“How Super Are We All, Really?”
An FOH sympathizer and Scott have a civil debate on the issue of human supremacy vs. coexistence after she recognizes him during the reception preceding his third artistic experience post song. Common ground is tripped upon due to the relative naivete of both to the concept of creative expression.
(#00217)
He had bought a suit for this exhibition, and still waited for someone to call him out as a fraud. Scott still called his works ‘inspired by’ ikebana rather than the actual thing, lest he be seen as another appropriating white artist stealing another nations’ culture. He watched Japanese artists and critics alike, waiting for a frown or some other signal that he was doing it wrong.
“Did you use your powers to cheat at this?” was a call-out he had not expected.
“Huh?”
“I know you,” said the very English-sounding black man in tweed. “You’re one of those mutants. Cyclops, right? You used your mutant powers to cheat.”
“Actually, my mutant powers would be highly detrimental. I’m packing a bazooka behind each eyeball and I can’t turn it off.” Maybe Sara’s technique of blunt honesty could pierce the veil of willful ignorance. He tapped his ruby-quartz glasses. “These hold it back, and incidentally cut off my access to most of the visible spectrum.”
“Yes, I saw the glasses. Nice trick, trying to gain sympathy. How did you cheat?”
Evidently, mutants could not be capable of twiddling away at things until they got good at it. “If I was using my powers to concussively blast away at stone until I had a sculpture, maybe… but I’m not a sculptor. I did all of these with my hands, like anyone else would.”
“Yes, but how did you cheat?”
Sigh. “How would you cheat, if you had my powers?” he asked.
“I’d telepathically borrow–”
“Not a telepath. I can’t do that. A friend of mine could, but they choose not to.”
He frowned. “You use telekinesis to–”
“I don’t have telekinesis. If I did, don’t you think I’d be snatching the last of the crab puffs, right now?” He pointed to the distant snack table where another patron was doing just that.
“You absorbed someone’s mind an–”
“No, that’s Rogue. She actually hates doing that.”
“Then what the hell mutant cheating powers have you got?”
“Bazooka eyeballs. That’s it. Swear to God.”
He glared at Scott, evidently looking for a tell. “You can’t be this good overnight. No-one can.”
“I was messing around with it for ages, right up until one of Sara’s Aunts spotted me and insisted on an exhibition. That’s why there’s only photos of my earlier works. I tore them down to make newer ones.”
The wince was pure artistic appreciation. “How could you? How could you just… take apart art like that?”
“I didn’t think it was good enough.” He shrugged and stared at a piece he was now forbidden to touch ever again. He saw every flaw. Every mistake. But now, it belonged to someone else. If he wanted to make improvements, he’d have to make a new piece with new… pieces. “I still don’t.”
The man glared at him a moment, and then took one of the cheap, plastic-and-cellophane glasses left lying around for patrons to look through. “It’s so stark… no wonder you chose dead articles…”
“That, and I’m not confident enough to touch a living plant. The imitation of life, or dried plants… it’s something I can’t kill.”
He lowered the glasses, frowning. “I can’t imagine killing anything by looking at it.”
“I can’t stop,” said Scott.
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Challenge #00216: Icky-what?
Scott, inspired by watching Sara at the harp, is day 17 in his surprising new hobby, marked by his acumen and desire for a greater range of expression and development. Jean comments.
It was not an art usually appreciated in the making, it was something appreciated after it was finished. And even after seventeen days of practice, he was still too shy to show anyone but the Adriens.
He knew Ororo saw it, because she left encouraging little post-its on his desk. And sometimes, gifts of culch.
He was deep into an arrangement of interesting stones when he realized he had an audience.
Jean was peering over his shoulder in stunned fascination.
“Uh,” he said.
“You weren’t answering my ‘ping’, so…” she pointed. “What the flying hell is that?”
“Ikebana,” he said, placing a twig.
“Icky… what?”
“Ikebana. As Sara would say, flower-arranging with a twist.”
Jean rolled her eyes at the mention of her quirky-on-a-good-day roommate. “Don’t tell me, she got you started on this.”
“Sort of.”
“How does anyone 'sort of’ get you into flower-arranging?”
I heard that 'you’ thank you. “Well, it started with this harp video and Sara showed me the difference between technically correct and talented,” he began.
“I saw the video, yes…”
“And… I wanted to be able to… reach people like that.”
“Still missing a few dots.”
“So I talked to Sam, and he said I should find my hearts’ passion.”
“Which is flower-arranging.”
“Ikebana. There’s no vase, the plants stand as part of the art. On their own.”
Jean shook her head. “So how the heck do you get them standing up like that? Is it the rocks?”
“No, there’s these little stand things, you can get them in wire or plastic, but some folks carve them out of wood or fold them out of this special paper, because the artificial stands interfere with the spirit of nature inherent–”
Jean held up a hand. “I get it. This is your hearts’ passion.” She smiled. “You should leave a few around the mansion, ninja style.”
Scott mock-glared at her. “You know I am no good at ninja.”
“I’m sure Sara could help,” she teased.
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Challenge #00213: Emotional… Promotion
When Scott finds out that leaders can indeed be seen crying and still be respected, he adjusts accordingly.
Kitty had recorded it because she couldn’t believe it. She showed it to Jean because she still didn’t believe it after watching it fifteen times in a row.
“Wow,” Jean said. And, after the third view, “I was joking when I said Sara’s playing could make a statue cry, but - *damn*…”
She accidentally showed it to Rogue because she shoulder-surfed a lot.
Rogue told Kurt. Kurt told Hank. Hank told Ororo.
Rogue also told Jamie. It went viral from there. Or at least, as viral as viral could get while still trapped on Kitty’s phone.
Professor Xavier knew without having to be told. One of the advantages of being the world’s strongest telepath.
Thus, he was prepared when Scott came in to talk.
“Don’t worry about the negative effects of that video,” the Professor began. “You’ll find it sometimes advantageous to show your humanity.”
“How?” Scott wondered.
“Emotion is not evil,” Xavier counseled. “It is part of us and who we are. Leadership is a job, not a personality.”
Next training sim, he let himself ‘out’ a bit more. Showed his concern for his teammates. Let slip a little fear that they came to harm.
Amazingly, they tried all the harder for it.
It was like a miracle.
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Okay, fanfic writers: I double-dog dare you.
Open up the file of the last fic you worked on, copy the very first sentence of that fic (no cheating!), add it to the bottom of this post, and reblog.
Shallan Davar knew she should probably be asleep, but she simply didn’t feel tired.
You like oranges.
The little part of Sara that was keeping her alive in the middle of the coldest Valentine’s day New York could remember liked to sing.
(via stormfather)
Challenge #00212: Prepared.
When being the coward of the county works out well.
There’s always that one weirdo in every town. That’s me. I try not to let on, because this is redneck country, but I’m scared of just about everything. Fortunately, since redneck country is also survivalist country, nobody bats an eye at folks ordering food by the pallet. With GPS co-ordinates instead of a delivery address.
I don’t have a bank account. Not since I saw what was happening with the housing bubble and switched to cash-only. I only keep my drivers’ license because some folks need to see ID before they let you buy certain things.
People thought I was crazy for moving into the old silver mine. Building a house in the warren of tunnels that had been abandoned before electricity stretched its wires across the country.
I don’t let any of my programs use my location.
And I spend a majority of my time extracting the silver that the mining company was too cheap to bother with. Smelt it myself. Make my own coins, in quarter-ounce, half-ounce, and one-ounce lots. I raise my own food. Vegetables and meat alike in lit galleries I re-enforced myself against every kind of possible attack.
About the only thing my place won’t withstand is a direct nuke. And frankly, I don’t want to live through one of those.
I got everything the whole town could need. Food, water, shelter and even entertainment. For years. Because if a disaster happened, I’d be called on to look after all those other idiots or they’d shoot me and wreck everything I’ve worked for.
I was prepared. Because I was scared.
I felt the explosion more than I heard it. Something big had gone wrong down in the town. I loaded my truck with the emergency gear, and more than my usual amount of first-aid and went looking.
Some idiots had managed to blow up the hospital.
The fire department used city water to try and put out the flames. I hadn’t trusted city water since they started fracking in the area, and it turns out I was right. Fire department set themselves on fire. People were trying to use more water to stop the flames and just spreading it further.
Right.
Time for some judicious sabotage.
I went the long way around and shut off the pumps. There wasn’t a lot of guard-dodging because everyone and their kid brother’s dog was going towards the smoke. By the time they worked it out, it’d be too late.
I loaded up my buckets with sand until the truck could hardly move and headed for the fire. They’d be running out of death-water by now.
Good timing. People were screaming about no water, so I just handed them some sand.
I hate public speaking, but this time… it had to be done. “Get Jim’s crew and all the movers he’s got to bring more sand in,” I hollered. “The water’s full of gas! We can’t use it. We gotta smother the fire.”
The pet store across the way started a chain with all their kitty litter sacks. The garden place let us have all the soil. After that was gone, and my sand was gone, Jim’s crew saved the day.
Then it was all triage in the street and getting folks to help where they could. I knew most alternative and emergency medicine than anyone since I’m terrified of getting hurt.
Town’s honey stocks went to zero, and the potatoes have to be et up after using the skins on all the burns… but lives were saved.
You won’t believe the headline it made in the local rag.
Survivalist Wins Bravery Award.
Now there’s some irony for you.
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Challenge #00211: Dining with… Omnivores.
Let’s switch up an old cliche!
The subject of diet comes up, and the alien/s at the table is/are horrified and/or disgusted that humans eat plant matter.
“We’ve done our best, of course, to find compatible foods, and make you feel welcome.”
Sh'shrii had to hand it to the humans. They had only seen the Ssarqa once, over a slightly dodgy analogue communications link, but they were clever enough to cobble together near-appropriate seating and a delicious-smelling meal on the spur of the moment.
The chairs were a slight measure too short, and the food unfamiliar, but the intent of their hospitality was clear.
“What meat is the coloured fare?” asked Sh'shrii, pointing it out.
“That’s not meat. That’s a fruit salad. More or less for us, since your data indicated you’re largely carnivores.”
“And the other colours?”
“Those are the vegetables.”
“You… eat… plant matter?”
“Amongst other things. Humans are biologically omnivorous.”
Sh'shrii couldn’t help the noise of disgust. “You’re either predators or prey, you can’t have it both ways. You simply have to pick one.”
The human considered this with an expression of disbelief. “If it helps your comfort levels, I’m vegan. I choose to eat no animal-based protein.”
Another noise. Sh'shrii almost retched. “The ignominy… rescued by herbivores…”
“Omnivores,” corrected the human. “I just happen to be voluntarily herbivorous.”
“Why would you choose such a disgusting lifestyle?”
This time, their smile was a rictus. “Let’s just discuss the rescue/salvage over a nice hot meal, shall we?”
“Do not show me the way you eat, I have no desire to lose my appetite.”
“Yes, fine, whatever,” the human muttered. “Let’s just get this over with.”
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“Now, That Makes…Sense.”
Write a story about a young man, who on the best day of his life, finally realizes why the old man is dancing in the middle of their locker room waving their trophy around in this link. Make both he and I cry please.
[AN: Sport is not my forte…]
(#00210)
It had been his job to round up the towels on the day they won. The crowd had been too thick for him to see the old man, and too raucous for him to make sense of the words. But there was a feeling in the entire room. The soul of victory was awash in the air. Even he smiled, though he was still rounding up manky, sweaty locker room towels at the time.
He never understood sport. Everyone wanted to make it needlessly complicated with rules and sub-rules and sub-sub rules that ended up looking like an End User License Agreement. Or at least the terms and conditions. And worse, every time he confessed his ignorance, people who loved sport felt compelled to explain it to him in excruciating detail.
It was one of the reasons he never explained his loves to anyone else.
But it still remained a mystery why people got so excited when a team of trained athletes were victorious over another. Until the Great Day.
It started with a sound night’s sleep, a rarity with noisy neighbours who complained if he so much as belched. Then, a forgotten fifty dollars found intact in his pants’ pocket. Then, the breakfast he set aside the night before had not been devoured in the wee small hours by his ever-voracious roommate.
He was on time for the bus, and it was on time for the train.
The office meeting was free of asinine banter and actually got to the freaking point. And ended before lunch. The vending machine dispensed snacks perfectly, and gave correct change.
And then he spotted the vinyl figurine on Dalia’s desk.
Dalia. Beautiful, shy, soft-spoken and impossible-to-talk-to Dalia. She of the minimalist verbalizations and the efficient hairstyle. Dalia… had a vinyl Bamf on her desk.
To the end of his days, he never knew how he got the courage to speak up. To out himself as a nerd. But he did remember coming up to her and saying, “Cute Bamf. Where’d you find him?”
“I don’t have to prove–” Dalia stopped. “Um. There’s this little place in a side-street off of Grey street. One of those L-space shops.”
“I thought they were extinct,” he said, inwardly singing, Yes! She knows of Pratchett! to himself. “The last one on the corner of Fifth and Twenty-second went belly-up, last month.”
“Yeah, I was really looking forward to getting that model kit, but my paycheque and their debts never met. Pity.”
“Which model were you after?”
“I was sorta drooling over a 1:8th scale Moya with chambers and articulated Pilot…” Dalia sighed. Looked directly at him. “You’d better get back to work before they catch us geeking out… Kevin.”
Oh right. Nametag. “Maybe you could show me the new place at lunch?”
A smile. “Meet you in the lobby.”
He floated to his cubicle. Never before had he wanted to sing. Never before had he felt the compulsion to dance.
His air was full of the soul of victory.
And now he knew why the old man danced.
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Challenge #00209: Réve-olutionary
When Julie dreams.
“Good morning, Miss Shayde!’
Shayde turned. The only person who could get away with ‘miss'ing her was skipping along with a peculiar little box in her hands and, as always, Nanny in tow.
"Good morning, Julie,” she said, tagging along because it was way more interesting than grocery shopping. “What’s in the wee box?”
Julie blushed and giggled. “It isn’t wee, it’s dreams.”
Dreams? Now that was interesting. “How’d they catch dreams in there, then?”
“I wear a special hat when I go to bed,” said Julie. “It records them all. And then when it’s full, I take it to neurosciences.”
“Julie has good dreams,” supplied Nanny. “Four months’ food budget.”
This was one of the moments when Nanny personally creeped Shayde out. Dogs should live in the Now, but Nanny had been made to fill the gap Julie couldn’t. So, this was a dog who could plan.
But the concept of buying dreams sent up a more urgent mental red flag. “They buy 'er dreams?”
“Copy and analyze,” said Nanny. “They are Julie’s dreams. Always Julie’s dreams.”
She’d measure 'em up for certain then. Make sure some tosser wasn’t taking advantage of a girl and her dog. Or a dog and her girl.
*
“Good morning, Julie,” said the pleasant man in Sciences Khaki. “You have a friend with you. Would you like to sign up for dream-recording services, Cogniscent–?”
“Shayde. And ye would'nae want my dreams.” She folded her arms and glared down at him. “Na what’s all this nonsense about buying dreams off this little girl?”
“It’s not an outright purchase…” he spotted her gold vest. “Ambassador. It’s… purchasing a license to view and examine. Julie maintains the right to view, share, copy, and create derivative works from the recordings.”
He was telling the truth, but she hung around for the transfer viewing because trust was not in her basic nature.
They were beautiful. Swimming through space filled with dancing flowers and fairies. Attending a tea party with all her friends and everyone was wearing -amongst other things- a frilly pinafore. A psychadelic cosmos of balletic lights.
She wept.
Not just because of its beauty, but for her own innocence, lost too many years ago.
This was why Julie was an artist.
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Challenge #00208: Creative Outlet
Scott, inspired by crying while watching Sara at the harp, tries to apply himself to a creative endeavor to become, one day, even a tenth as proficiently expressive as she was. Mr. Adrien interrupts with a few pertinent questions.
There was a reason why arts were not so well funded as, say, sports. Or the sciences. They could be tested and quantified and finally summed up by a number. Which meant that people could compare scores.
Art… was subjective. As Sara would say, it was an agreed-upon illusion of worth. But then, she also said that about money.
Conversations with Sara could lead to a person wondering how the hell the universe still fit together so well by the time they reached the other end of them.
He had not been creative, because creativity had not done anything to up any particular score in the rank and file of his self-evaluation. Hell, everyone else under the age of twenty referred to him as “Mister Military.”
He didn’t know where to start. How to evaluate his work if he did start. What to do with himself.
But the memory of that tune. The aching loneliness and desperation to get somewhere -anywhere- away from a place of boredom and enuii… If he could do one thing even half as well as Sara did - he’d probably stop doubting himself and be able to make miracles.
Instead of asking Sara, who might laugh at him, he tried the internet. It was no help. His searches inevitably lead to some guy in a green robe waxing lyrical about the creative spirit while moving film cans of all things… or the super-weird _Don’t Hug Me, I’m Scared_. When he wasn’t busy being rickrolled.
Next, he fetched up in the Adrien library, trying to find what the hell motivated Sara between the expensive leather covers. He skipped the books on law and found a few treatises on art.
Damnit. It was about appreciation, rather than performance.
“Those are Jacquelline’s,” said Sam.
Scott reacted like a cat. Leaping into the air with flailing limbs and a yowl of surprise that he thankfully stifled into a brief yip. “Sorry for the intrusion, sir… I was just… um…”
Sam quirked an eyebrow.
“Have you heard Sara play _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_?”
“Heartbreaking, isn’t it?” Sam recovered the tome on art appreciation and caressed a notation in pencil from a long-ago reader.
Yes. He knew about heartbreak. “So did I. And I thought…” words failed him.
“That you needed a break from being Mister Military?” Sam prompted.
Scott nodded gratefully. “Yessir. Only. I have no idea where to start.”
“My best advice? Go see and hear art. Wait for that moment when your heart sings, ‘Oh, I want to do that’ and then study the how-to’s.”
“That’s… a little… um. Unregulated.”
Sam grinned a very Sara grin. “So’s art.”
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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.
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