Challenge #00110: Ohai We’re From the Internet
Anywhere in the story: “There is no font size big enough to describe the ‘oh shit’ that is about to occur.”
The body corporate had done it. They’d finally leashed the beast of their own making. They controlled the internet. And there wasn’t even time to celebrate.
“Now, we need to start talking about the three 'sisses’. Censorship, sponsorship, and shill. Every single page, every site, every last goddamn corner of the internet is controlled by us, so let’s start earning.”
“Sir?”
“in a minute, Weatherby.” The rich, older, white man had his mind only on his plans. “First order of the agenda: heteronormitivity. Anything that isn’t man plus woman vanishes. Second, gender role reassignment. Let’s get all those bitches back in the kitchen. Third–”
“Sir, this is really important.”
“Weatherby, I do control whether or not you keep your job…”
“But sir…” Weatherby pointed out the window.
They were on the twenty-fifth floor, but they could still be seen. Not the random flow of pinhead-points of different colours, but a sea of them flowing inexorably towards their building. Even up here, they could hear the distant strains of Les Miserables sung by thousands of voices.
“Sir,” said Weatherby. “There is no font size big enough to describe the 'oh shit’ that is about to occur.”
Something slammed against the nearby window, causing all in the boardroom to startle. Everyone stared as it unfolded into a poster-sized lolcat with red eyes and fluffed fur.
It read, Ohai. We’re frum the internets. You pissed us off. kthxbai.
The CEO’s face fell. All those people. All of them. They had once had their genius minds distracted by fandoms, lolcats and porn. Now that their addiction was censored and controlled…
…they had nothing better to do than get really creative on the asses of those who censored and controlled it.
A second poster landed and unfurled against the glass. It was tub girl. With the legend, The internet is for PORN!
Weatherby was right.
A third. A cute little girl in a frilly dress inside a motivational border. Its caption read, OH SHIT! and underneath, You’re all going to die.
It was now going to be a question of how they were going to survive.
Or even… if…
[AN: Sign the petition to stop CISPA here!]
[Muse food remaining: 9. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00109: Science Project
Parent: [Character name]? How much uranium is in the house…?
Child: [after much dancing about about whether it’s uranium at all, and if so, how much] Okay, a lot…
“Jachyx…” came the warning call of Parental Prime. “How much uranium is in the house?”
Jachyx hid her work and emerged from her private space. “Who says I have any uranium?”
“Security detected fissionable material, grubling.”
Gah. She hated it when the Parentals called her ‘grubling’. “I’m past my pupal stage, Pripa… You don’t have to call me 'grubling’ any more.”
“Is. There. Uranium. In. The house?”
“Did they say it was uranium?”
“Yes. They did. They gave a precise location. Which is almost exactly where your privacy chamber is.”
“You know those loc-traces are kinda… unreliable, don’t you?”
“That’s why I ran a scan,” said Pripa. “I have trace going in and out of your privacy chamber.”
“Trace isn’t proof. I coulda walked in some or–”
Pripa held up a claw. “Not on this station. There are strict regulations and permits regarding fissionables. You know how the squishy-ones object.”
“And you’re certain it’s uranium.”
“Uranium 238. Now. How much?”
“Pri-paaaaaa….”
“Answer the question, Jachyx.”
“Just enough for my science project, I swear! It’s no big deal, I have it shielded and everything. It’s not like I’m making it blow up or melt down…”
“How. Much.”
“Um.” Jachyx rubbed her own claws up and down her carapace. “Lots?”
[Muse food remaining: 10. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00108: One Fine Day in a Ren Faire near Bayville
You’ll have to forgive my uncle, sir. He has a very unique sense of humor which involves not being funny.
Since she wasn’t riding horses, today’s costume was that of a paige. She was too tall and not chesty enough for the typical wench and the material still hadn’t come through for her chatelaine outfit, it was either a paige or a time traveller and people tended to be hostile to the latter.
Sara played her harp as an excuse to sit between guiding lost souls around and - in extreme cases - translating between Renspeak and regular english for the noobs.
A kid ran up between the guests and hid behind her. “Ididn'tdoanythingwrongpleasedon'tlet'emkillme.”
Followed closely by the faire guards.
They were impressive men with dull faces, currently chafing under their chain mail uniforms and the weight of their decorative halberds. And, like typical security goons, were paid to be there, dress like that, and menace anyone who was ruining an otherwise good day.
“Good morrow, fair gentlemen,” said Sara. “Comest thou seeking the assistance of this humble bard?”
And, like typical security goons, none had done their homework. “…zuh?”
“Can I help you?”
“That brat hiding behind you’s been caught stealing from the food carts.”
Sara looked behind her to size up the kid. Not in costume. Those rags were all he had to wear. And that dirt wasn’t makeup. Homeless. Alone and cold and terrified. That would not do.
“My nephew? He’s been near me all day, looking at the stalls.”
“We saw him.”
Sara put on an act. “Caught stealing,” she sighed, holding his arm. “Caught. Stealing. What have I always told you about being caught stealing? Don’t. Get. Caught.”
The kid faked a laugh. “You’ll have to forgive my uncle, sir. He has a very unique sense of humor which involves not being funny.”
Sara laughed a little bit more genuinely and patted him down. “Nothing in his pockets. Nothing up his sleeves. Where is your evidence?”
“He ate it.”
“And in a court of law, this would get…?”
“…not a lot,” the spokesgoon growled.
Sara dug a twenty out of her neck purse and handed it over. “See that this gets to any disgruntled shop keeps, will you? I’ll have a good long chat with my nephew.”
“See that you do, sir.”
Sara did not let him go. “A few rules, kid, that are going to help you live longer. One: if you must steal food here, steal the leftovers and act like you’re part of the scenery. Two: never pickpocket from someone who’s helping you and three: always keep an eye out for the goons.”
“How did you–?”
“I date a pickpocket, dear. I not only know all the tricks, but I also know all the signs… and he’s better at it than you are.” She neatly retrieved the money from what passed for his belt. “Now. I am about to make you a better deal than the one you’re currently in. There are strings, but the difference between me and most deal-makers is that I tell you what they are. Ready?”
The kid nodded.
“I am about to gift you with a better future. Clothes, shelter, a guardian with your best interests at heart. This will also include an education, medicine, immunizations and adhering to the law. Once you agree, you must become a model citizen to the best of your abilities. Understood?”
Another, terrified nod.
“All you have to do is answer one simple question: would you like me to help you?”
A slow, reluctant nod.
“I’m trusting you not to run. That trust will gain you all you can eat, today. And, fortunes willing, new clean clothes tonight. The caveat is that you have to bathe. Thoroughly. With soap.”
Sara let go. The kid did not bolt. “Well done. My name’s Sara, by the way. I’m an auntie, not an uncle.”
“I was named Bruce,” said the kid. “‘druther be Breana.”
“Born in the wrong body, hm? That might take a little longer to arrange, but I can also help you there.”
“But…?” prompted Breana.
“But they do like to wait until you’re an adult before they let you have gender reassignment surgery.”
Breana, age seven, rolled her eyes. Adulthood was forever away for her.
“In the meantime, I can arrange the necessary paperwork. But let’s worry about that another day.” Sara lead her between two tents to a third tent made to look like wattle and daub. There was a plank over the sacking door which read, in shaky pokerwork, HARGAS HOUSE OF RIBS.
“This place smells like grease,” complained Breana.
“True, but it does offer the all-you-can-gobble-for-a-dollar menu. Today’s prices, ten bucks.”
Breana giggled. Her face lit up when she smiled.
Sara bowed her into the greasy-smelling confines. “Shall we begin, m'lady?”
[Muse food remaining: 11. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00107: One Fine Day in the Computer Lab
Old software engineering joke: “Write your code as if it’ll be read three months later by a homicidal psychotic who knows where you live.”
Spoiler: You know where you live, and will have to read your code three months later, when you’ve forgotten what much of it does.
“Who the hell was the fucktard who wrote this goddamn ugly shitty mess of shitty shit fuck!”
The entire cubicle labyrinth prairie dogged their heads above the felt-covered partitions to focus on the angst-ridden gentlemen currently throwing a tanty in his own little grey box.
Rapidly approaching, was the project supervisor. Tablet in hand, in an effort to quell the fury and the furor. To put out a few fires before they could start.
“What’s the problem, Kransky?”
“This ugly-ass kludge of uncommented shit is the matter. I’m going to track down that idiot and tear them a new one!”
DeVries tapped on her tablet. “According to doc-tracking… You were the idiot who wrote that code, Kransky.”
“I’m gonna invent time travel so I can kick myself up the ass,” Kransky vowed.
“Just remember to comment that -ah- goddamn ugly shitty mess of shitty shit fuck, next time?”
Kransky lowered himself back down behind his station. “Message received and understood.”
The rest of the coders vanished behind grey felt walls before DeVries could notice they were ever watching.
[Muse food remaining: 12. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Stole this from a book
In days to come, he would reflect upon the premature nature of that thought. He would ponder it, as a sinner pondered the inexplicable actions of an irritated deity. He would wonder if perhaps, by allowing himself to think it, he had angered the God of Perversity, and Murphy, who is His Prophet. It was the only offense he could think of that might have explained what happened next.
(#000106)
He should never have asked, “What could possibly go wrong?” Or perhaps he should never have asked the universe, “What now?”
Nature hates the people who ask the kind of questions with obviously sadistic answers. Or sadistically obvious answers. It really depended where one stood.
And, right now, Rael stood, covered in noodles. Next to Shayde, also covered in noodles. In front of the chief of security for all of Amalgam Station, who preferred his human-given nickname of “Sherlock”.
“Do go on,” said Sherlock, behind his steepled fingers. “Entertain me. At which point did the -ah- child in the cardboard box, with… a.. cogniscent toy tiger… enter the picture? And what happened to the–” he looked at the preliminary report “–squid in the space suit?”
“He buggered off, the rat,” said Shayde.
“I was not in control of the situation,” pleaded Rael. “I believe there was a reality warping effect in… um… effect.”
“Really,” drawled Sherlock.
It was going to be a very long afternoon.
[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Imperial China… Dragons?
Imperial China. They actually had royal dragon caretakers on the payroll. Logic says that this was due to them either having actual dragons (read: dinosaurs), or the Emperor had done off the deep end again. If they really did have dinosaurs they were almost certainly plant eaters … but that doesn’t allow us to imagine T-Rex cavalry fighting alongside stupidly large infantry armies, and that should be it’s own goal.
(#00105)
[AN: Given the nature of actual Chinese Dragons… I doubt they were dinosaurs]
Wen Li had believed he had landed the easiest job in the empire. Imperial Dragon Caretaker. Everyone in the country knew that dragons were invisible, immortal and only sought after the pearl of immortality for fun.
He expected his first day, and all the days after it to be lazy and overpaid. Nevertheless, it did good to show up for ‘work’ early.
The Master of Dragons cast a stern eye on him as he set up large baskets of fish heads. “Early,” he noted. “Good. I have way too many people who come in late thinking that this is one of the emperors’ little fancies.”
“It… isn’t?” asked Li, who had thought it was until the master spoke.
“It isn’t,” said the master. “Grab a basket, you are about to learn.”
There were six baskets and four other caretakers like him. Li lifted his basket and looked around.
“We feed the late boy to the dragon,” said the next-oldest caretaker. “If the dragon spits him out, he is never late again.”
Li managed to summon a chuckle to join the others’ laughter, all the time thanking his luck and the spirits who gave it to him. Yet, at the same time he had to wonder if he wasn’t the subject of some elaborate prank. Perhaps the emperor needed a laugh.
They came to a high wall, but this one was also covered by a gigantic, bamboo cage. Li had seen it from the streets and thought it an aviary of some kind.
But no birds flew here.
The master opened the smaller door in the large gate and ushered them through. He followed, closing the door and locking it.
Li put his basket into the appointed spot, following the lead of his elder caretakers, and stepped back, and gaped.
They were giant snakes, half a league long. With feathery eyebrows and whiskers. And strange, half-legs with five toes. Imperial dragons. Their scales shone like gems in the sunlight.
The master summoned them from the air with a tune on his flute and Li had to wonder how they could fly without wings.
Then, as they snapped up the fish like cats, Li had to wonder why the emperor could keep anything that smelled that bad.
Their long bodies rolled like waves all the time.
“Which one is the water dragon?” he asked. “Which one is fire?”
“Boy,” the master announced, “you have much to learn about real dragons.”
[Muse food remaining: 14. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Patience
At some point, someone (Sara? Somebody in your own setting?) defines Patience.
Patience, noun: the state of having too many witnesses.
(#00104)
“We reviewed the evidence and personal testimonies,” said the brown-robed Archivaas. “And we thought we might work with you to.. re-evaluate history’s view of Ernest Hackmeyer.”
“That plagiaristic bastard can go rot in fire,” Shayde said cheerily as she poured tea. “Is he goin’ from bafflin’ genius tae scum-suckin’ thief?”
“Well… when you boil it down… Yes.”
“Brilliant. Jammy Dodger?”
“Thankyou. Uh. Reading over some of the diaries of his past victims… I am astonished by the patience you showed with the man.”
“He was a tit-brushin’, arse-grabbin’, cleavage-oglin’ misogynistic douchebag. An’ that’s an insult tae douchebags.” Shayde sipped her tea. “And as fer patience… that’s just the state of havin’ too many witnesses.”
The Archivaas took notes. “Um… tit… brushing?”
“Ye ken when ye have tae squeeze past someone? Wi’ girls, he always had his hands up at nipple level and made sure you were facin’ him.”
“And he didn’t get jailed for this?”
“We couldnae even talk tae anyone ‘bout it. We’d get all the wind an none in the sail. 'Aw ye should cover up’, or 'maybe if ye dressed decently’, or 'you should take it as a compliment’ if the girl wasnae all o’ that, you know? And when it was me… remember I was fifteen and sixteen at the time. He got a talkin’ to 'cause I was underage an’ all. An’ he called me 'hysterical’ and said I was blowin’ it out of proportion. Nothin’ got done all the same. Bastard.”
“There’s a Keith who wrote about the -ah- 'funniest deterrent ever’ in a journal, but the remainder of the story has been damaged.”
Shayde grinned. “I put itchin’ powder on the outside o’ me clothes in the target areas. Fer two months. He learned to look an’ not touch at the very least.”
“But he still looked.”
“I did me best not to be a pretty picture. Not that it stopped him.”
The Archivaas munched on a biscuit and sipped at his tea. “Whatever made you stop at itching powder?”
[Muse food remaining: 15. Submit a prompt! Ask a question]
Challenge #00103: One Fine Day in the Xavier Mansion’s Sub-Sub-Basements
“Genius is always allowed some leeway, once the hammer has been pried from its hands and the blood has been cleaned up.”
“That’s a scary quote from you, hon,” said Todd.
Sara, waist-deep in the workings of Cerebro, said, “Granted, it is problematic. Fortunately, my murderous tendencies remain confined in the socially acceptable forum of fiction. But it is rather apropos.”
Todd quickly put two and two together. “You mean this aint a job someone else gave yo’?”
“Ever since I saw the workings, the redundancies and security flaws have been… annoying. And you know how I dislike awkward builds.”
Todd sighed. “Yeah.” The last time had been pulling apart and reconfiguring one of Forge’s gizmos. The mutant inventor had not been pleased. “You should warn people, alla same.”
“What? And have them tell me ‘no’?” Sara emerged briefly to announce, “Forgiveness is far easier to obtain than permission.”
“And you’re forgetting,” announced Xavier, “that there are telepaths in the house.”
Sara tisked. “Oh bother.”
[Muse food remaining: 16. Submit a prompt! Ask a Question!]
Challenge #00102: Wake Up Call
Asteroids: Nature’s way of asking “So, how’s that space program coming along?”
“What I don’t get is that we’ve had the technology for years but we’re all just sitting around and watching these rocks fly by.”
“Getting into space is expensive. And when you think about it, Earth’s the best defense against asteroids there is.”
“Shyeah. Tell that to the dinosaurs.”
“And there’s a train of thought that all the really dangerous ones hit Earth already and we can’t possibly get hit again.”
“Tell that to Russia.”
“Why do you always have to be so negative. Russia was a small one. We’re hit all the time by the small ones. There’s just no big ones left.”
“Um. Apophis? Remember that one?”
“That won’t get close to hitting us for another thousand years.”
“The way we’re wrecking the planet? We don’t have that long.”
“So why the heck are you worried about goddamn asteroids?”
“Because if we want to be more than a fascinating fossil for whatever comes next… we’ve got to get out there.”
“God, this is stupid. Can’t we just get on with our lives and trust it’s gonna be okay?”
“No. Because it’s not gonna be okay unless people like us do something.” Sandra sighed and bought out her phone. “I’m crowd-funding that moon dude.”
“That idiot who says he’s harnessed the Higgs Boson and wants to start a colony on the moon?”
“Underground on the moon. Yeah. And he’s not an idiot. I’ve seen the videos of his work.”
“I could make a video like that in like, thirty seconds.”
“So go do it. Prove everyone wrong. Just stop shouting about how everyone else is stupid ‘cause they’re not you.”
“I’m not shouting!”
“Whatever. Four hundred dollars and I have a ticket to the moon. Where’s your debunk video?”
“What?”
“This took me thirty seconds. Where’s the video?”
“Don’t be such a fucking smartass.”
“At least my ass is smarter than you.”
That’s how they broke up. And that time the next year, Sandra, five thousand interested people, livestock, farming supplies, and everything they could possibly need launched on Yue Gang’s awkward-looking ship. Destination Luna.
It was hard work. Nobody could pretend it was going to be otherwise. Growing plants of all kinds was a priority because plants made air, and air was vital.
And just as Luneyland -as it was affectionately nicknamed by media, residents and Terrans- was getting stable, a meteor hit and wiped out a town called Grover’s Mill.
Suddenly, mister Yue’s technology was in very high demand indeed.
[Muse food remaining: 17. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
…And I feel fine.
When the end of the world came, it was in a form no-one had anticipated.
(#000101)
“And you’re sure this will initiate the -um- whatchamacallit.”
“Personal temporal stability field. Yes. One push of a button and I can live forever and never age.” Greedy fingers gently caressed the alligator switch. “My telomeres will be stable. I’ll continue to move forward in time, but time will have no effect on me. I won’t need to eat, drink or eliminate waste. It will change the world.”
How right he was.
“So what are you waiting for? Flip the switch!” Jacob took a picture with his phone. “I want to see if it has special effects.”
He laughed as he gently depressed the lever.
Click.
“And you’re sure this will initiate the -um- whatchamacallit.”
“Personal temporal stability field. Yes. One push of a button and I can live forever and never age.” Greedy fingers gently caressed the alligator switch. “My telomeres will be stable. I’ll continue to move forward in time, but time will have no effect on me. I won’t need to eat, drink or eliminate waste. It will change the world.”
How right he was.
“So what are you waiting for? Flip the switch!” Jacob took a picture with his phone. “I want to see if it has special effects.”
He laughed as he gently depressed the lever.
Click.
“And you’re sure this will initiate the -um- whatchamacallit.”
“Personal temporal stability field. Yes. One push of a button and I can live forever and never age.” Greedy fingers gently caressed the alligator switch. “My telomeres will be stable. I’ll continue to move forward in time, but time will have no effect on me. I won’t need to eat, drink or eliminate waste. It will change the world.”
How right he was.
“So what are you waiting for? Flip the switch!” Jacob took a picture with his phone. “I want to see if it has special effects.”
He laughed as he gently depressed the lever.
Click.
“And you’re sure this will initiate…”
[Muse food remaining: 18. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]