Challenge #00805-B074: Further Proof Humans Are Insane
“You do That! for fun?”
“What the heck is that?”
Charlie peered past Kress’ shoulder. “Oh. That’s my wingsuit. I use it for base jumping.”
Kress screwed up her saurian features. “Base… Jumping.”
“Yeah,” Charlie grinned. She started to bounce in her enthusiasm. “It’s like skydiving, only instead of jumping out of a plane, you jump off of something really tall, build up speed with the suit, and then rip silk.” She hastily amended, “Uh. That means pop the chute.”
Kress backed up. “Just when I start to forget that your species is insane… you do me the favour of a periodic reminder.”
Charlie gave her a half shrug. “Glad to be of service.”
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Challenge #00804-B073: BSOD’d? BPFB!
This is the pink rabbit of happiness. If your story has subject matter that you’re wholly uncomfortable with writing for any reason, the pink rabbit steals the prompt and replaces it with “Write a short story about a pink rabbit”
[AN: The whole point of challenges is that I find my boundaries and ways to wriggle around them :D Image shows a pink, plush rabbit toy with floppy ears and a bow around its neck]
There’s all kinds of damaged robots who find their way into Walter Robotics’ Home for Abandoned Automatons. The broken, the malfunctioning, the virus-riddled…
And then there’s Bitzer.
She arrived in a wooden crate and a perpetual state of worry and panic. She preferred to hide under staircases and needed constant reassurance that the Walter Workers there would not “ruin Maman’s good work.” And she laboured under the misapprehension that her creator, her Maman, was both still alive and somewhere “out in the wide world”.
She shouldn’t have worked at all, the way she was put together, but she did. And Walter Workers knew better than to interfere with something that worked. Not even to find out how and why. The spare parts and mechanical leftovers that went into her making were almost a century old. Some, more than a century. She was 117 and still suffering from New Bot Narcolepsy. And her patchwork plating needed a thorough going over. And worse, she hadn’t had an oil change for decades.
Which was why one morning found the junk-made robot thoroughly wedged under the stairs, repeating, “Non, non, non!” to the crowding Walter Workers. All of whom were varyingly attempting to get her out of there, get her to accept new oil, get her to accept new clothes, or just to find out what the hell she was doing under the stairs this time.
It was at such a point that a serious intervention was in need, and why Matter Mistress Caroline hustled the crowd into the break room for twenty minutes.
She ducked under the stairs long enough to say, “It’s all right now. I’ve made them go away. I’m coming back in just a few minutes and then we can have a nice, quiet talk.”
Bitzer gave a very quiet and uncertain whimper, but didn’t move.
Caroline dashed for the emergency calm kit (cold water and the best oil) and fetched a pink, plush bunny that was big enough to use as a bean bag, and dragged the whole lot back to the space under the stairs. Once there, she set up a little picnic between herself, the rabbit, and the still-huddled Bitzer. Her scarf for the picnic blanket, of course. And hardy plastic teacups from one of the playsets also stored under the stairs.
With great ceremony, Caroline poured everyone alive a cup of cold water. And mimed giving invisible tea to the rabbit.
This was enough to spark Bitzer’s curiosity and get her to join in with the picnic. “Quaes’que c'est?” she whispered. She had yet to talk at what anyone else considered a normal volume. Or, for that matter, act in any way but defensive and cautious.
“It’s just water,” soothed Caroline, and demonstrated by taking a sip of her own. “You can swap cups if you don’t trust me. I don’t mind.” She made a show of putting her cup down and folding her hands in her lap.
Bitzer settled into a kneeling position opposite Caroline and the bunny. Picked up her own cup and sipped. Then downed the entire thing. A sizzling indicated that her boiler had been running low.
“Another?”
“…’es please…”
It took four cups to refill the boiler to a point where Caroline wasn’t worried about Bitzer any more. And even then, she readily refilled the cup whenever it was empty.
“Who is the gentleman?” the junkbot asked.
Oh. Right. Pink was a manly colour before World War Two. “Well, to anyone else, he’s just a pink plush bunny. He needs a friend. And a name. Would you oblige?”
“Bonjour M’seur Lapin,” she reached across to take her hand and allow the toy to ‘kiss’ her knuckles. “Je m’appelle Bitzer Kludge.”
“All soft toys enjoy hugs,” said Caroline casually.
It wasn’t long after that that Bitzer had an enormous pink rabbit mostly between herself and Caroline. And it wasn’t long after that that she was quietly confessing all of her fears and concerns. Things that could have been easily addressed if the rest of the Walter Workers had just taken the time to both listen and address them.
The only drawback to the ‘treatment’ was that Bitzer henceforth insisted on the escort of M’seur Lapin. Everywhere she went.
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Challenge #00803-B072: How the Flakk do You Stop Human?
Human sweat is so acidic, it can corrode metals. By micrometers and over years, but still
Something there is, an ancient poet wrote, that does not like a wall. The poem was about the forces of entropy versus cogniscent-made structures, but Rael knew for a fact that that ‘something’ also pertained to humans.
They were practically a force of entropy on their own.
Case in point: Shayde.
Not only was she obviously isolated from current societal norms, but she had a large volume of oppositional habits that other humans had been trained out of since birth. Like her habit of running her fingertips along the walls.
“Ey oop. Som’at’s wrong wi’ t’ wall…” Now she ran the entirety of her palm over the surface. Closely followed by the other palm.
Rael sighed. “It’s an early experiment to discourage humans from touching walls. The micro surface was scientifically designed to create a sense dichotomy that would lead to feelings of depersonalisation and therefore frighten the humans away from touching it.”
“It looks smooth but it feels fuzzy,” Shayde giggled, and pressed her cheek against it. “Eee, lovely. I wonder if anyone’s tried makin’ a dress outta it…”
He physically dragged her away from the wall by her collar. “It used to be prickly. Before your species’ skin acids got to it. The scientists forgot to factor in your bizarre fascination with things that make your senses argue.”
“Is there still prickly bits? Can I feel ‘em?”
Ugh. Typical human. “No.”
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Challenge #00802-B071: Diggy Diggy Hole
“Didn’t anybody tell you that when you are in a hole of your own making, Don’t keep digging.”
Hwell called it a ‘fox hole’, but its dimensions were closer to that of an elephant. And it was now very deep, because the native pests had a long reach that went along with their fear of falling.
It was past dawn. They were gone, now.
“We’re in a hole,” said Hwell. “Um. Too wide to climb out. Loose soil, anyway. Wouldn’t work. Even if I hoisted you out, there’s nothing near that’d help you hoist me out…”
“That’s assuming I want to,” added Ax’and’l.
“There’s only one rational solution,” concluded Hwell. “Dig more!”
Ax’and’l hid the shovel behind his back. “Explain to me how digging ourselves deeper is in any way related to progress towards our escape?”
“Who said anything about digging deeper?” He grinned. “We gotta dig sideways.”
Ax’and’l checked the air for any trace of human intoxicants. Then he scanned Hwell’s breath.
The human used this as an opportunity to steal the shovel back and start attacking the walls of their hole. “No worries! I got this!”
*
It was later. They were successfully in orbit.
They were also covered in mud and Hwell had yet to let go of the stasis cage with a representative sample of the aggressively carnivorous birds. He was cackling.
“Gotcha ya little bastards. I gotcha little bastards… I gotcha. I gotcha.”
There was only one thing to do with Hwell when he was in this manic state of victory. That was agree with him until he calmed down.
“Yes,” intoned Ax’and’l. “You got them. And they’re little bastards.”
“That’ll teach ya. Oh yeah.”
“Never mess with a human,” recited Ax’and’l.
“Neeeee-ver mess with a human,” cackled Hwell.
Ax’and’l draped the misaphobic blanket over him and locked the console on autopilot. About all Hwell could do now was interfere with the music player. “Enjoy your victory, O mighty hunter,” he snarked. “I am going to enjoy a wash.”
Hwell continued to cackle. “I got ‘em. I got ‘em.”
It was going to be a long ride back to the gene-samplers.
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Challenge #00800-B069: Back Off, We’re Celebrating!
“Light blue touch paper! Run like Hell!”
It looked like a cylinder with a cone at one end and a stick at the other. The purpose of the string at the stick end was just as mysterious as the cone. It was painted in toxic stripes, therefore it was dangerous.
“What is this?” said T’reka.
“Humans use it to celebrate,” said Susan. “They’re rockets designed to explode. For art.”
Nobody on Amity could side-eye like a Numidid. T’reka gave her a classic one. “Making rockets explode is an accident, not an art.”
“We use them to paint the night sky in coloured light,” Susan re-explained. She was well used to this after decades of working with T’reka. “They explode on purpose to do this.”
“Loud noises and sudden lights. Of course this is a human entertainment. I think I know the answer, but I must ask. What are you celebrating with these?”
“Uh… the fact that we can make fireworks now…?”
“Called it,” T’reka muttered in her own tongue. “Have you set out a warning for the Numidid population?”
“Sort of? We called it an invitation, but we did say there’d be loud noises and flashing lights. And screaming humans.”
“Many will observe from a safe distance.” She peered at the smudged label on the tube. “What are these words?”
“Light blue touch paper. Run like hell.”
“How very human,” T’reka snarked.
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Challenge #00799-B068: What, When You Own The World?
The domino effect, as applied to takeovers, and what happens when the last one falls.
This was it. The pinnacle of success. Fortune Incorporated had made its last takeover. With this signing, with this handshake, with this cluster of flashes dazzling his eye… Fortune Inc owned every business in the world… and since he owned Fortune Inc, he owned the world.
For the entire press conference, the glamorous soiree, it was all he could do to maintain a restrained and confident facade. He had to wait until he had fashioned a dignified retreat before he turned whooping cartwheels down the halls. Before he hugged the manservants and kissed the maids. Before he did the little victory dance that he had not performed in public since he was five.
He’d won.
From this moment on, there would not be a venture, not be an invention, not be a lemonade stand on a street corner, that did not have his money involved. He, Launcillot Cranstonbury, had every last deal on this planet working in his favour.
Of course he owed a lot to his predecessors, making certain that Fortune Inc was the best and strongest business out there, and generations of Cranstonburies for not fixing what was never broken in the first place. And, of course, his father, for teaching him everything he knew.
And now he was the youngest and most successful business genius on record. The only question that remained was - how to best shape the world in his image?
What would get him the most profit?
*
“…and then there’s the Castor Island matter, sir.”
Undisputed Economic King of the World, Launcillot Cranstonbury raised a greying eyebrow. “What Castor Island matter?”
“The citizens of Castor Island have decided to shun the body corporate, sir. They’re not engaging in commerce as we know it. They’re… bartering.”
Launcillot laughed. “Barter. In a global economy? That’s not going to run for long, is it?”
“They have a unit of exchange that is not based on material wealth, sir. They’re minting this… fiat… and using it in lieu of genuine money.”
“Oh? What are they calling it?”
“Time, sir. It’s based on seconds, minutes and hours of genuine time.”
“Well how the hell can anything accrue value that way?” protested Launcillot. “There’s no opportunity for investment. No chance of returns.”
“Yes, sir.” Pevensy consulted her tablet. “Your interests in that area are now money sinks, sir. Nobody shops there. The locals prefer Time to Lupits.”
“That’s their problem,” Launcillot scoffed. “Withdraw my interests there. Let the whole damn island rot without import or export. They’ll suffer soon enough.”
“Er,” said Pevensy. “That’s the problem, sir. They’re prospering.”
“How?”
“Evidently… they’ve made a form of… black market. The people prefer craft and care to the cheaper, mass-produced fare that has dominated the market since your takeover. And their immediate neighbours are beginning to join in.”
“Tell the networks to run the usual smear campaigns. People risking their lives and the lives of their family on products that don’t comply with the researched industry standards. And make the industry standards impossible for these yokels to comply with. Standard business. And start a few lines with slightly higher quality for the rubes at twice the normal price. Keep them confused, Pevensy. It’s the only way.”
*
Launcillot Cranstonbury was a great-grandfather when Time took over the planet and rendered his economic empire moot. He never understood where he went wrong. All he had ever done was play by the rules, and give the people what they said they wanted.
He never understood why… they had no reason to help him in his old age and infirmity, but they did anyway. And they only charged their Time. If they charged at all.
And he never learned that the Galactic Alliance had had a hand in destroying his life’s work.
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Challenge #00797-B066: The Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Really Bad Idea
“This year’s human sacrifice features something very special- actual humans!”
“What were they sacrificing before?” murmured Edilade “Soy humans?”
“Best not to ask,” whispered Janet. “You have any of those smoke bombs I told you to dispose of?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, gimme some of those smoke bombs you don’t have.” Janet had already escaped the natives’ shackles. They all had. Being a scavenger crew meant that they were all prepared for the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. “Five each should do it.”
Edilade grinned. “Are we gonna pull the Boom Shakalaka?”
Janet considered this, “Eeeeehhh… maybe a hybrid of Boom and Maresidoats. We don’t want them worshiping us by accident.”
“So… running under a hail of spears, then.”
“Be grateful they haven’t invented archery. Or long-range accuracy.”
*
The captain burned fuel a little faster, getting away from that planet. Unfortunately, they had had to leave some of their tech behind. At least it was gene-locked and the natives couldn’t use it for anything more than talismans or, if mood suited them, bludgeons.
The bad news that came with that was that their tech was gene-locked and the Society for the Protection of Societies was going to be on their collective asses if they ever found out.
The big question, however was, “How the heck did they become a cargo cult if we’re the first humans to go there?” which Tamika helpfully asked.
“That,” said Captain Shanice, “is a question we can log in our defence.”
*
In a hidden temple, far underneath where the natives had built their ‘space lasso’, was the most sacred of their sacred objects. A holy ancestor had tried to catch a star, so the story went, and seized this.
Most of it was sort of octagonal, but the important part was a carefully-polished plaque. Maintained and worshiped as a holy message.
On it was a picture of the device, and two nude humans, and a stylised star, or what could have been a star, if one didn’t notice the binary notation of the rays
And a small depiction of a solar system.
One of Humanity’s messages to the cosmos.
It was a pity that the natives read it as a menu order from the Gods.
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Challenge #00795-B064: Come to Scenic Gravity Falls
Mabel Pines and Francouer.
(if you don’t watch Gravity Falls a. Do it and b. this is now a free prompt day)
[AN: I do watch, I’m just not into the decoding stuff because I’m daft. I let everyone else do that.]
“I’ll show you all! I’ll summon a monster from ages past to destroy you all! Destroy you all! Destroy you all! Destroy you all!”
“Uh…” said Dipper. “Was it necessary to say it that many times?” And then he threw the onion.
It bounced with the kind of precision he’d learned trying to win that dumb duck thing and Wendy’s heart. It had to be precisely timed to the second, so as to cut off his last word.
The villain du jour did his obligatory scoff while Dipper pretended that it had gone wrong… and proceeded to perform his ritual while the onion continued to careen around the room.
Just as the lights flared from his chalk circle, and he uttered the words, “…a giant—” the onion hit him and knocked him out cold.
It would have been fine if it wasn’t for Mabel.
She swung through the spell circle on that dumb grappling hook of hers and said, “FLEE for your lives from Pirate Captain Mabel, aaaaarrrr…”
There wasn’t a facepalm big enough.
Smoke fountained up. The spell was complete.
And in the middle of the altar was… a nine foot tall… man? In a zoot suit and a mask? Holding a guitar.
"Brrrp?” he said. Then he said, “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” in an amazingly high voice.
Dipper vented a noise of anguish. “Mabel. What did you DO?”
“I was saving the day,” said Mabel, she’d put a bedazzled skull and crossbones on her medical eyepatch. “You’re welcome.”
“…ou est Lucille?” asked the giant.
Mabel came over all giggles. “Ooo, par-lay voo France-says mon sewer…”
Querying chitters. “…c’est n’est pas Français…”
Giggle giggle giggle giggle flirt. “You could talk to me all day… PLEASE DO!”
Dipper rolled his eyes as he got out the black light. “Well, in order to send him back to where he came from, we have to defeat him with his own skill. Uh. Okay. Show us what you got, big guy.”
Coos of glee as the giant picked up an abandoned guitar and doffed his coat.
He had four arms.
Oh. Giant flea. Of course. Mabel had completed the spell.
And damn, but he was good at guitar. And a very good singer. Mabel was practically floating on a cloud of cartoon hearts by the time he was done.
“Great, this is impossible.”
*
His name was Francoeur, and he didn’t talk much, which Grunkle Stan appreciated. He was also becoming a fast draw for the Mystery Shack, which Granule Stan loved.
Every guitarist for miles around would come, take a tour, and then pony up the fifty bucks to try and defeat the insectoid master of the guitar.
Mabel, Candy and Grenda had swooning seats in the front row, but none of them had an impact on Francoeur.
Then the steam-powered stranger came.
Dipper didn’t know who she was fooling with that fake moustache, but everyone else seemed to go with it and call her ‘sir’ and act like ordering hot water and machine oil at the diner was an everyday happenstance. She spoke with a stutter and made machine noises in her absent moments. And, were it not for the verdigris copper of her skin and the red stripes in her outfit, she could have easily passed for one of Gravity Falls elder goths.
She, too, took the tour and paid the fifty bucks to go on the stage against Francoeur. That was when she took off her moustache and announced, “My name is Rabbit, and I was b-b-built back in eighteen ninety six. Y-y-you know, when it was sti-still illegal for women to read, and all the men dressed like Mister Peanut.”
“What’s going on?” wailed Mabel.
“…music history,” whispered Robbie. He immediately started recording on his phone.
Rabbit brought out a Keytar and plugged it in to a speaker. “Sorry, Honeybee. I g-g-gotta defeat ya ‘cause of all them wonderful years in Paris.”
Francoeur merely cooed agreement and tipped his hat.
And then they Played. Not against each other, but together. Tunes and harmony so excellent that there was not a dry eye in the house. And with a spectacular light show and a fizzle of steam, Francoeur was gone.
Rabbit sighed and whispered, “So long, Honeybee…” There was a fresh trail of oily tears down her copper cheeks. “We always did make b-b-b-beautiful music together…”
Robbie spent the rest of that night info-dumping about Colonel Walter’s steam-powered automatons and their incredibly lengthy history as musical machines. But Rabbit left without any trace. Not even an oil spot.
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Challenge #00794-B063: The Arboretum of Death
Bunya Pines. That is all.
[AN: SO very tempted to add a distant relative to Gravity Falls…]
People came from all over to see the deadly plants. They did not come to experience personal encounters with them. Just to see, and goggle in amazement that they existed at all.
Of course, it was no shock to many that the majority of these deadly plants came from Earth
Most of the protected walkways were surrounded on all sides by the best of meteor-proof re-enforced glass, except for five Distance Units in the middle of the track. As far away from the plants that poisoned the air as they could get. And in the Units preceding this patch of track, warning signs told the visitors what to expect. Especially frail Havenworlders would turn around and go back the way they had come. Some would take the underground path to avoid being literally scared to death. A rare few would illuminate the disturbing information about the Bunya Pine.
Emergency medtechs were always standing by for those who did.
Humans, of course, would deliberately stand under the military-grade Springwire and wait for the natural missiles to descend. Often with eager grins of anticipation. Then they would all shriek and scream and holler as a ten Weight Unit pine cone fell at Standard gravity to either ricochet off the Springwire and shatter against a robust tree, or shatter against the special cage.
And then they would laugh.
And buy the souvenir necklaces with a varnished pinecone shard dangling from a chain or a thong, much like surfers would wear a shark tooth.
This is the thing that I survived, the necklaces said. I wear part of it to show my strength.
Even those who scurried through the Springwire section of the track purchased a shard necklace. To show that they had been there. To show that it existed.
And every year… more unbelievers came to see.
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Challenge #00793-B062: One Puzzling Afternoon in the Ambassador’s Lounge
http://eighthdoctor.tumblr.com/post/104127747867/okay-but-i-spent-the-afternoon-reading-about-venus
“Wait. Wait. I need to understand this.”
Shayde sighed. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to explain it in depth. “Go on.”
“Your people took seven goes to *find* a *planet*.”
“Yeh, the thing aboot space is… it’s big. There’s loads o’ stuff in it ye ken…”
“It was your intra-stellar neighbour on an inner track, with a high reflective index. *How could you miss*?”
“We were gettin’ our sights in.”
“And then you took seventeen tries to land something there, and a further nineteen to land it *on purpose*.”
“Look, there’s many a slip, awrigh’? We were learnin’.”
“And then you did it twenty-four times before you learned anything about the surface apart from ‘extremely dangerous’.”
“Well, aye, we had tae find out why the probes were failin’.”
“Before you reached reliable space flight, your people sent well over *five hundred* probes to that planet, none of which lasted longer than three hours. And then you were mad enough to try *terraforming* it?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“Only after you pumped half the atmosphere over to Mars…”
“Aye, but th’ Venusian spas are fookain brilliant.”
“THEY’RE IN ACTIVE CAULDERA!”
“Carefully monitored active cauldera, thanks. We’re no’ completely nuts.”
A stunned and awed silence, in which Lady Ambassador Grex got in a good boggle. “You could have fooled me.”
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