Challenge #00117: And That’s Why a Platypus.
A Mage teaching their Apprentice an ancient Bio-Hazard Disposal spell for failed experimental breeding subjects (as we all know, the traditional answer for a ridiculous and/or ridiculously dangerous creature is “A Wizard Did It”), and why Australia’s wildlife is so… unique. (At least, according to the rest (Real Life - Australia portion) of the world.
“Co-ordinatum expelarmus…”
“Co-ordinatUS, expel-ee-ar-am-us,” corrected the master. “One wrong syllable, Mistress Caduceus, and this hazardous waste winds up lining your wardrobe interior.”
“What happens to it normally, Master?”
“IF you pronounce the spell correctly, IF you manage the correct grasp of your wand, Master Gask…” The master grasped the offending wrist and moved two fingers an occultly significant few millimeters. “The dangerously mutational waste winds up in a distant land that neither magic nor science can normally reach. Fortunately for everyone, you lot are practicing on harmless, coloured sand.”
“What happens to the distant land, sir?”
The master pinched his nose. “Caduceus…”
“Please, sir?”
“Waste magic is toxic. If anything’s even alive in there, the cross-firing magics will inevitably create dangerously toxic flora and fauna. Bizarre conglomerate animals like no other on this Earth. Even revivification of ancient animals long since dead. Depending on the spells interactive quotients, of course. You could even wind up with a venomous amphibious mammal that lays eggs!”
The rest of the class giggled.
“Sir?”
The master groaned, “Yes, Caduceus?”
“Have we… Have we thought of -um- making the spells and potions less… toxic?”
The master glared at her. “If we did that, magic itself would be reduced to useless herbology, crystals and mumbo-jumbo. And then science would take over. We don’t want that, do we?”
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Challenge #00116: Impressions
Anywhere in the story:
Some people are like Slinkies - Not really good for anything, but they still bring a smile to your face when you push ‘em down a flight of stairs
(alternatively, substitute “see 'em fall” for “push 'em”)
Sara objected to formal fundraisers at the best of times, and tonight wasn’t one of them. Her target, multi-billionheiress Egypt Ritz[1], was the exact sort of person Sara had grown to despise on sight. Therefore it was something of a supreme effort not to do so to the woman’s carefully sculpted face.
“Darling,” cooed Egypt. “I simply can not believe you organized the entirety of this gorgeous little soiree.”
“It’s not as hard as you might think,” Sara faked a natural smile and resisted the urge to grit her teeth.
“Obviously. The rare times that the paparazzi snap you, you’re always wearing hideous and cheap pret a portier.” Translation: street clothes for the plebs.
“I prefer to reserve my budget for more worthy goals, dear,” If she believed in heaven or hell, tonight she earned years off of purgatory for not adding a snarl to that sentence.
“Well obviously, it would be difficult to salvage that figure and that face,” smiled Egypt.
_ I will kill you, later. After a thorough kharmic realignment._ “Yes. Well. Anyone who can afford ten thousand dollars for a dress she wears once can certainly afford the underwear to match. Or did you leave it somewhere and forget about it when you chose to show it off, last week?”
Egypt’s bland, botoxed half-smile faded into a semi-sneer. Point to Sara.
“And speaking of thousands of dollars,” Sara continued, taking joy in pretending she had no clue about what had previously issued from her mouth, “there is the issue of sponsored nutrition for the -ah- less than affluent kiddies. You can hold a giant cheque to make sure nobody can see up your dress.”
“How kind,” Egypt snarked. “I’ll think about it.”
“The Adrien family will be donating an even million, to begin with,” added Sara. She knew without a doubt that Miss Ritz would not allow herself to be overshadowed by someone less telegenic than herself.
Daddy collected her by the elbow as Egypt swanned off to get photographed with prettier people. “That came close to homicide…”
“Some people are like slinkies, Daddy,” said Sara. “No functional use whatsoever, but such fun to watch fall down the stairs.”
“No pushing her.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Sara sighed.
[1] Any resemblance between this lady and certain others named after a city and a hotel are strictly imaginary. I swear. Cough.
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Challenge #00115: Letter v Spirit
A story in which this:
“It’s time to do the right thing!”
“By which you mean commit a major felony.”
“Think of it as a series of 208 rapidly successive misdemeanors!”
Occurs.
“This is not right,” said Sara.
“It is legal, sweetheart,” said Daddy. They both knew it, but he had to remind her. Her near-reality orbit frequently ignored things like that which was legal.
“That which is legal is not always right. That which is right is not always legal.” Sara looked over the papers in her folder again. “It’s time to do the right thing!”
Daddy sighed and rolled his eyes. “By which you mean, commit a major felony.”
Sara managed a manic rictus. “Think of it as a series of 208 rapidly successive misdemeanors…”
“..which, I have no doubt, you have already planned before the case started in court?”
“I never start any plan without a plan B, Daddy.”
“…oh dear. At least let me have plausible deniability?”
“Already part of the works.” Sara closed the folder with a menacing smirk. “And I promise I won’t break any of the big laws.”
“Thankyou.”
[Muse food remaining: 7. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00115: One Fine Day on a Planet That Looks a Lot Like a Quarry Somewhere in England
Anywhere in the story, possibly as a result of a situation originating from Forge tinkering:
If we can confirm its existence, then it interacts with the physical world. If it interacts with the physical world, we can, theoretically, blow it up.
“Sara Louise Adrien, what a surprise seeing you here,” said the Doctor. He’d just literally run into her as the worlds changed.
“Ah,” said Sara. “You again.”
“Still dimension-hopping?”
“Yes, although, this time, I somehow managed a double hop. Not my fault. Sergeant Slash, over there, thought the integrator was a bomb.”
“My name,” said the body armor with a face in its depths, “Is Captain Carnage.”
Sara rolled her eyes. “Everything we imagine is a reality I can fade into. She’s from a video game.”
“And I’m television. You tell me last month.”
“Ugh. Nice to know it *still* won’t be solved.”
“Wait,” said Captain Carnage. “What?”
“Temporal mechanics,” said the Doctor and Sara together. Sara added, “Don’t think about it too hard, dear, you might lose some hearts.”
“Yes. Well. Glad to know we’re all acquainted. Can we get back to running, now. We have a slight problem with an ectoplasmic temporal echo.”
“What?” said Captain Carnage.
“Technically speaking, and dumbed down to the lowest denominator,” said Sara, “a ghost.”
“And this one’s very cross with me about something I haven’t done yet.” The Doctor glanced behind him and broke into a run.
Sara started jogging next to him and Captain Carnage lagged behind. Looking behind her every three steps. “Well, the good news is, you have plenty of time to go and fix it. Unless it’s a fixed point, in which case, it’s very bad news indeed.”
“But what can it do?” said the Captain. “It’s a ghost.”
“Well… currently, it’s throwing things. Sharp things, mostly.”
“If we can confirm its existence, then it interacts with the physical world. If it interacts with the physical world, we can, theoretically, blow it up.”
“Very nice logic, dear,” said Sara. “The only problem with that is that blowing things up isn’t the go-to solution in this universe.”
“That’s not a lot of fun,” complained Carnage. “I should rescue you. You’re clearly NPC’s.”
“No! You’re in a cut-scene! This man has been in this universe for well over nine hundred years, faced down every kind of Boss and did it all with a screwdriver,” Sara desperately babbled. “And he did it all on two hearts!”
“Two?” repeated Carnage.
“Just two,” said the Doctor.
“So… he’s like a technomage.”
“A lot like a technomage. Do try to keep up! Physically, too!”
[Muse food remaining: 5. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00114: A Scene in the Library
Whoever said words can’t hurt you has never been pegged with a dictionary.
Sara was drawn to the child’s tears. She knew that kind of crying, having done a lifetime of it herself.
“Something the matter, dear?”
“…go ‘way.”
Sara knelt. “I promise I won’t tell you that you’re overreacting if you promise not to tell me I can’t understand.”
The kid looked up. “…kay.” Tears smeared her face. “They said I’m fat an’ I gotta eat nuthin’ but chocolate 'cause I’m that colour anyway an’ I tried to tell on 'em but… m’ teacher said it was just words.”
“Hm. Anyone who says words can’t hurt you has never been smacked by a dictionary.”
A shy, wan smile lit her face. “Not 'lowed to hit 'em.”
“More’s the pity,” agreed Sara. “You have to hit them where it hurts them the most. In their egos.”
“What’s an ego?”
“It’s that part of your brain that keeps telling you that you are the sole reason the universe exists.”
This time, a giggle. Anyone telling this darling little girl that she was ugly aught to be strung up by their nether hairs.
“I’m guessing these are the mean girls of the school? Already proficient at makeup and fashion at -what- eight?”
“Nine.”
“Oof.” Sara shook her head. “Let me tell you a little something about mean girls…”
*
Sara was just about to sign out from her volunteer duties when she spotted Shanice again. Holding an ice-pack over one eye.
“You didn’t start a fight, did you?”
Shanice grinned. “Nope. They did.”
Which meant the mean girls hit first. Which meant that Shanice had won. Sara grinned and gave her a high five. “Good job. Pro tip, try not to look so smug. Act like a kitten is very sick. Makes you look like the wronged party.”
Shanice nodded and did her best to snivel.
[Muse food remaining: 5. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
A line for Sara
RAF WWII slang: Exdigitate - get your finger out.
(#00113)
There are days when it was fun and exciting to be married to a genius. This was not shaping up to be one of them.
“Come along, darling, you need breakfast.”
Todd opened an eye. There was bacon and eggs and -sweet heaven, thank you- coffee gently steaming on his bedside table. “Mrghl…”
“Exdigitate, dear.”
“Mnnnh…”
Sara dragged him upright and gently fed him a mouthful. “We have to hurry, dear.”
Todd chewed, finding his fork after three tries. Coffee helped unglue his eyes. “‘Swaytooearly…”
“I did try to let you sleep in but time is wasting and I really want to do a quality makeup job.”
Second mouthful. Struggling towards cogniscence. “Makeup?”
“The Zombie walk. We’re going to win Best Dressed for sure!”
“…uuuuunnnhhh…”
“Perfect! Get right into character.”
Todd sipped more coffee. Today is not going to be a fun day. Not until MUCH later.
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Challenge #00112: Faction Fraction
A line for Mort: Do us a favor Luv, Stick yer ‘ead in a bucket a kick it!
They say war makes strange bedfellows. Few were stranger than Wanda and Pietro Maximov. Even Mort could see they were sibs. And even he picked up on a creepy level of involvement between them. But that didn’t concern him, now.
What concerned Mort was the whippy figure currently strapped to an upright column from neck to toe. When she spoke, she rambled randomly. The movements underneath the roll of duct tape covering her were sparse and erratic.
It was her breathing, shallow, rapid and raspy, that had his heart in his throat.
“Wegottakeepheralive,” said Pietro. “S'obvious.”
“Should we try to give her to daddy-dear?” cooed Wanda. “Let the Mastermind play with her?”
“…quadrangle…” muttered Sara. Her eyes didn’t see him. “Lexington.”
“NoIthinkDaddy'dlikehersmartsintact,” said Pietro. “RememberwhathappenedtothatErrisguy.”
Erris. The man who Professor Xavier was still spending some significant time unravelling back to his former self.
“…pickle barrel…” mumbled Sara.
“Daddy won’t like her as she is. Maybe we could hand her over as she should be.”
Mort growled. “Do us a favour, luv. Stick yer 'ed in a bucket and kick it.”
Sara was looking into his eyes. Fierce as fire. “Hopscotch.”
Translation: get out of the way.
Mort leaped for the ceiling at the same time Sara faded from view and her former wrappings fell. He could, through long practice, spot Sara and her goals, so he turned the floor into a sticky labyrinth for the silver speedster. He did not aim anything at Wanda. He knew better than to try. Just keep moving and stay out of notice. Make sure Sara got to her goals and back her up on the way out.
“Not again, not again!” Wanda screamed. “This is the fifth time! How can they?”
Mort got in a lucky shot at Pietro’s face, causing the man to stumble and in stumbling, raise smoke that covered both his and Sara’s escape. Fifth time was the charm. He had her down the road and in a hotwired car in less than a minute.
Free. And heading like an arrow for safety. Not the safety of any of the X-crew’s shelters. That was how they got caught the first time. No. This time, he was going to one of the many, many places that Sara’s family owned. With the kind of added security that automatically came with being comfortably well off.
[Muse food remaining: 7. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00111: One Fine Day in the Cubicle Labyrinth
“If at first you don’t succeed, label it version 1.0.”
“Fuck this fucking thing to fucking fuck!”
“Problems?”
“Why did we release this stupid piece of shit?”
Andrews peered over Laslie’s shoulder. “Oh. That. Budget overruns. Time under-runs. Figgis-fiddis. You name it, that one had it. I think we all ended up calling that one Project Icarus at the end.”
“Doomed to crash and burn?”
“Nailed it.”
“I’m gonna root canal this fucker just so I can sleep at night.”
“Yeah, good luck with that.”
“Same ol’ same ol’, Laslie sighed. "If at first you don’t succeed, lable it version 1.0.”
“If you fail again,” Andrews quipped, “call it Beta.”
[Muse food remaining: 8. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
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?”
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