(#00154)
The entire nerd portion of the school moaned in disappointment. They all knew what it meant. The next talent show would be stripped, pasteurized, sanitized and otherwise made dull, bland, and completely boring.
“And I was going to juggle a chainsaw, a bowling ball, and a fresh egg,” whined Kurt.
Only one was cackling.
“Sara, no-o-o-o-o-o…” said Todd, possibly on automatic.
“But I was going to give them exactly what they wanted, and nothing of what they asked for,” protested Sara. “It’s the ultimate serving of kharma.”
“Not th’ way you do kharma, sweetums. You want ‘em to shut down the talent show altogether?”
Sara grumped. “They would, too. Straight-boxed mundanes…” She fell silent and still, but it was still evident that she was thinking too hard about it all. “You know… there *is* that theatre for rent, just down the road…”
It became Cirque du Bayville, and boasted “all the talent the school board was scared to display!”
And it made a fortune.
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Young Knights and Old Soldiers
Saw this quote online, figured it might inspire something interesting.
“Hoping to find a ‘knight in shining armor’ is a worthless dream. His blade razor-edged, his shield polished, his breastplate ornately-gilded, they say only this - that his experience in battle is nothing, and his courage has never been tested. He has nothing but ambition and optimism in his corner, and he could easily falter and flee when that shine fades. Hope instead to find the steadfast soldier in scuffed and dented plate, whose shield is scarred and cracked and whose sword is chipped and dulled. This is someone who has faced the enemy without fear, who has fought through the assaults of those who tried to break him and, even if in the end he was left weary and bloody, still emerged victorious. That man, battered and bruised but still triumphant, is the kind of hero one should seek.”
(#0153)
“Oh, now what the hell?”
There were two figures blocking egress. Men in armor. Men with muscles, but beyond that, they were opposites. One was a stereotypical shining knight replete with his own star filter. The other was a rusted, dented, mismatched man with a smoldering cigar and reeking of cynicism.
“CHOOSE YOUR HERO,” boomed the voice controlling this labyrinth of chaos.
“I know how this goes,” Kitty began to go to the sparkly one on the left.
“Wait,” said Jean. “This was put together by Sara on a 'flu medicine and sugar bender. Nothing fits nypical rules.”
“Nypical?” echoed Pietro.
“Neurotypical. I’ve been reading Sara’s psych books. Deal. This is her creation. In essence, we’re inside her head.”
“Euw,” said Lance.
“That explains the last three pun-related traps,” muttered Scott.
“Hush,” said Jean. “We have to think like Sara.”
“Psychoweirdo lunacy? I’m not doing anything about anything, then,” said Pietro.
“So…like, the shiny hero’s the bad one?” guessed Kitty.
“Too right,” said the other one. He had been leaning against his archway. “Mister shiny over there’s never been in a real fight. Watch.” he flicked a small, wooden cosh towards the shiny knight in a negligent motion.
And, predictably, the pretty one literally fell to pieces.
The rusty fighter lit his cigar again. “Sam Vimes,” he said. “Ankh-Morpork City Watch.”
“Told you so,” murmured Jean.
[Muse food remaining: 8 (fic war prompts, 3). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
(#00152)
They had called themselves the League of Justice. Ordinary folks who used sparky inventions to foil, imprison, or otherwise stop other sparks. And they caught Sara.
She, and her clank storage trunk, were the only things to come out of the resulting crater.
“I see you rescued yourself,” said Gil.
“I told them not to mess with my luggage. They should have taken me seriously.”
“What were they doing?”
“Changing the course of history, they believed,” Sara looked back. “They finished up changing the course of the river, alas.”
“Making a new lake,” Gil noted.
“I begged them to come into the box with me… they didn’t understand.”
“Some people never do.”
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Challenge #151: One Stormy Evening at Genracon
Klaus + Da Boyz + Comic Convention = Wacky Hijinks
“Ve FIGHT!”
Lightning raged, both natural and artificial, through the iron catacombs where he and this idiot trio of Jaegers had decided to pick a fight.
“Not so close to the por–”
KRAKKOW!
“–tal…”
“Vot?”
The lights came back on. Crowds in varying degrees of unrealistic dress stared at the tangle of Baron and Jaegermonsters…
And burst into shrieking applause.
Maxim straightened first, fixing his hair and adjusting his hat. “Ladies,” he grinned.
Oggie followed him, elbowing him in the gut. “Hyu idiot, they is cheerink for me.” He struck what he probably thought was a seductive pose.
Shockingly, this earned more cheering and hooting.
“Clearly, the residents of this dimension are insane,” announced Klaus.
“Hy agree,” said Dimo.
More hoots.
Maxim and Oggie were busy bickering over who was prettiest, much to the amusement of the strangely-dressed crowd. Klaus decided to use the distraction to examine the portal by which they’d entered. “It’s… made out of cardboard. What kind of idiot builds a multidimensional portal out of cardboard?”
“Vun who has a budget?” suggested Dimo.
Again, the audience roared.
“And those idiots will cheer anything…”
They cheered. Proof positive.
“Up next,” said someone dressed in black and coated in glitter, “The Jaegergirls singing, _You Can Leave Your Hat On_.” He took the peculiar lump-on-a-stick away from his mouth and growled, “Get. Off.”
Klaus ‘borrowed’ the stick and started taking it apart. “I see… These take the place of valves. Boards full of circuits. Intriguing.”
The girls danced on the stage anyway. “Monster take off you coat…”
“Ho yes!” said Maxim.
“De GORLZ!” said Oggie.
“Komm to uz ladiez!” they chorused.
Chaos, as the narrators are wont to explain, ensued.
When they were finally back in their home dimension, Klaus rounded up all three by their necks and snarled, “We are never. Ever. Mentioning this again. UNDERSTOOD?”
*
Phil and Kaja, very special guest judges, blinked the after-images away.
“Okay,” said Phil. “That just happened.”
“If you pretend it was all an act, I’m willing to play along,” murmured Kaja.
“Sold.”
[Muse food remaining: 7 (fic war prompts, 2). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
(#00150)
[AN: Since I have a fic in progress with Sara turning up in the GG universe, I can get away with both!]
She really should not have followed master Gilgamesh. But she had and, having followed master Gilgamesh, found an adventure. This, though, was a lull-point. Fixing and repairing and building and, strangely enough, taking a well-deserved rest.
Which was how she met Mama/Jaegergeneral Gkika. She was all sharp smiles and, for a Jaeger, cunning.
They conversed for a while about recipes and this or that, and then she said it. “Und how iss der liddle one?”
Sara did her best to hide the frisson of terror that almost stopped her heart. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said, cool and frosty. Outside, nothing had changed. Inside, it was shrieking panic and tempest in progress.
“Der liddle one hyu keeps in dat big-liddle movink box of yours.”
Islands shattered. Stars exploded. Civilizations fell in rains of fire. This Jaeger had found Jane!
Sara very calmly gave her a generous portion of mutton and clootie dumplings. She’d overdone the nutmeg, but that was the point. She needed this nosy Jaeger napping while she checked on everything.
Someone - possibly Gkika - had turned her tent upside-down. Contents and all. And without Sparky intervention.
Jane was fine. Thank the forces of Kismet. And it was a relatively minor matter to turn everything to rights. But Gkika knew. Jaegergeneral or not, everyone knew that the best way to get a Jaegermonster to keep a secret was to sew it into their severed head and bury it under half a mountain.
Ergo, in order to protect Jane, Sara had to keep Gkika… distracted.
Master Gilgamesh would notice if his best Jaeger suddenly lost her head.
Sara began by doping her dinner with Flattus Beans. Gkika retaliated by aiming her fart flares in Sara’s general direction. Sara concocted a fang paste that encapsulated any attempted vocalization in fuchsia bubbles. Gkika somehow painted Sara’s travelling box with unicorns and flowers.
But everyone agreed it was the trio of singing mimmoths that did the trick.
They were in a little cage, singing _Blue Moon_.
Gkika, gently sizzling from her last attempt on Sara, said, “Them vuns, hyu don’t want to eat all at vunce.”
“Please, I spent hours on their little tuxedoes.”
“How…?” said Gil.
“Well, the bow ties were a bit bothersome, but once you have the correct magnification, you just miniaturize a 37 Gargantuan. They’re a surprising match to the humanoid frame.”
“How do you get them to stop?”
“Oh.” Sara faced the cage and bowed slightly. “That will do, gentlemen.”
The mimmoths trumpeted a final ‘ta-dah!’ with their trunks and began to graze on their bedding.
“And now,” said Gil, in the manner of all men battling an incipient migraine. “WHY?”
“She iz very goot mama,” said Gkika. “Hy don’ mind at all. She’s schtopped me tellink you about der liddle vun so often, hy almost forget she’s dere.”
“I knew I should have arranged a more permanent accident,” muttered Sara.
“Little… one…” Gil boggled. “I would know if there was a baby in the camp. And Miss Adrien is far too young to have birthed an older child. Just… stop this nonsense and stay focussed on our primary task, if you please.”
Oceans of relief almost drowned her. Sara breathed out. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” She watched him leave to fix the latest incipient disaster and laughter bubbled up out of her. “How about that,” said Sara. “An improbable truth is invisible! I needn’t have worried so hard.”
“Hy just vanted to help make der liddle dresses. Und put der liddle bows in her hair.”
Sara reluctantly offered her hand. “Pax puero?”
“Ja!”
Ever afterwards, Gil would only ever glancingly worry about the tea parties in Sara’s tent…
[Muse food remaining: 8 (fic war prompts, 3). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
(#00149)
Sara really should not have sung. That had been the ultimate bone of contention. Especially since it was _Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better_.
Amara would not back down. Neither would Sara.
So now the danger room had been set up as two identical kitchens, and a black neutral zone between them. Randomizers were set to pick random ingredients from anywhere in the world, and raise them up into the neutral zone for the competitors to use.
The dias rose. The containment fell away to reveal…
Thousands of live crickets. They spilled like water from the device and spread like a cloud into the danger room.
Sara, all calm and logic, said, “You forgot to program in the tank, Doctor McCoy…”
Amara shrieked and fled for the ceiling.
And that was how Sara won a cooking contest without having to cook.
[Muse food remaining: 9 (fic war prompts, 4). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
(#00148)
The Queen of Skifander was never weak. Though she rode a palanquin, it was a tactic. Four sets of feet were faster than one on their own. Her bearers were gaining on the interlopers. Zantabraxus coiled on her throne like a cat readying itself to pounce. Soon, they would be in range…
“HALT!”
“What?” said the usurper. “How the heck did she get here?”
She was a giant of a clank made of silver and gold. Her wings were in sad disrepair, but that did not stop her from making an almost Skifandran leap between her and the interlopers.
“These children are under my protection,” said the clank. “You will not harm them.”
“These children are grown warriors,” argued Zantabraxus. “And they are threats to the Skifandran empire.”
“I am sworn to protect—”
“While that boy lives, my daughter only possesses half a soul! See how he has corrupted her against me. See how he brings usurpers to my court!”
The blonde usurper’s voice carried through the greenery. “I wouldn’t take your empire if you dipped it in chocolate!”
“And what is wrong with Skifander?” Zantabraxus roared back.
“Aigh, not again…”
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(#00147)
Logan stared at the view from the observation port. The brats were battling on twin dirigibles. One team with blue bandannas, the other with red. There were swords, steampunk machines, flying apes, strange beasts and… orchestral music?
Elf was enjoying every last minute of it.
“Have at thee, foul miscreants,” he cried, swinging all over the place like a monkey on a bender. “However many you may be, you can not match the heart of a true musketeer.”
Tallwater was singing her own theme music, for God’s sake. Red was zipping around on some mini-dirigible with bat wings and propellers, shooting what he hoped were harmless weapons at her foes.
Logan hit the ‘kill’ button.
“Ah, noble D’Artagnion. Valiant Cyrano,” Elf was waxing lyrical. “Cyrano and Captain Blood… If you could only see me—”
The figures and most of the set-up faded. The machines round to a halt.
“—n—aaaaAAAAWWWwwwww…”
Logan turned the intercom on, “What the hell, Tallwater?”
“Who said it was me?”
He waved a thick volume left in the control center so she could see. “Your source material.”
“Is there a rule that says that heroics aren’t allowed to have a little style?” she countered.
“That’s my line,” objected Elf.
“You’re all walkin’ the road with garbage bags, tomorrow. Try getting this nonsense authorized, next time.”
“But you’d’ve said ‘no’,” said Sara.
“Tallwater…”
[Muse food remaining: 7 (fic war prompts, 2). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
(#00146)
Zeetha stared out the porthole. Unbidden tears fell down her face.
“Are you hurt?” Agatha managed. It had been a rough landing of a pod never meant to fly. Zeetha was lucky she was upright. Agatha and Gil were still turned about and tangled in their impromptu rewiring.
“I’m… home…”
Agatha got herself untangled with a loud thud, peered out the porthole. The jeweled towers of Skifander shone in the dawn light. A glistening cohort of Skifandran soldiers were approaching at high speed. And behind them, the palanquin of the Queen herself.
“It’s the Queen. Mother!” Zeetha wrenched Gil out of the wires as she raced for the exit. “Just wait until she finds out you’ve been alive all this time!”
*
“KILL THE USURPER! KILL THE USURPER!”
“Any other ideas, O mighty princess?”
“Just keep running!”
[Muse food remaining: 8 (fic war prompts, 3). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00145: Mein Kinder
Girl Genius, Klaus + baby!Gil. Klaus’s thoughts on watching Gil grow.
The magnetite compas was working. As was the nourishment formula the infant boy was suckling on.
His son.
Gilgamesh.
He would have to do something about the fine green fuzz of hair that marked him as Skifandran. But right now, in a hot-air flying engine cobbled together out of whatever he had to hand… it was not important.
He could not take his sister. At least, he could not take the infant princess Zeetha and hope to survive. Males did not count for much in Skifander. They would stop searching for him and his son at the first false death scene.
His son was too important to leave to the tender mercies of a matriarchy.
He could change clothing. The sooner he was out of the ludicrous bandolier-and-posing-pouch thing the Queen had chosen for him, the better.
Alas, all his cloth and leather was currently serving more important functions. He set course for Europe. And spent entirely too long staring at the tiny scrap of humanity that was the future of his line. Watching Gil breathe.
So very small and fragile…
“Come what may,” he said, knowing his son could not understand, “I will protect you.”
*
Paris was on fire. Large portions of Europe were either on fire or infested with revenants. The Other had done much damage. Incessant bickering between sparks had escalated to siege weaponry and unguided missiles.
Gil was happy in his carry-harness. A metal pod that served as protection in unpleasant circumstances, life support and -ah- hygienic necessity.
It would, evidently, soon be insufficient. He needed more than a clank to protect his son. He would need an army.
He would start, like he always had to start, with whatever came to hand. And build from there.
Castle Wulfenbach was a wrecked ruin on the ground. He would build a new one. One that was invulnerable. Or at least one that could move beyond conventional attack. He would rain order on the country.
He set up a shelter in what used to be a staff kitchen in his castle. A relic in which to build his future.
Gil hit the protective bubble with the thing-on-a-stick Klaus had managed to buy from a nervous vendor.
“No sign of Bill or Barry. Still,” he said. He had been talking to Gil on the theory that talking helped a child learn to speak. Also the theory that saying things out loud helped keep him sane. There was little empirical evidence that either was working. “If they were here, this would be so much easier…”
“Da!” said Gil.
Talking early. Promising. Klaus almost instantly smothered his warming heart in waves of paranoia. His plan put his son in danger.
…but only if anyone knew that Gil was his son.
*
Castle Wolfenbach soared. It flew over the wreckage of Mechanicsburg and the ruin of castle Heterodyne.
The Other had known when and where to strike.
It took a unique ruthlessness to deal with Mechanicsburg. It took so much ruthlessness. To make him and his family a target to everyone with a blade.
Which meant a unique talent for salvage.
He found Otilla in the body of Vonn Pinn, and set her to guarding the children. Knowing she would not fail. Especially the most important one.
“And this… is Gil.” Almost three years old. He would start forming permanent memories, soon. Klaus allowed himself the luxury of one last hug. Permitted himself the weakness of wet eyes. He would not touch or speak to his son as a father until such time as the boy grew of age. “Just. Gil.”
Von Pinn looked him in the eye, lie for lie, and nodded. “I will gift him with equal protection.”
Which, to her mind, meant the utmost protection.
*
It was called Zoing. Quite remarkable. A whimsical construct made out of what seemed to be kitchen leftovers. Gil was eight. And already a Spark.
What made a Spark into a Spark? Why would the boy break out so easily at six when his own development…
And since he had so many renegade Sparks in his custody… It was high time he indulged in some experiments.
Starting with the self-styled Doctor Dimitri. He would no longer harm any child, any longer. A man with those kinds of perversions… would never be missed.
And it would help protect his son.
Business, Science and Pleasure. A very rare triple victory.
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