Elvis has left the building
It’s August 1977, news has spread that Elvis Presley has died. For Amy & Zerachiel this is a problem. Niether can find them. Their department heads are furious, the records show that the King has just dissappeared and if Amy and Zerachiel can’t come up with the goods they’re fired. Might be that he’s not even human, mortal or even subject to either of their departments.
Amy = plain clothes demon
Department = Hell, collection agency
Zerachiel = plain clothes angel
Department = Heaven, new admissions
How would a covert meeting between them to exchange information over coffee at a local 7-Eleven go?
(#00836-B105)
1977.
In a darkened hallway, in-between seconds and invisible to normal mortal eyes, two figures squared off. They were an angel and a demon, and only experts can really tell the difference. They squared off in the same way that cats squared off, namely by staring intensely at each other, followed closely by some intense ignoring of the opposite faction.
Minutes ticked by.
“He’s mine,” said the demon. Hir name was Amy[1].
“He’s mine,” said the angel, who answered to Zerachiel. “He has spread more love through the world than hatred.”
“Ah, but many believe that his music is the tool of my master,” countered Amy. “And belief is everything, no?”
“No,” said Zerachiel flatly. “And, because his soul is in the balance, we must wait the Final Adjudicator.”
More minutes ticked by. “Where is he?”
“He’s late.”
“He’s never late.”
“This is the appointed time and place…” said Zerachiel. “Isn’t it?”
“Of course it is. Our masters wouldn’t send us, otherwise.”
“Then where is Azriel?”
“I AM EVERYWHERE,” said the dark shadow of Death. The one angel for everyone, guaranteed. “DO YOU NEED SOMETHING?”
“We’re here to collect a soul,” said Amy. “Elvis Aaron Presley? So-called King of rock and roll?”
“NOT HERE,” said Death. “NOT NOW.” And then its presence vanished from perception.
Amy and Zerachiel shared a Look. It said, Oh shit…
*
Now.
One slid the other coffee. They both nursed their disposable cups and glared at each other like cats.
“Da capo?” suggested Zerachiel.
Amy rolled hir eyes. “I’m not in the mood to go over decades of cold trails. News, thank you.”
“The tabloids have it wrong. Of course.”
“Of course,” sighed Amy. “And I was joking about them being right at all.”
“I’ve searched this entire orb. There is no sign or trace of him.”
“As have I. The only conclusion is that he no longer lives here.”
“If he lives.”
“He was supposed to have died decades ago!”
“I DON’T CARE WHAT THEY SAY,” said the passing shadow of Death, “I NEVER LAID A FINGER ON HIM.”
[1] Angels and demons do not, strictly speaking, have genders.
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Something I found difficult to type.
You’ve mentioned having Aspie kids before. As an Aspie myself, with a little brother who is also one, I’d like to see you show the world (or at least, your readers) why Aspies and Auties (Autistics) are not “broken”, nor are they “just trying to be difficult”, nor are they “emotionless sociopaths” or “shoving [your] face in [their] differences”, “making excuses” or even “just whinging.”
I want to see how Aspies and Auties are all different from each other. I want to see how they are different to Nypicals (love that, btw) but different does not equal bad. I want to see how even when we’re struggling to comprehend something a Nypical considers basic and easy, we’re not stupid or “retarded.” I want to see it shown that there are things we grok instinctively that are considered something you spend weeks teaching a Nypical to do.
Most of all, I want to see how even radically different points of view and thinking processes, to the degree that neither side can easily understand how the other could even come _close_ to thinking that way or seeing the world in such a manner, are not necessarily wrong and in fact can be necessary to solving a problem.
I want to be transported to a world where no more will a gamete-donor say to the parent of an Aspie or Autie child “send ‘em to me for a fortnight, I’ll beat it out of 'em.”
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got something in my eye… – RecklessPrudence
[AN: I prefer “Autistes” (pron: AW-tees-ts) for folks like my kids and I who are riding the ASD rainbow]
(#00302)
They called her 'Lizard’ on a good day, and it wasn’t related to her name. Ellie stared. She stared at things, she stared at people. Once something had her focus, it or they had her rapt an unblinking attention, sometimes for hours at a time.
It took days to explain to Ellie that you didn’t follow people to watch them.
Jon was used to it. Being her big brother got him on the inside circle to a wondrous place only Ellie could see. He held her when she was very little, smiled at her unblinking stare as she contemplated the significance of his face while she chewed on her hand.
He got his first glimpse of Ellieworld when she started yelling at the Numberjacks, solving their number-related problems before they were quite done explaining the problem. She was two. Other things annoyed Ellie, like new things happening. She hated changes of plans and would carefully explain the old plan as a need.
She cried for months about the loss of her favorite cup.
But not everything Ellie loved had to be in order. She delved into animated worlds of wonder, and spent a lot of her waking hours inside them.
Jon could see the appeal of worlds where everyone was friendly and nobody judged anyone on how they coped with the world.
And when he wasn’t busy with things of his own, he’d try to teach Ellie how to blend in with the Normals. Sometimes, it went well. Other times… well… Ellie put on her earmuffs and sang her way into Ellieworld and nothing more could be done until someone could coax her out.
None of his friends understood her. How hard it was for Ellie to step outside of her wonderful self-place and run the risk of encountering horrible people in a horrible world. Every time he bought Ellie somewhere, to test her new coping skills or to help her observe Normals in their native habitat. It rarely ended well.
This time, it was one of the good ones.
Jon had done the idiot thing and listened to a pretty girl. It was supposed to be a spooky camp with nothing going on except some inconsequential scares and perhaps some illicit sex.
And then the aliens turned up.
They woke up in a maze. All things considered, it was a heck of a lot better than waking up in an experimental lab minus all their clothes.
Everyone was freaking out, but Jon went to Ellie first. Because Ellie was humming her Ellieworld song. She had her hands over her ears and she was rocking.
She clung to him like a vice. “It’s bad here. I want Froofy.”
Jon tensed in anticipation of the cackles from his contemporaries. But they never came. “Froofy isn’t here, Ellie. Would you like to hold my coat, instead?”
Vigorous nod. “Mm-mm…”
“I’m gonna need my arm back, okay?”
“Mmmm…”
He got himself untangled and made an impromptu replacement Froofy with easy, practiced movements. Ellie would be calming down quickly, with something soft to hold.
Carrie was staring. “Man. I wish I had a Froofy…”
Jon shrugged. “Well, we’re Nypical. We have to do without.”
“Nypical?” sneered Scott. “Is that what Lizard calls us?”
“Her name is Ellie,” said Jon. “And no. Psychologists call us Nypical. Short for Neurotypical. I’m cool with it, and it’s easier to say. Got it?” It was a habit, now, to add a fist in the air as an emphasis to the idea that opposition to his concepts would not be tolerated.
“Awright, there’s no need for that. I got it.”
Fay wiped her eyes. “O God, we’re going to die…”
“We are not going to die,” said Jon. “If they wanted us dead, we’d be dead. They’re testing us. So we gotta pass. And we’re going to pass together, right?”
“Even Lizard?”
“Especially Ellie,” said Jon.
Which was a good thing, because Ellie figured out more of the labyrinth ahead of them than the rest of them put together.
By the end of it, they were all using her name.
What met them at the exit was a lizard. A lizard in clothes. It matched Ellie stare for unblinking stare.
At last, Ellie said, “You’re what they call me.”
The lizard nodded. It pressed a button.
“You have seen the worth,” said a mechanical voice. “If you vow to educate others, you will be rewarded.”
Jon was the first to step up. “I’ve been trying to teach folks since I was old enough to work out Ellie was special.”
The lizard handed him a little remote. It had two buttons. Enter and Exit. And a hole for a lanyard.
One by one, his friends stepped forward. Some promised to try. Some admitted they might fail. But they all got the little remotes.
Ellie got hers - and a lanyard - without such a promise.
Of course. She taught people just by existing.
And then they were back at their camp as if nothing had ever happened.
Ellie was the first to try the Enter button. The portal that opened showed a glimpse of another world. Jon knew it on sight, even though he had only ever heard about it before.
They each had a door into Ellieworld.
The trick, Jon realized, would be in wanting to leave.
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Challenge #00219: Drained
The worst way for Rogue to gain her sense of touch. Heavy angst.
She only knew him as Leech. Since he turned up as the Acolyte’s secret weapon, turning off powers just by standing around, he fascinated her. It was his job to be in their way. And it forced them all to hone the skills that did not require their powers.
He always worked alone. No backup. Just clever trick after clever trick until she found the cleverest trick of all.
She kissed him. Her first kiss, a kiss of necessity. A halfway violent thing to thrust his attention on her and away from her teammates. And during that first, desperate attempt, she noticed that he, too, was hungry for touch.
It was a love affair without words. Either he didn’t or couldn’t speak, she never bothered to find out. The communicated strictly through desperate grasps and gasping breath, finding the quickest excuse to separate from the plan and find bliss in each other.
Then came the day at school when she accidentally brushed skin-to-skin with some random normal… and did not feel her powers fire.
Rogue looked for him then, knowing his radius of effect, but could not find a trace of his sallow green skin, nor his lean and lanky frame. He wasn’t anywhere.
Her powers didn’t stop. She knew that. Only Leech’s powers could…
She cut class to get the little test.
And now she was staring at the twin blue lines that meant, should she proceed, that her powers would be turned off. She could touch. She could do all the things that normal people did.
For nine months.
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Challenge #00218: Goodbye, Good Boy
The last good year. Make me weep.
Every day, since she adopted Boy, had been the same. Etta got woken up by his slobbering kisses and his eternally cheerful, “Good morning, Boss.” and some vestigial orders he used to give his old master. Even after all this time, Boy obeyed his programming/training and looked after his owner.
This morning, the alarm went off before Boy’s cold nose pressed against her skin and his tongue lavished her with kisses.
She’d been trying to ignore the grey appearing in the darker patches on his pelt. Now she was trying to ignore the shakiness in his hind legs as he perched his forelimbs on her bed and greeted her. “Good Morning, Boss. Breakfast. Shower. Meds. Time for go.”
He hadn’t cleaned himself properly again. Etta took him into the shower with her and made sure he was clean and dry and groomed, and then neat in his uniform. It included, despite all logic, a decorative and ludicrous hat at his insistence. He always put it on himself, set it just so, and muttered, “…good boy,” under his breath.
She cooked him breakfast. His favourite, blue steak in peanut sauce. And cut it up for him because his old teeth couldn’t chew the way they used to.
It had been a routine since his gene-reader told her his telomeres were running out. She hadn’t touched it since. She was dreading the day she had to say goodbye and didn’t want to face it. Therefore, the gene-reader had lain untouched on a high shelf that Boy couldn’t reach for an excess of nine Standard months. Three hundred and sixty days.
She’d been kinder to him than normal. Making sure he would want to take his medicine by insisting that it tasted of bacon. Making his clothes thicker so that he would be warmer in the cool station air and his thinning muscles would be slightly more padded whenever he sat or laid down.
Etta went on longer walks with him, played any game he wanted. Made certain he had a wonderful time.
Because she didn’t want him to go.
“Time for Boy go,” he said, apropos of nothing on their way to the tram to work.
He had been saying it more often, lately. Etta feared what it might mean, but, just like a crazy human, she had to ask. “How do you mean, time for you to go? We are going. We’re going to work.”
“Yes. Good dog.” He waited for her to stop. Sat, and put his hand-paw in hers. “Boy go, see Master. In forever-sleep.”
Her heart almost stopped. Unbidden tears sprang from her eyes. Her knees buckled and saw her crouching on the floor like a petulant child.
Boy kissed her tears away. “No sad. Forever-sleep good. No pain. See Master.”
She hugged him, wept over his nice clean vest and harness. “But I no see you any more.”
“Good boss,” said Boy. “All forever-sleep soon.” And just like that, his conversation was over. “Tram! Tram! Tram,” he barked. “Ride time.”
He sat on her lap, that ride. Or at least, as much on her lap as he could manage. Called her ‘good boss’ as often as he could get away with it.
All this time, she was making sure he was comforted in his last time. Now he was comforting her because he knew she was sad about it.
That night, at bed time, he said, “Good bye, boss.”
She said an absent goodnight as she tucked herself in. And, just as she drifted off to sleep, she heard him mutter, “Good dog,” in a satisfied tone.
The alarm went off on the first day without his cold nose or his warm wet tongue. He was still curled up in his bed, cold and still. Gone into the forever-sleep to whatever beyond suited him best.
She arranged for Services to bury his body at the feet of his old masters’ grave, and reserved a spot beside the old man who she had never met - for some time a long time later. Etta didn’t cry. Not during the burial, not during the services. Not even when she planted his favourite flowers in the fresh-turned soil above his body.
It came on her way home, sitting in the tram opposite Julie and Nanny, when the blonde girl asked, in all innocence, “Where’s your dog?”
That was when she wept. Not because he had gone into the greater beyond, but because he had left her behind.
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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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Paraphrasing Zaphod Beeblebrox, pt. 2
Same challenge as before, only she’s not being literal instead of sarcastic.
[AN: I hope you mean “is being literal” because otherwise, it would just be the same story]
(#00180)
“Oops.”
“Oh my goodness,” all six Saras chorussed. “Oooh. Echo!”
“This isn’t supposed to happen,” said Jamie.
“I’m well used to things that are not supposed to happen… happening,” said one of the Saras.
“At least I have all the extra hands I need for Genracon.”
“What? You can’t all go to Genracon…”
“We can afford the tickets…”
“That’s not the issue!”
*
Two of her were dressed as Darkness and Light. Three wore CLONE FARM T-shirts. One wore a shirt that read, SpokesClone. And everyone… just accepted it.
Jamie quietly boggled from his vantage point at Thylacine Industries’ merch table.
“Wow, wow, wow!” said someone in Wubsy cosplay. “You’re THE Sara Adrien!”
“No,” said SpokesClone Sara. “I’m just A Sara Adrien. Didn’t you hear? We come in six-packs, now.”
Wubsy giggled and they got a photo together.
“See?” said one of the CLONE FARM Saras. “These are my people. We’re used to the extraordinary.”
Jamie curled up and kind of whimpered.
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Challenge #00179: An Affront Taken Aback.
Sara tries her hand at fanfiction.
(Woo, a fanfic about a character invented for fanfiction writing fanfiction. How very meta.)
[AN: Meta, indeed. See how much more meta I can get it]
“Oof. Ugh. Bluh. Oh my good gracious…”
Usually, those were the sounds of Sara on Grease Trap Duty, but these were coming from the library.
Hank knuckled in to investigate, and found Ms Adrien reading the first of the _Twilight_ series at a rapid pace.
“Problematic literature?” he enquired.
Sara smacked the book down into her lap as if swatting a cockroach. “My assignment is to read something outside my comfort zone and then improve on it. I picked the obvious target.” Long fingers held up the volume as if it was a dead rat. “Caveat, I have to finish reading this… thing.”
“A feat worthy of exile from purgatory, methinks?”
“A feat solely ensconced in the nine circles of Hell, rather,” Sara muttered darkly. “Sooner done, sooner starting something fun.”
“…oh dear,” Henry made a beeline for Charles’ office. Best forewarned and forearmed.
He was right, of course. It took two weeks before the cease-and-desist orders came in to prevent Sara finishing her magnum opus, _Tghiliwt_, described in the realms of Fanfiction dot net as, “Twilight with a properly romantic relationship, instead of an abusive one.”
It took another two weeks before the movie deals started filing in.
Sara never did anything by halves.
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(#00178)
[AN: Set sometime after Agatha’s return to Mechanicsburg]
They always came to Sparks once a stronghold was established. A tribe of natural minions with a talent for surgery and reanimation. Their balms and poultices could perform miracles still unknown to the rest of modern science.
The Heterodyne kept one on in her castle, on the very good chance that they might come in handy - on one condition.
It was a combination hospice and employment agency, with one name for the employees. Igors and Igorinas alike had found jobs in the hospital and various households of high standing.
And now they were offering their ‘thervitheth’ around Mechanicsburg.
Carson stared down at the gnarled figure on his doorstep. “And you don’t mind being… minions to minions?“
"Igorth are made to therve, marthter. It ith our plathe.
"And… you have to lisp?”
“It’th our trademark,” said the Igor. “Begging your pardon, marthter… but I heard you were due to undergo a thpethial operation nethethary to your pothition?“
Carson mentally rearranged the consonants. “Yes, I’ve been dreading that for a while. Why?”
“We can arrange to have the thurgery performed painlethly, with a minimal recovery period.”
“The Heterodyne will doubtlessly demand to watch.”
The Igor smiled. He knew he had a job. “We are very uthed to the martherth’… ideothyncrathieth…"
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Paraphrasing Zaphod Beeblebrox….
“…You’re THE Sara Adrien?”
“No, I’m just A Sara Adrien - didn’t you hear we come in six-packs now?”
Context irrelevant, but those two lines must appear. Whether Sara is being sarcastic or literal is up to you.
(#00177)
Sara had never realized she had fans until Thylacine Industries could afford a booth at Genracon.
Five dollars an autograph had only encouraged them.
Ten dollars a picture… she was still seeing spots.
And now she was faced with a seven-year-old Finn the Human (with matching cosplay Jake the Pup) who had come over all FanBoy. “Omigob, omigob, omigob… You’re THE Sara Adrien.”
The rising tides of tired sarcasm washed up out of her throat. “No, I’m just A Sara Adrien - didn’t you hear we come in six-packs, now?”
The junior Finn and his costumed dog didn’t get it. More’s the pity.
He did, however, get an autographed 8x10 in exchange for his photo.
[Muse food remaining: 5 (fic war prompts, 2). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
(#00176)
Commence Personal log, Security Chief Odo. Once again, Starfleet’s insistence on records and lists and files forces me to take note of events as if my memory is not reliable enough.
In this case, I have to make note of events as they occur, establish a pattern, and present such evidence to the commander before action can occur. And, since it has to take place in a personal log, I also have to make note of my thoughts and feelings in regards to… events.
Starfleet should learn to keep its nose out of everyone’s business.
But, since this is the only way to get Commander Sisko to act… this is something I have to do.
Commander Sisko also informs me that I can only log events during the day they occur. Any precedent is, apparently, a product of my own imagination. Which I am not in the habit of employing in the performance of my duties.
Today, I encountered a strange clique of junior females loitering near the Jumja kiosk. They were all wearing outfits reminiscent of, but not exactly copying, the Bajoran security uniform. All were amused or delighted to see me approach, and immediately indulged in both high-pitched squeals and what they imagined to be hushed whispers.
The resultant babble sounded intensely like a flock of Terran Chickens.
Since I am a shapeshifter, my first thought was that something had gone awry in my daily form. I had checked not seconds before I stepped out onto the promenade, but this cadre of gigglers managed to erode that confidence in mere moments.
Naturally, I enquired if something was the matter. To which they replied, “No, Constable,“ and erupted into more laughter.
I had no legal reason to detain any of them, so I continued on my patrol.
As I walked away, I heard some distinctly objectifying dialogue concerning my shape. Most of it concerned… ‘dat ass’.
On my second patrol, they were discussing what a shapeshifter ‘could do’ to them in a sexual manner. They stopped when they spotted me, but I was able to remind them that the Promenade was not an appropriate arena for such tawdry conversations, given that there’s a school nearby and minors constantly present.
They promised to amend their behavior and I moved on. Once again, their topic of discussion returned to objectifying my chosen anatomy.
*
Security Chief Odo, Personal log. Append Stardate.
They have started lingering at Quarks’ when I am in my office, thus obstructing my view of that odious Ferengi and his attempted crimes. I had to encourage them to move along, or at least clear the way.
I found their behavior as a result disturbing to say the least. They all erupted in shrieks and began open conjecture of which one of them I liked the most. Since I was annoyed by the repeated antics I am not able to document here, I reacted adversely, telling them that I did not like anyone who obstructed my surveillance and I gave them five minutes to clear that area of the Promenade.
Of course I checked up on Quark. He was busy sending his brother away to hide something. Documents of my investigation are in my public log. Key search term: personal image misuse.
Later in the day, I noted one of the older females following me. When I enquired as to why she was doing so, she shrieked and ran away.
I do not like being followed.
*
Security Chief Odo, personal log. Append Stardate.
Major Kira has paid me a visit in my office for the first time since I closed the Vaatrik case. She seemed very amused by the odd clique and declared that I had a ‘fan club.’
I asked her what air recirculation had to do with blunt instruments and earned more damnable laughter. Fortunately, Nerys knows me and apologized for her outburst.
What followed was… an education.
Apparently, these young ladies are acting that way because they… like me. I frankly find this disturbing because everyone who has professed such a desire has been out to manufacture some gain at my loss.
These girls, however, are… devoted to me.
I expressed my confusion at their objectifying dialogue, and Nerys forwarded an interesting idea.
Recruit them. Given rules forbidding fraternization and objectifying speech, their amorous intent and idealization could turn them into a force to be reckoned with.
I shall cogitate on this further.
*
Security Chief Odo personal log, append Stardate.
The new Junior Security League are the most devious, insidious, and outright perfidious bunch that ever set foot on soil. And they’re on my side.
I’m starting to like them.
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