Challenge #01268-C173: Don't Make Her Angry
@knitnan - beware the wrath of the quiet man. And the nerd behind the keyboard.
Challenge #00895-B164: The Old Heart-Stopper
There is coffee, there is turkish coffee, there is paper-due-in-six-hours was-coffee-once, and then there is whatever you just made and drank.
Grace watched Sara cautiously as more and more ingredients kept coming out of random storage places. Turkish Coffee steeped in its special apparatus. Espresso poured out of the little budget coffee maker that pushed hot water through little capsules, and it did so on a near steady stream. The finished cups of steaming liquid went into a cooking pot that already contained a boiling mess of Caf-Pow, Monster, and SupaPowaDynamo - the only energy drink with a warning label.
Grace’s mouth fell open as Sara added Trucker’s Friend Pep Pills to the highly-caffeinated pot.
“What. The. Hell?”
Sara poured the filtered Turkish Coffee into the pot. “You said you need to stay up for seventy-two hours in order for you to do over that project, right? This stuff? Has been known to keep people awake for a week. I advise you sip when you’re feeling blinky.”
“…i thought you were going to do some juju on my laptop…”
“Sorry, my friend. Your laptop has gone to silicone heaven. Data and all.” The last of the espresso joined the mess in the pot. And then two dozen sugar cubes. And then a handful of cocoa nibs ‘for flavour’.
“You have emergency services on speed-dial, right?”
“Please, I already have a medical degree,” said Sara. “I am emergency services.“ She tested the goop for consistency and turned the heat up. “Or at least, I can keep you stable until the EMT’s turn up. And you know they don’t like this neighbourhood.”
“…maybe I can take the fail…?”
“Grace.” Sara crossed the room to embrace her hands. “You’re in good hands. I promise I won’t let you OD or pass out before your project’s re-done. I’ve got you. And I’m kind of used to this stuff.”
“That explains the week when you were talking to the potplant in complete gibberish.”
“Okay. So my Core Language research was a little dodgy…” the pot didn’t so much boil over as boil up. The bubbles had their own support structure. “Whoops! It’s done!” Sara raced over to take it off the heat and render the stove safe. Then she convinced two servings of the resulting goo into some ceramic candleholders that could easily double as shot glasses.
It was the consistency of molasses.
It smelled like Satan’s asshole.
Do or die time… Grace nibbled a piping hot droplet away from the rest, and almost flipped when Sara knocked hers back with grace and poise.
And then it hit her like a semi truck strapped to a jet bomber. “HolyshitIcanseethecoloursofsoundandIcanheartastes, isthisnormal?”
“Prettymuchaverage,” said Sara. “IonlytookminesoIcankeepupwithyou. I’musedtoit.”
*
Grace woke up four days later to a steaming, hearty breakfast platter of all her favourite foods, some painkillers, and a large, economy-sized bottle of Gatorade. Her head hurt. Her stomach growled hard enough for her to wince at the noise.
“…i’m alive…” she croaked.
“Sit up slowly,” whispered Sara. Take the pills, then eat.”
Good advice. Bless the person who invented fast-acting pain blockers. Grace drank half the gatorade before she came up for air. “Th’ project?”
“Completed, checked,” Sara waved at herself, “and submitted in time. Your grades are safe.”
Grace dived into the scrambled eggs. And the mushrooms. And the fried tomatoes. “Thank you I’m starving.”
“Well you were asleep close to twenty-four hours.”
“Ow. How many of those Mess-pressos did I take?”
“Two. That was plenty. Karen on the other hand…”
Wait. “Karen? That bitch who always eats our food and challenges us to prove it was her? The girl who takes ‘do not eat’ as a challenge?”
“She’s… currently running naked through the campus trying to get the bees out of her skin,” Sara said. “And speaking in tongues. That’s what she gets for watering it down with Jack Daniels and pouring it over an entire box of Coocoo Bombs.”
Yeah. That sounded exactly like Karen. “Please tell me you have footage?”
“Loads,“ Sara grinned. “Once you’re stable, you can watch the Highlights Reel I’ve put together.”
Grace cackled. This was going to be a good day.
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Challenge #00886-B155: Unexpected Bastion of Safety
“Deportment and propriety in High Society 101” at Lady Favisham’s, a mandatory course for young ladies.
(AKA “How to break a man’s wrist without letting go of your fan”)
“Men,” began Mistress Carlysle. She said the word as though it were an epithet. “They own the world. They run the world. The spend their lives believing that whatever they see… they own. They believe they have the right to help themselves. And it is up to us… It is left to us… to relieve them of that ridiculous notion.“
Tracy raised her eyebrows. This was not what she expected.
Mistress Carlysle raised a cloth over a box. It was a glass case containing a pair of kitten heels, a fan, a clutch purse, a handkerchief, and a very pretty brooch. “These are our weapons. They seem like foolish frippery. I will teach you otherwise.”
So it began. Men likened themselves to hungering animals, and it were those beasts that all these young girls now trained to defend themselves gainst in a ladylike manner.
Tracy was rather proud that she could gracefully suplex a human four times her weight without staining or tearing a delicate chiffon gown. He could disable a man with a fan. Breaking not only his fingers, but also his hands and, in rapid succession, his forearms.
Men could not imply consent when the had both his arms broken.
Kitten heels and the more spiky varieties of ladies’ shoes could either pierce a foot or pierce a skull, though killing a gentleman was viewed in the utmost of bad taste.
And there was also the Favisham’s Slap. Done right, it could deafen a man or break his jaw. Even with a half-hearted effort, it could knock an ‘ungentlemanly gentleman’ off his feet.
And, if the action resulted in a scene, Lady Favisham’s taught the most disarming tactic of ladylike defense: hysterical crying.
Lady Favisham knew her stuff. The semblance of delicacy was the most important weapon of all. It used toxic gender roles to their advantage.
And Tracy made certain she learned every trick in the book.
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Challenge #00323: But is it Art?
Toad has come along to one of Sara, Scott or anyone else’s art showings, and in this circle, his mannerisms seem to have accidentally passed him off as an expert or art critic. He’s having fun, and the artist is not sure whether to laugh at how the rich folk are swallowing all of it and buying the work, or cry at how wrong he is about certain bits.
It was one of Sara’s ‘sideshow’ pieces she called The Abyss. It used mirrors to create the illusion of an endless gulf, and secret sensors to detect how long someone had been staring into it before another hidden mechanism activated a pair of eyes… watching the watcher.
Todd stared into it long enough for it to stare back, and chuckled briefly at the very Sara sense of humor involved.
The next piece along was a series of studies. Self-portraits through time. Collaged in such a way as to give the illusion of both motion and three dimensions. Which was quite a trick, because the self-portraits involved started way back before kindergarten.
And -yes- there was a photo of that self-portrait. It was still behind a discretionary curtain in another corner. This work censored it with another self-portrait covering up the non-existent naughty bits.
Sahra had been honest, sometimes cruelly so, in her self-images. The final one in this frame was an homage to Norman Rockwell, with herself in uniform and aqua skin painting the self that everyone saw every day.
He moved on, nodding at the line of folks seeking to peek beyond the curtain, to the kinetic sculpture and the room of sounds.
Kids were going insane in the room of sounds. Every noise they made splashed across the walls and ceiling as vivid colour and shape. It was called Synesthesia, but everyone who went there asked for the room of sounds.
And, regardless of the kids’ whooping and hollering, someone was watching what it looked like when they sang.
Todd noticed he had a small group of followers. Hipsters, if he was any judge. Half of them were texting.
He raised an eyebrow, “Can I help you?”
“Isn’t the room of sounds an abomination against the nature of Art?” said the spokester.
“Synesthesia,” Todd corrected, “is an exploration in interactivity creating art of the moment. By giving a tool to the common throng, as it were, the artist invites others to become artists by using themselves as part of the medium.”
It was almost ad copy from the placards outside of the doors, but the Hipsters swallowed it. Hook, line and sinker.
“And the tragic seesaw?” said a creature of black dye and multiple piercings.
“Entropy is a study in balance and movement, carefully constructed to give the illusion of frailty whilst being near-indestructable. No doubt you’ve discovered the least breeze sets it moving?”
“It has motors in it to make sure it never stops,” sneered a goth hipster.
“No motors at all. There should be gloves nearby for those who want to try and stop it. You’ll find it tricky, though. The sculpture generates its own breezes.”
That, and Sara thoughtfully parked it under an AC vent, so it would always be moving. She never stopped giggling at the people attempting to stop it to find out where the motors were.
“You talk like you made it,” noted a grunge hipster.
“No, but I am familiar with the artist’s works. You should try discovering a few things about the pieces before you critique them so… minimally.”
They scattered. Todd turned to find Sara spraining something with the effort to not laugh.
“Always gotta run away from th’ source of truth.”
“If I didn’t have so much to do, I’d have a performance piece entitled, ’Ask a Rude Question, Get an Honest Answer’,” Sara rolled her eyes at the hipsters. “They think you’re a famous art critic, by the by.”
Todd shrugged. He wore black because it was easier, some days, to not have to worry about what to wear. He had been appreciating the art, which anyone could do. And he’d been looking thoughtful and hemming a lot. “That’s their problem,” he announced.
“Lunch?”
“My thoughts exactly,” he grinned.
Behind them, the hipsters were having a chicken fight with Entropy, in an effort to catch all the swinging, dipping, and swaying parts. The cameras would catch it all for Sara’s later amusement.
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[AN: Hooray. More reading list. I’m still ploughing through Allomancy on a paragraph-a-day basis]
(#00281)
Sarah thought she was done for, this time. The Criptid creature had been inches away from having her head for a snack. But then, something invisible turned the tables in a more permanent eye-for-an-eye fashion by literally bashing its head off with a big stick.
Sarah recovered her weapon and dealt with the last few stragglers.
The invisible thing faded into view.
“All bad guys dead?”
The figure had aqua skin and a really horrible olive-khaki swimsuit and matching utility belt and shoes. The short brown hair could have belonged to any gender, but this being somehow still read as feminine.
“Yeah…?” Sarah kept her weapon ready. “What are you?”
“Mostly harmless, I swear,” the aqua girl did something to her metal staff that reduced it to the size of a can of soda. “Sara Louise Adrien. Unfortunately feeling the chill. In a minute or two I’ll go into survival mode and my higher capacities will shut down completely. I apologise in advance for the singing.”
“Singing,” Sarah repeated. If things couldn’t get weirder, then she was a wasp in the body of a human and fighting members of her own kind to stop them eating humanity. Oh wait.
“One of my directives. When in doubt. Sing. My compatriots can track me down by my, and I quote, ‘weirdo dinosaur music’.” A deep breath. A stretch. A sigh. “Okay. Objective, eliminate bad guys. Done. Orientation. Uhm…” The sky was overcast. The trees were covered in goo, not moss, and everywhere looked like everywhere else.
“Downhill and downstream?” suggested Sarah.
“I have an app for this!”
Hooray. She had an iPhone.
{dodoonk!}
“Siri. Show me the way to go home.”
It took them three hills before she started singing the rest of the song. By then, Sarah had found out about the third O (orders: don’t die) which contained an essence of useless utility.
“Time for a different song?” Sarah begged. The cold was getting to her. “One written this century?”
“Who am I? Who am I? But a sound. Of. Tomorrow!”
Technically correct. Pity Sarah had no real love of steampunk. Soon, the allies would find them.
Please, merciful Universe, let it be soon.
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[AN: I had to do some research to get the basics on this one. Feel free to flame me when I get it wrong]
(#00207)
Emp tried not to sob. This was the fifty-umpth time she’d been hog-tied and thrown into a dank, dark dungeon. Or similarly dungeonesque oubliette to keep her out of the way while the Vil’s did whatever Vil’s usually did during their cunning plans.
Someone else was in here with her.
[The following dialogue has been translated from GagInMouth garble, denoted <thusly>.]
“<Hello?>” Emp managed. “<It’s all right. Help’s bound to be on its way.>”
“<If it’s anything like you, I’d rather pass,>” said the slim figure in the shadows. There was an intermittent grinding noise. “<Those bastards stole my Bo.>”
“<Your Beau? You have someone?>”
“<No, dear, the weapon Bo. Essentially, a big stick.>” Grind grind grind…
“<What is that grinding noise?>”
“<Me. I’m chewing through the gag.>”
“<That’s possible?>” Emp boggled at the shadowy figure.
“<You can theoretically bite through a human finger, the only thing stopping you is your own brain.>” Grind grind grind…
“<Really? I never tried that before…>” She worked the gag further into her mouth so she could chew the ends. Gag was the right word. It was a horrible experience.
“<From the way they were talking, I’d have thought you’d be learning everything there is to know about escapology.>” Grind grind snap! Th-poo. “Oh, that’s better. I go by the code-name Chameleon.“
”<Empowered,>“ said Emp, still chewing on her own gag. It was tough going. If this stranger could do it, so could she. ”<I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ve heard of you.>“
"You wouldn’t have. I’m not from this dimension.” Squirm squirm squirm. She’d been wriggling for some time, too.
Gnaw gnaw gnaw, “<The vil’s are pretty good with knots. I should know, I get tied up a lot.>”
“I have a friend named Kurt, and he has an uncle Wolfgang who would disagree with you.” Squirm. “Of course it helps (oof) to be (ow) double-jointed.“ Krak snap pop. “HA!” Wriggle! And suddenly she was standing up and striding over. “A little persistence never hurt anyone.“ The stranger was female, but her physique made her read as male.
It wasn’t as though she could hide anything in that abbreviated khaki swimsuit.
Chameleon removed the gag and started working on the knots. “If you’re so awful at being heroic, why do you insist on being a hero.”
“It’s… something I need to do. The suit… it’s self-repairing if I’m confident enough, (ordosomeotherthingsbutIdon’treallyswingthatwayandwejustmet) but it’s so embarrassing…”
“Dear, if I had a body like yours I would not be embarrassed by it.”
“The hypermembrane does give me powers, but it’s really fragile. What does yours do?”
Chameleon grinned and faded out of visibility. The eyes and the smile remained, just like the cheshire cat. “Biomimetic fabric. It blends with me, and it grows with me. There’s the promise of it covering more acreage when I stop growing, but…" she faded back so Emp could see the shrug. “My lineage is tall.“
The ropes loosened. Emp quickly got up and stretched all the kinks out. “Oh! Thank you for that. You have no idea what it’s like to be hog-tied until someone decides you’re worth rescuing.”
“That would suggest you work towards rescuing yourself in future,” said Chameleon. “Or is it your life purpose to be the decorative damsel in distress?“
Emp blushed. “I can’t help it. The suit bonded to me but it really has its limits and I can’t be confident when every flaw shows and—” the sob she fought down bubbled up.
Chameleon’s dark eyes flicked over her, then her green face softened. “It’s all right, dear. I know some tricks that might help…"
*
All the villains were hog-tied. Professionally so, meaning that if they struggled, their bonds grew tighter. Empowered sat, in full costume for a change, on the pile of loot like the cherry on top of the sundae.
“Hi guys,” she chirped. “What took you so long?“
"What?” demanded Sistah Spooky. “How the hell did you—?“
Empowered held her eyes with murder in the back of her mind. “For shame, sister. I thought you had a vested interest in a fellow female cape getting stronger and more confident…”
“…goddamn bland blonde bitch…” muttered Sistah Spooky.
“I could always dye it if my hair makes you uncomfortable,” Empowered offered. “Which would you prefer? Red? Brown? Brunette?“
The issue closed on Sistah Spooky’s angry face. Sara closed it carefully and tucked the comic under her arm with a whispered, “Well done.”
“You’re still buying Empowered?” sneered a spotty, fat gentleman next to her. “It’s not nearly as much fun since she became such a bitch.
“You mean, a lady who is not there for your purile entertainment?” suggested Sara. “There’s still plenty of T and A per issue, if that’s your primary concern.“
"It stopped being fun when she stopped getting tied up.”
“Well, if it’s bondage you’re after, Super Strangle Hentai would—”
“You’re a girl. What would you know?”
“And you’re single for life. Your point?”
He slunk off muttering about bitches.
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Challenge #00195: Beat the Beat
Vimes and Sara met once in a previous post. They meet again, but this time either Sara’s let loose in Ankh Morpork, or Vimes has to cope with Bayville.
“Tolstoy Beattitude Walkingbird!”
“I didn’t do it!”
Consciousness returned like a cat that had been up to something. Creeping in sense by sense and trying to hide behind the couch with its metaphorical tail sticking out.
Nobody was checking out his boots. Nobody was going through his pockets. Nobody was evaluating his teeth. So far, so good. On the other hand, there was an argument going on and it was more or less his job to make sure it didn’t turn into murder.
He risked opening his eyes.
Big mistake.
Leaning over him were two blue things, a greenish thing, an actual werewolf in one of their halfway modes, and half a dozen identical boys.
“HE’S ALIVE!” said one of the boys.
“Of course he’s alive.” Now, a greenish-blue thing entered his field of view. “I do apologize for the inconvenience, Mister Vimes. We’ll try to get you back to Ankh-Morpork before six.”
“How t'hell d'you know who I am?”
She showed him his badge. It had his name etched on it. “Occam’s Razor,” she said. “Simplest explanation is often the best. So I went looking for one.”
He sat up. Sort of a mistake. Everything hurt. “So what’s the complicated explanation?”
“I’m guessing you aren’t familiar with the concept of parallel realities, so let’s just leave it at, ‘everything that can be imagined is allowed to be real somewhere else’, shall we?”
Vimes thought of some of the things he had imagined. “Oh Gods…”
“Sara Louise Adrien,” said the greenish-blue thing. “For me, you exist inside books.”
“Sir Samuel Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch,” he said. “Never heard of you.”
“I’m certain Mister Walkingbird is working on your return journey as we speak,” she said in edged tones.
A distant voice said, “I’d work quicker if certain people called me 'Forge’…”
“In the meantime, would you like some tea?”
“I need a cigar.”
Sara put a hand up. “Mister Logan. Could you donate one of the cigars you’re not carrying to the cause?”
“Damnit, Tallwater…”
“He’s failing to quit,” explained Sara. She handed over the cigar. Someone he couldn’t quite focus on provided a flame.
One of the blue things had a tail. He was quite at home, here. Wherever here was. Vimes decided not to comment. Normal was, after all, relative.
“You’re temporarily in another reality,” said Sara. “We’re working to correct that, but there’s a high chance reality will correct on its own. It’s a resilient bugger, to use your vernacular. You may not ever hear of us, but if you do… It’s rarely my fault that these things happen. I’m usually just trying to fix a problem.”
“Was it a problem before you started?” asked Vimes. It was a very good cigar. Hardly any noxious additives at all.
“Yes. And to many more people than myself.”
“Got it!” shouted 'Forge’ Walkingbird. “Stand clear.”
“It was very nice meeting you, Mister Vimes. I look forward to reading your future exploits.”
“I look forward to never being here again.”
Sara saluted.
*
Sam hugged his wife and child with more than the usual ferocity, that evening.
“Big bad guy?” asked Young Sam.
“No. Daddy just… had a little more adventure than usual.” He tried to forget it, in the bustle of getting ready for an evening at the theatre. Hwel the playwright had created something more suited to younger audiences with lofty morals that hardly needed a hammer to get inside peoples’ heads.
So Sybil claimed.
Sam bought a bag of walnuts, anyway. Things never went bad at the Dysk if you had a walnut to throw.
It was called Thee Ex Menne, and featured a blue thing with a tail, and a greenish-blue thing with complicated language…
Oh dear.
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(#00182)
“…and the shoulder sprocket connecka to the—” Tony sang.
“KNEE BONE,” sang Sara.
“WHAT THE FLYING HELL ARE YOU TWO DOING?” an exasperated Pepper bellowed.
“Came as soon as I could, yo,” said Todd. “You know ‘bout Red Bull, yeah?“
"Oh, we knew about Red Bull,” said Pepper. She was looking a lot manic. “Not a drop of it in the place. Sara ‘tweaked’ the espresso machine so it could produce something called a ‘Heterodyne Blend’.“
"Omiglob…” Todd took in the thing they were creating. “Sumpin’ tells me that thing ain’t goin’ make it rain Marshmallows.“
"IT’S GOING TO CURE THE WORLD!” Both Sara and Tony howled.
“Cure how?” Todd wondered.
“Apparently, it’s going to make everyone nice against their will. No matter how they communicate.”
Todd stared at the growing device. “Sure yo’ wanna stop ‘em?“
"Free will is a thing,” said Pepper. “Besides, you know the first asshole to come along afterwards is just going to take over a world full of nice people.“
Todd sighed. “Pity.” One last, lingering look at the growing device. “Awright. Let’s start with the drinkin’ chocolate…"
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Plus La Change
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
More AU'ness.
(#00175)
“So… this is happening,” said the police chief. “WHY is it happening?“
"I don’t know, sir,” said her immediate underling. “I just know it’s continuing to happen…" The swirling patterns of ink on his skin became the repeated word TRUTH.
Many a near-riot had begun because of the quasi-cogniscent ink that had spread like a virus over the skins of all citizens of Bayville. Many men were very upset to find themselves indelibly branded with words like MISOGYNIST, RACIST, RAPIST or ASSHAT. Or, when they attempted to deny the ink, being branded with the word LIAR.
And they were impossible to conceal.
Also in the mix was what the CDC and the media alike were calling the Empathy Virus. Any man who thought that shaving once a day was worse than menstruation found himself not only feeling the uterine pangs of any woman within a fifty-foot radius… but uncontrollably bleeding from his genitals.
Racists who would not shut up found their skin turning a vibrant, eye-hurting green.
Pro-life men found themselves doubled over in unstoppable Braxton Hicks contractions. Pro-life women found their homes invaded by hordes of unwanted children who insisted on calling them ‘mom’.
And through the middle of Bayville, a thin, elongated being with a weird backpack was flying above the streets with a bullhorn, shouting, “Red Bull does NOT give you wings! Science does!“
Various costumed weirdoes were attempting to catch them and failing all over the landscape.
"What else could go wrong?” asked the rookie with the coffee.
As if in answer, it started raining marshmallows.
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