homer Mykopf’.” Which meant she knew. Of course she knew. Sara had ways.

It was why he was so happy, now. Mutants were always interesting. Even their mundane problems were interesting.

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