[citation needed]

“The problem with quotes on the internet, is that you can never tell if they are genuine or not.”
-Benjamin Franklin (c/- RecklessPrudence)

(#00363)

“The same thing’s been said about the Galactic Text-nets, though it was attributed to Mark Twain.”

“Really? I’d have thought they’d give it to Confucius.”

“Which one? The lizard, the bug, or the human?”

This resulted in a minute’s worth of thought. “Probably the human. They’re everywhere these days.”

“Mmmmh… yeah. Sometimes I wish we’d never let them in, y'know? They’re so… invasive. Their words, their culture… some of their sayings? They just keep creeping in.”

“As does their racism.”

“See what I’m saying? Their nature is infectious.”

“Good thing for us, though. Ever since they turned up on the Galactic Scene, everything just keeps zooming forward.”

“Yes. I know. I have a few in my crew and the nonsense they pull is astonishing. Just last week, I had them all singing in my cargo hold.”

“Scary.”

“Their collective mythos pool is so wide and varied. You never know what’s going to set them off.”

“True, but it’s also true that a majority of it is harmless.”

“I gotta keep wondering where they’re zooming us forward to. What’s the big destination?”

“That’s the problem. Their imaginations are always years ahead of their bodies.”

“And sometimes physically impossible.”

“Never stops them trying, I note.”

“And that, my friend, is the scary part.”

Both considered their drinks for a while, contemplating whether to obtain another.

“Where’d you get that quote from, anyway?”

“The news. There was an archeological dig on one of the human worlds that self-imolated. They found an almost intact Christmas Cracker. That was inside it.”

“Humans are weird.”

“Mm-hm.”

[Muse food remaining: 20 (fic war prompts: 0) Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Fun with (decidedly non-Standard) Units

2000 Mockingbirds = 2 Kilomockingbirds
Basic Unit of Laryngitis = 1 Hoarsepower
453.6 Graham Crackers = 1 Pound Cake
1 Kilogram of Falling Figs - 1 Fig Newton
Time Between Slipping on a Banana Peel and Smacking the Pavement = 1 Bananosecond
Half of a Large Intestine = 1 Semicolon – RecklessPrudence

(#00362)

“Echo!”

The space whirling with birds now filled with imitations of Shayde’s voice saying ‘echo’.

This pleased her no end. “Oh aye, they’re mockin'birds.”

“A scan could have accomplished that,” sighed Rael.

“But a scan isnae nearly as much fun.”

“Our job is to scan the flock and come up with an estimated count, and if it’s above the limit, to cull the excess,” Rael explained. “It is not to have fun.”

“Aye… and how many kilomockin'birds is the limit then?”

He only had to look at the wide, fanged grin on her ebon face to tell that she had dropped a pun. “People like you are the reason we have Galactic Standard Measurements.”

“Well excuse me, mister cranky-pants. I didnae know ye left yer sense of humour at home.”

Rael sighed. It was going to be a long day.

*

Shifting crated fruit cargo, Shayde found a box of figs. “'Ere, if I dropped this, would ye measure it in fig newtons?”

“Must you try to cheer me up?” he almost wailed. This had been her tenth terrible pun.

Her grin faded away. Her luminescent eyes swirled from lets-have-fun autumnal tones through worried-yellow to soft gold. “I ken yer upset; an’ yer no’ that upset with me… I’m tryin’ tae take yer mind off it. Whatever it is.”

“They found another Faiize down a former one-way wormhole,” said Rael. “Wave of the Future are going to use them as some kind of excuse and drag legal proceedings on even further. It’s going to be a legal nightmare. Just when we were almost making progress…”

Shayde put down her figs on the cart and sighed. “Aye, that’s nowt tae laugh about.”

Finally.

All he had to do was talk about it. He may yet turn her somewhat civilised after all.

[Muse food remaining: 15 (fic war prompts: 0) Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

New take on an old saw.

Whoever said that when all you have is a hammer, the world starts to look like a nail was a handless idiot. They’d obviously never stood in front of a forge, never beaten on a piece of red- hot metal, because the fact is that you start with a hammer; it’s the first and most fundamental tool, the one you use to give shape and structure, to bring all the others out of the raw material and make them things in themselves. There is tremendous subtlety possible, the foundations of the future can be, were and are laid with a well shaped lump of heavy metal. – RecklessPrudence

(#00357)

Glod hadn’t been really listening to the humans he was sharing the cabbage cart with. Not until one of them said it.

“When all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.”

Glod had to speak up. “All I have is a hammer. If I find a piece of flint, I can light a fire with it. Once I have a fire, I can turn any old bit of metal into something else. Two hours and I can have a shovel and a pick. And once a Dwarf has a shovel and a pick, they have the rest of the world.”

The humans stared at him.

“Well… ye-es, I guess that’s true. But supposing you’re stuck in a cabbage field like this. There’s no flint for miles.”

“Nothing to burn, either,” said another human.

“Dirt’s easy to dig through,” said Glod. “Dig long enough and you’re bound to find something.” He caught one of them coming up with a clever argument and added, “And in the meantime, I can dry cabbage leaves for fuel.”

“Plenty of dung on the road, too,” added one of the quiet ones. “Plenty of people use dung in their fires.”

“But if you use it in your forge,” said another in the tones of an approaching bad pune, “would you wind up making shit metal?”

Nobody laughed. Nobody expected to.

“Hammers also make pretty good weapons, mind,” added Glod.

“I was just trying to be funny,” grumbled the punster.

“Well, you wound up just being trying,” said the quiet one.

They rode in silence for a while.

“It’s an interesting-looking hammer,” noted one of the humans who had started the argument. “What’s the spike on the end for?”

“In case I can’t make a pick with the metal I’ve found, yet. I can knock ore loose with it.”

“Bloody practical people, you Dwarves.”

“Thank you,” said Glod.

“So… what are you planning to do? With that hammer?” Obviously, the comment about weaponry had lead to some disturbing thoughts. At least the questioner was polite about it.

“Sculpture,” answered Glod.

[Muse food remaining: 18 (fic war prompts: 0) Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Three people on Tumblr

[1st person]-how did they learn to translate languages into other languages how did they know which words meant what HOW DID TH[/]

[2nd Person]
English Person: *Points at an apple* Apple
French Person: Non c’est une fucking pomme

*800 years of war*[/]

[3rd Person]
I’m laughing entirely too hard at this. :’)[/]

(Bonus points for “pomme” - “Apple” in French, and “Pom” - English person in Australian) ;) – RecklessPrudence

(#00353)

Darleen hadn’t meant to start another war. After five hundred years of isolation, the nations had forgotten about other languages. And, just last month, they’d rediscovered each other simultaneously.

She’d been called in from Upper Tullagawupwup because she was one of the few nerds who knew anything at all about languages. And even then, she was certain that she was not the expert everyone thought she was.

Spurt (n) a drip under pressure. Ex (prefix): no longer relevant.

Put them together, and Darleen reckoned that should just about fit her.

In the month that they’d been trying to talk, the assembled impromptu delegates had given up on shouting at each other (Except for the Americans, but there you go) and had paired off with various teaching tools in a vain attempt to at least get some nouns under their collective belts.

Darleen found herself at the Franco-English table because she could at least understand some of what one of them was saying.

“Ap-ple,” said the Englishman.

“Pomme,” said the Frenchie.

Darleen couldn’t help herself. “Nah mate,” she said, "that’s the fucking Pom,“ and pointed to the Englishman.

It was, as they were wont to say, the final straw.

[Muse food remaining: 8 (fic war prompts: 0) Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Seen in another fic (take two)

Sorry, ignore the last one. Here’s the full prompt, with some details changed from the original:

“Well, Sir, where there’s living there’s crime, as my grandfather the Detective Superintendent always used to say. You know [this station] has more than her fair share of it, though.”

“Your grandfather was a fairly senior cop. No doubt you started learning your disrespect for the law at an early age,” [new station commander] commented.

“He did a stint in Internal Affairs, sir. He also said, when there’s a lot of crime, the police are underfunded; when there’s too much, the police are lazy; when there’s far too much, they’re complicit,” [senior enlisted on loan] said.

‘Exactly the sort of logic I would expect from the maniac who disabled the suppression system, glued a chemical detector tuned for [drugs] on the wall, and threw an incendiary grenade into one of the Regulatory Branch store complexes,’ [station commander] said.

‘In that case, [Commander], you should be happy. Someone else in this can must have reasoning skills,’ [enlisted on loan] deadpanned. ‘Besides which, the detector came up with half a dozen different positives. Or so I heard.’

Again, if it makes it easier, just use the bit about police status. – RecklessPrudence

(#00351)

[AN: It is now very obvious that I don’t read many of my prompts before I get started on the story…]

The Commander glared at the enlisted Constable. “Nine, to be precise. It’s the only reason you still have your badge. Nine out of fifteen Regulatory Branch employees were smuggling narcotics out of Evidence for various purposes.”

“And a further five were so deep in their gambling debts that they were considering it. Of those, three have been scared straight. Say what you will about my methods, sir, but I get results.”

“Results that do not always coincide with your case file,” the commander noted.

“My case file is generally dull, sir. I tend to get distracted, looking for things of interest.”

“Hmn,” said the Commander. “And central sent you to me, for my sins.”

“I doubt it, sir. They tend to send me to places for other people’s sins.”

The Commander sighed. Minos Station did have far too much crime and the Constable was just the human to sort it out. “Do let me know when you find it. I’ll make it part of your case file.”

The Constable grinned. “Thankyou sir. I’ll endeavor to make you proud.”

[Muse food remaining: 7 (fic war prompts: 0) Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Found this in another ‘fic.

“Well, Sir, where there’s living there’s crime, as my grandfather the Detective Superintendent always used to say. You know [this station] has more than her fair share of it, though.”

“Your grandfather was a fairly senior cop. No doubt you started learning your disrespect for the law at an early age,’ [new station commander] commented.

"He did a stint in Internal Affairs, sir. He also said, when there’s a lot of crime, the police are underfunded; when there’s too much, the police are lazy; when there’s far too much, they’re complicit,” [senior enlisted on loan from another command] said.

Alternatively, just use from ‘also said’, to 'complicit’, if that makes things easier. – RecklessPrudence

(#00350)

[AN: fifteen stories to go and then I have to fucking edit the book. Eep]

Lyr tried not to sweat as she sat in the Supplicant’s Seat opposite Security Chief Sherlock. She sat rigidly to attention as if she were in full uniform - instead of Civilian togs and sockasins*. She watched every micro-sign on the Cuidgari’s face and prayed for any kind of precognitive 'flash’ to help her out.

Sadly, the Powers that ran the universe were not amenable, today.

“Marken,” said Sherlock. It was the first word he’d spoken aloud in ten minutes.

“Yes sir,” she did not fall into the trap of filling the silence. She knew that one from old times.

“I served under your grandfather, at one time. His psi rating was, as I recall, a little higher than yours.”

By one and a half, thought Lyr. “Yes sir.”

“Do you believe your ability may be helpful in your duties?”

You and I both know that my ability is an erratic sex-organ-of-your-choice, Lyr deliberately avoided saying. “I’ve thought out some work-arounds, sir. They’re in the file.”

“Appendices A through to G, yes. I’ve read them.”

Lyr bit down hard on a, Did you think any of them are valid? and matched him nonchalant glare for nonchalant glare.

Silence was a weapon. Too much of it could cause irrevocable harm to a cogniscent being. With just the right amount, a law enforcer could prompt a reluctant perp to talk.

She counted the seconds in her head. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Sherlock put the reader down with a click so audible, it was amazing it wasn’t heard in the Tailfin Drydocks. “I have also familiarised myself with your permanent record, Ms Marken.”

“Of course, sir,” she said. I expected you would, she thought.

“Both your parents were in Security, too. Yes?”

“Yes. They were rendered critical in the last B'Dauss bailout.” The event that returned Amalgam Station to Cuidgari hands at last… but killed or maimed millions.

The B'Dauss had been very bad stewards of their holdings.

“And your grandfather cared for you since then.”

“Yes sir.”

“There’s quite a lot of understandable acting out in your records, Ms Marken. And, considering your grandfather was a senior officer, an equally understandable contempt for the processes of the law.”

“Where there’s cogniscent life, there’s crime, sir,” said Lyr. “And we both know this station sometimes has far too much.”

A slight smirk was all she needed to know that she was echoing her Granda’s own words. He said some things so often that they had welded themselves to her own thought processes.

Lyr put all her effort into not blushing.

“Tamil Marken had a lot to say about crime. The saying foremost in my mind goes: when there’s a lot of crime, the police are underfunded; when there’s too much, the police are lazy; when there’s far too much, they’re complicit.”

Lyr found herself mouthing along, briefly bit her own lips, and added, “Yes sir. I remember it well.”

A raised eyebrow. “And now you say you can work with the law?”

“I get empathic in intense situations, sir. Flashes happen more often. I’ve been through Psi Training. I know the letter of the law, and its spirit.”

The other eyebrow joined the first. “No doubt at all that you do. Consider yourself welcomed to the training course. Quartermaster is down the hall and to your left. Follow the signs.”

She could feel the universe breathing out. Or maybe that was just her. “I’ll do my best to make sure you won’t regret this, sir.”

Lyr shot to her feet, saluted, and marched smartly to the door.

“And Marken?”

She turned, “Yes sir?”

“You have a very expressive face. Do work on that. I could practically read what you were thinking.”

Every atom of her being became dedicated to delivering her blandest, “Yes sir,” of her life to date.

Her dignity held out until she was around the aforementioned corner, where she almost collapsed in paroxysms of mortification. It was just like Granda interrogating her, all over again.

She had a lot of tricks to learn.

*A hybrid of socks and moccasins. Hard, protective footwear is a sign that the wearer is on duty/ready for work.

[Muse food remaining: 7 (fic war prompts: 0) Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00237: Pressed Seconds

Perpetual springtime.

Ellie had been hired to clean the garden. That alone made little sense to her, but this was Isinglass City, where the richest and the Eternals lived. Those who had the most time and the most money spent both in fascinating ways.

There was a definite border to Isinglass City. Nothing ugly was permitted to exist, there. Not even the average was permitted to exist. It was like a giant play-park with no rides.

And even inside Isinglass City, there were the Estates. High-walled fondants of architecture, preserved under glass -no- plasma barriers in perfect soap-bubbles.

If Isinglass City was a play park, the Estates were enormous sculptures set with jewels.

At least her uniform was pressed and clean.

She arrived by the underground tunnel, and didn’t even see the garden until such time as a small staff had ‘fixed’ her every last physical detail. In the event that the Eternal who owned this place saw her, she would not offend their eye.

Ellie was given a sort of duster attached to a hose and pushed out of a small door and into what must have been the garden. It was like no garden the world had ever seen, nor likely ever would again. It was a fabricated springtime. Literally.

The cherry trees were made of muslin. The blossoms, chintz. The very grass was a giant terrycloth rug. The roses were eternally blooming velvet. and every bush held blooms of a different colour. This was a spring meant to last forever.

A garden that never grew. For an owner who never aged.

Ellie got to furious dusting, lest she be fired on her first day. Part of her catalogued everything. There was even a jewelry spider set decoratively in a web made of tulle.

And there she was. The Eternal. She was one of the Relics, from before Temporetain™ had been invented. Anyone who could afford to be Eternal now did so before they needed vanity surgery.

She, too, was a work of art. Her last surgeon had sculpted her perfectly. Except, perhaps, the lips. They were pulled so tight across her perfect face that they were almost ready to snap.

She strode barefoot across her toweling lawn, confident in the knowledge that nothing in her fabric garden would hurt her. Not even the padded robot noodling across the green expanse, eternally vacuuming the least speck of dust out of the spotless, plush and padded expanse.

Ellie worked harder. Worried that this Eternal had somehow taken offense, regardless of Ellie’s efforts.

She didn’t look up. She just concentrated on vacuuming the already spotless canvas leaves. Making sure she got every last square micron cleaner than clean.

“You’re rather prettier than the average maid,” said the Eternal.

And no others were here, so Ellie knew the Eternal was talking to her. “Thank you, m’m.”

“Do you sing?”

“It’s my job to clean the garden, m’m.” Not a denial. Not a confirmation. Just the facts as she was assigned them.

“Sing. Anything.”

Ellie, still cleaning, sang the song her mother put her baby sibs to sleep with.

This did not impress the Eternal. “Needs work.”

Ellie watched her journey to the bar and pour herself a drink. A mocktail. Of course. Alcohol damaged the liver. Eternals dreaded any variety of damage; because in order to heal, they had to spend time off the Temporetain™.

“Tell me,” the Eternal shouted. “How would you like to live forever?”

Forever didn’t seem worth it to Ellie. But rather than offend, she said, “It’s my job to clean the garden, m’m.”

“They don’t hire me for the screen, any more,” said the Eternal as she sauntered to a (of course) padded lawn chair and arranged herself in it. “I make my money from spotting pretty little things like you… and sponsoring them on the way up. Fame, fortune. Medical cover for your relatives. All of them.”

Ellie paused, just for a moment. Medical cover. It was expensive to be poor. It cost a fortune to be poor and sick.

“Yes, I knew that would get you. Your kind are all the same. It’s all family first until you realize you don’t need them any more.”

Ellie felt nauseated at the very idea of not needing family. Then she realized. This woman had outlasted anyone who was close to her.

How could she stand to be that alone and that old?

[Muse food remaining: 19 (fic war prompts, 0). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00236: Weighty Problems

Heavy the head which wears the crown. Heavier still the corset laced improperly.

Valeria had practiced for this. There had been fittings and rehearsals and an entire day getting used to the weight of the crown for this ceremony. She’d be knighting all day. And, for proper pomp and circumstance, all formalities had to be observed.

Including the ritual underwear.

Valeria, as royal crown of Eass, was not permitted to dress herself and, owing to the complexities of the full royal regalia, she could not feed herself, either.

She stood, arms akimbo, while three maids fussed with the petticoats and undershirts and lacings, while a fourth fed her intermittent mouthfuls of breakfast and made certain nothing spilled. She was not even permitted to rearrange her generous breasts herself.

Which inevitably lead to disaster.

Her usual body-servant had a cold, and her junior was unpracticed, and worse, only had little green apples herself whilst Valeria was ‘blessed’ with prize-winning melons. The naive little creature saw no reason to adjust Valeria’s person and went straight on with the lacing.

And every time she opened her mouth, her breakfaster fed her.

And a Queen could not speak with her mouth full.

They got all the way to the ceremonial ruff before something vital went 'ping’ and the entire left side of the edifice of her ceremonial robes slumped visibly.

“Oops,” said the apple-breasted lesser idiot.

The Duchess of the Wardrobe sighed as she entered. “Undo the lot and start again. I’ll inform our knights to be that they shall wait on your majesty’s pleasure and you–” she pointed out the young maid, “–make certain that everything heavy is supported.”

Well. This made everything an hour longer than it had to be.

[Muse food remaining: 20 (fic war prompts, 0). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

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.

[Muse food remaining: 17 (fic war prompts, 0). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00206: What All Girls Should Know

Begin with: “Honey, what I’m about to tell you is what all responsible mothers should tell their daughters on the night before the haze begins…”

“Honey, what I’m about to tell you is what all responsible mothers should tell their daughters on the night before the haze begins…”

Danny finished sneaking up on the dining room from her exile with Dad. She’d tried to tell her family that she was a girl, too, but her pleas fell on deaf ears at the best of times. At the worst of times… well, it got painful.

She had a plan, though. Work hard. Save. Invest. Get enough money to get out and get the surgery and become an all-over girl and just maybe never talk to her parents again.

Janice was an all-over girl. A through-and-through girl. A girl with all the girl parts naturally installed, as it were, on manufacture. Danny was a girl with defects who had to pretend she was a boy until her inevitable self-deliverance.

But right now, Danny was concentrating on listening without getting found out.

“Don’t go out after dark, especially if you’re menstruating,” said Mom.

Ha. No worries, there. Even with the best of medical intervention, there was no way the doctors could install a uterus that was never there to begin with.

“If you have to go out after dark, you can make a flamethrower with a lighter and a can of hairspray. It can save your life. Don’t worry about hurting your hands. They’re very good with burns, these days. Better a little pain than what They’ll do to you.”

They. Who were They? Danny caught the ominous capital. She had heard about Them, in hushed whispers between other, ‘real'er girls before they noticed her presence and glared her away.

Nobody would talk about Them with perceived boys.

Danny worried that They were boys. That one night during the haze, the question of her reality would be finally, horribly, answered for once and for all.

“It’s not about keeping women under control,” said Mom. “It’s about keeping women safe. Apart from haze season, we have as much freedom as any man.”

Except women couldn’t be members of emergency services. Or go mining.

“What is the haze, exactly?” asked Janice.

Good Janice. Ask the question we all want answered…

“It’s complicated,” said Mom.

“That’s a very funny beer you got there,” said Dad.

Fuck. Danny put on a cocky smile as she turned. “You know me, Dad. Can’t stand the chicks knowing secrets.”

“It’s women’s business, boy. Nothing we need to know.”

Damn. At least beer dulled the pain of existing as a Daniel.

The haze was due in three days. Both she and Janice were of the age. In three days… she would know.

It was the second-worst seventy-two hours of her life. She watched Janice laying in supplies. Making sure she was ready. Watched her and Mom taping up the windows and blocking the chimney. Dad checking the air filter and circulation system and making Danny hose out the black gunk from last year.

Some supplies were a mystery. Pure silver jewelry. A headpiece, two bracelets, two anklets, and a long chain Janice told her was to go around her waist. Five whole garlic bulbs, set in her bedroom window to sprout. A brand-new set of Diva cups, a little cauldron made of gold, and a live rosemary plant in a pot made to look like a cat.

And then it was time for the haze. Mom and Janice stayed in the entertainment room with their things. The exact centre of the house. Which had a trapdoor under the middle rug to the basement.

Dad handed her a flamethrower with a backpack for fuel and said, “We gotta protect the womenfolk. It’s our duty.”

Dad lead her out by the mud room, into the night. The houses were all dark from the outside. Even the street lamps were off. The entire suburb was bathed only in moonlight. The silence was ominous. Not even a dog filled the air with its barking.

Dad showed her how to keep the pilot light going on the flamethrower, and how to aim the fire down the abandoned street.

Almost abandoned. Every father. Every son of the age. Were patrolling yards in guarded silence. There was no talk. Just wary watchfulness.

Danny kept up her pretense. Walk like a man. Stand like a man. Watch the dark skies like a man. Keep a firm, white-knuckled grip on the flamethrower like a boy on his first night guarding the ladies from the haze.

“There is is,” whispered Dad.

It looked like a cloud coming over the moon and blotting out the stars. Like any other cloudy night. Except the nights were not cloudy during the haze. Clear summer nights. That’s when the haze came.

The cloud came down, blotting out distant features. Blotting out closer features. Lit from below by bursts from other flamethrowers.

Buzzing.

They came down the street. Not in a roiling chaos cloud. But an arrow. Coming straight to Danny.

They knew. They knew she was really a girl.

She aimed the flamethrower and squeezed the trigger. Trying desperately to fend off the creatures as they went around the flame. Closed in. Started biting…

*

She woke up in hospital. Soaking in fluids meant to help her skin grow back. Wet cloth covered most of her face. Alive hurt.

Dad was sitting by her bed. Worried.

“I told you I was a girl,” she managed. “I told you…”

Next year… next year she would find out what all that stuff was for.

[Muse food remaining: 7 (fic war prompts, 0). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]