Challenge #00715 - A350: The Truth is Out There
Assume the plane in prompt 00691 - A326 is the missing Malaysia Airlines plane, or another mysteriously vanishing flight. It finally lands on the planet and the pilots try to flag down a passerby to ask for directions home.
25th of May, 2003.
As soon as they were out of range, a party broke out on board.
“We did it!”
“WOO!”
“We got our own goddamn JET!”
Shrieks and whoops and general celebration lasted all of fifteen minutes before the vortex had them.
Well, that was what they called it. None of the thieves had any idea what to name a swirling tunnel of purple clouds and conflictingly-coloured skies. Or what to name the oppressive blackness that seemed to convey great speed, eons of time, and pants-wetting terror all in the same moment.
The next thing they knew, they were flying over an alien land mass.
“What the hell?”
“What the flying fuck is this?”
“What button did you press, Dave?”
“I didn’t do shit.”
“We told you not to touch anything, Dave!”
“I didn’t do shit!”
For the next five minutes, the flight recorder dutifully preserved for posterity the sound of five men asking variations of, “What the fuck is that?” before Jonno called for calm.
“Okay. Obviously, something went wrong.”
“Was the SATURN in orbit your FIRST clue?” asked the luckless Dave.
“No I reckon it was the purple shrubbery,” said Paul. “We can’t keep flying and hope we get back, that’s stupid. That’s Twilight Zone level shit.”
“Did we check the passenger list for a Rod Serling?”
“Shut up, Warren, you’re not helping.”
“There’s a field! We can do a rough landing and try to ask for directions.”
“Everyone buckle up, this is gonna be a son of a bitch.”
*
Military Sergeant Tiyibb poses with some of the alleged alien wreckage found in Slorlëw, Numekscae.
The Sergeant was clearly holding rumpled tinfoil, much to the outrage of the witnesses. They knew that whatever had crashed in a farm outside that sleepy town had not been a weather balloon.
There were four of them, Yarnethi wrote in her journal. Taller than me. All different colours in their skin. One was really dark, like he was made out of shadows. One was very pale. Almost a porcelain pale. The other two were in-between. They had strange soft growth that came out of their heads.
One was lying down. It was bleeding. Their blood was so dark and it stank and the ground underneath that one foamed and sizzled. Two were helping the one lying down and the fourth was going in and out of the wreckage, salvaging things.
They were horrible giants. Thick-limbed and loud and obviously strong.
I couldn’t understand the words they said, but it was clear they were communicating.
I saw what landed in Slorlëw. And it sure as hell wasn’t a weather balloon crewed by experimental animals or shop dummies.
I just wish I’d brought my camera with me.
Hers was just one of many accounts, written or otherwise recorded by the people who had seen or been part of the Slorlëw Incident. Rumours of conspiracy theories and aliens being held in secret government facilities persisted for decades.
But nobody knew - or was able to tell - what really happened to the wreckage or the aliens that crash landed in Slorlëw.
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Challenge #00714 - A349: One Thing in Common
Video Prompt!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4dT8FJ2GE0
6 people singing an Icelandic hymn in a German train station with excellent acoustics.
If there was one phrase Rael learned to dread, it was any variation on, “Let me get my axe,” from Ambassador Shayde. On one hand, it meant something historical was going to happen. On the other hand, it meant that she would gather crowds.
And there was always at least one who thought he was part of the show.
But not this time.
It was one of the spontaneous instances of Human Music that he’d heard of, but never seen. Two fellow citizens waiting for the transit started harmonising. An old tune about plants, reminiscent of the season’s celebrations.
Although what parasitic weeds had to do with Terran Christmas, he could never figure.
Shayde provided the backup music and more harmonies. And three more completely random humans joined in. Rael recognised people from five disparate planets. Some of whom were busy bickering with each other via extended trade negotiations.
It was simultaneously profound and ridiculous, as so many human things often were.
They sung the song flawlessly, in old pre-shattering English. And finished to the applause and raining Minutes of the audience.
“What do we play next, then?” asked Shayde.
And then it turned out that none of them actually spoke pre-shattering English. At least, not the way Shayde did. Some barely spoke GalStand. And yet, all seven of them came to a consensus and communicated their desire.
“Falala!”
“Falala?”
“FALALA!”
Shayde just cackled and lead them in.
“DECK the halls with boughs of holly! Falala lala la la la la…”
Another old Terran song with mystifying traditions. And few of the singers understood the words.
Humans… they were so… weird.
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Challenge #00702 - A337: I’m What?
Melia didn’t know she was haunted until she entered the Sanctum at the Academy of Magical Learning. Until that day, all doors had opened for her, before she could get to them. And, in the case of doors already open, they did not swing shut until she was through.
It was an unexplained magical gift that had lead to her scholarship at the academy in the first place.
And now, inside the Sanctum, Melia had just hurt herself. Bumping into a door she fully expected to open.
Mistress Wattle, reading nearby, had startled at Melia’s yawp of shock. And now she was ah-ha-ing as she cruised around the stunned Melia.
Melia stopped crying just because Mistress Wattle was so confusing. “What’s happened to me?” she asked.
“Nothing at all,” answered Mistress Wattle. “Absolutely nothing at all has happened to you.”
“But the door…” she waved vaguely at it, half-expecting it to attack her anew. But it just sat there. Thick, oaken and solid.
“The benevolent presence previously wrapped in your aura has been -ah- ostracised. The Sanctum has powerful wards against all forms of astral travellers.”
“I’m… haunted?”
“Oh yes. I can see it, now. A lover from a previous incarnation who couldn’t make it into this circle of life. She’s decided to help you. In every small way she can.”
“And… she can’t come into the Sanctum with me?”
“No. But she will rejoin you as soon as you’re out. The bonds of love are not easily severed, Child.”
Melia breathed out pure relief. She had been terrified that she might have lost something. “Does this mean I’ve lost my scholarship?”
“Of course not. You have your own magic. I think your friend and I can teach you the full use of it.”
Now she was crying. “Thank you… I love it here, Mistress Wattle. I never want to leave.”
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Challenge #00701 - A336: Ignorable Precautions
(no other great ape can swim, or is remotely happy about going in water [except two cases of domesticated apes in 2013, the only known examples] and most monkeys are downright afraid of water)
*splash*
‘What the - are they trying to drown themselves now?’
'They float. Of course they float.’
“Where are we?” Bessie looked around. It was an island, she could tell that much. There was a modest little house and a garden, and something of a beach.
“This definitely ain’t the Colorado River,” said Glen.
They’d stopped for a picnic, she could remember that. And maybe a little newlywed privacy in the woods.
The house looked like something off those horrible pulp magazines. All it needed was a girl with a torn dress and a fishbowl on her head, being menaced by something with tentacles, fur, or both.
There were no dresses. No clothes at all. Both she and her new husband were stark naked. Had they been naked, before? Bessie couldn’t remember. “Do you… remember anything after setting up the picnic?”
Glen looked… lost. And more than a little angry. “No. It’s all… gone… There’s something wrong with this beach…”
There was something wrong with everything, here. It was all too… organised. Bessie got up and washed the sand off in the lapping water, then crossed to the house. There were no doors. Just holes in the smooth and unnatural walls.
And inside… it was like a spread from Better Living. Stuff she and Glen could never afford. And the closets - also doorless - were filled with the most modern styles.
“Looks like we’re marooning in style, Mrs Hyde.”
“Indeed we are, Mr Hyde,” she giggled. It felt good to have clothes. Clothes that fit, right off the rack. She only wished there was a mirror in this place.
“Oh look. Swimming trunks.” He cycled back out of his tailcoats and starched shirt to put them on. He flexed for her. “I can scout around in the water.”
Bessie changed out of her Chanel gown and into a one-piece of her own. “Well you’re not doing it alone. I vowed to stay by your side and that’s what I intend to do.”
Glen offered his elbow. “Then shall we proceed to paddle, Mrs Hyde?”
“Don’t mind if I do, Mr Hyde.”
*
“What are they doing now?” asked Yxorb.
“Are they aware of their captivity?” enquired Viirk.
“Nonsense. This environment is carefully researched and based on their ideals of paradise.”
“I told you not to use our materials for the domicile…”
“They’re going underwater! They can’t breathe air!”
“Are they trying to drown themselves?”
“They float. Of course they float. All right. Activate the reserve barrier. Make sure they can’t reach us.”
“They already can’t see or hear us. Why would they want to leave their paradise?”
“Look! Look! Aquatic adaption,” Yxorb pointed out the screen where the humans were swimming. “I told you they might have had a period of amphibiousness.”
“Yes, very well done. Shall we get on with stopping them from escaping? Or preventing them from killing us all?”
Yxorb sighed as she flicked the switch. “You’re the one who wanted a breeding pair of deathworlders in her zoo…”
*
They were lucky they weren’t swimming very fast. Glen brought her up to the surface, treading water.
“Ow,” muttered Bessie.
“Are you all right?”
“It just stings, darling. I’ll be fine.” To prove it, Bessie began treading water, too, and knocked on the invisible wall. “Is this one of the new plastics?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen any.” Glen ran his hand over the surface. “It’s weird. I can feel something solid… but there’s no texture. It’s like… carved air…”
“Let’s get back to the island. I’m scared.”
“This whole place is wrong,” murmured Glen. “We’ll figure something out, love. You and me. We’re a team.”
Together, they made their way back to the unnatural island paradise. Their very own eden. They’d make it. One day at a time.
[AN: Glen and Bessie Hyde were real people who vanished during a rafting trip down the Green and Colorado Rivers. You can read about it here.]
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Challenge #00699 - A334: Community Service
(Inspired by one of your older works)
A “What, Ho!” scene.
[AN: For those unfamiliar with the topic, check out my fanfic Misfits]
The cogniscent tree people of Kumonjagotabijokin had a very peculiar life cycle. For a start, they planted the fruit of the Elder Trees and raised the resulting sproutlings as their own.
And, unfortunately for Aerin, crash landings did not come with tourist pamphlets. The world was pre-industrial and definitely pre-spaceflight, so common etiquette decreed the entire world be left alone.
Also unfortunately, the fruits of the Elder Trees registered on her scanners as edible. She’d accidentally committed four acts of hostile abortion when the natives found her.
It had taken some time, extensive pantomime, and headaches worth of learning to explain that she hadn’t known at the time. And further - she hadn’t intended any harm.
And further good news, a virulent species of pest animal was also edible. And delicious. The tree people - they called themselves Sideroxylon - began to count Aerin’s predations as community service.
Which was why she was now in the nursery fields, tilling their soil. And entertaining herself.
The ultimate goal of Discovery Scouting was to land a plush job as an ambassador in some previously undiscovered locale. Which was why Discovery Scouts were the sorts who could spend immense amounts of time on their own.
Aerin’s gift was voices. She could invent one-person plays of intensely populated dramatisations. Right now, though, she was having an entire conversation revolving around the over-use of the word ‘what’ and 'hoe’.
The gathering Muggas (Aerin could not wrap her mouth around Sideroxylon and had found a shorter synonym) watched in confusion as she talked in two voices.
“Hoe, hoe, hoe, hoho, hoe hoe, hoho, hoe hoe - ho,” she sang to the tune of the Anvil chorus.
In her gruffer voice, she said, “What, 'ho?”
Back to her chipper voice, “Hoe, what?”
“What?” said Gruff.
“Hoe,” explained Chipper.
“Hoe, ho!”
“HO-oooooo…”
“Hohoho, 'ho.”
“What-what? Hoe!”
They had a bountiful harvest, that year. A population explosion. Aerin did try to explain it was because she used the vermin guts as fertiliser, but the Muggas insisted on ritualising the 'what ho’ nonsense as well.
If the Society for the Prevention of Cultural Infection ever found out, they’d have *her* guts for fertiliser.
Maybe it’d be better if she never left here…
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Challenge #00696 - A331: Hence the Canary
Image prompt: FWOOM
[AN: Image shows a younger person lighting gas at ceiling level using a match on a stick while an older person watches]
Of all the weird scavengers Lynn the Hitcher ever met, Barstow had to take the cake. It wasn’t just that Barstow kept canaries in their own aviary on her patchwork ship. It was also that she had an entire hold dedicated to pressurised air.
“I’m claustrophobic,” Barstow confessed. “Lifesuits freak me the heck out. I’d rather not get into one unless I know it’s the last resort. So… once I know a hulk is airtight, I fill it with my own air and go in.”
“And if it isn’t airtight?”
“That’s what the Hungry Caterpillar is for.”
She was certainly the most… innovative… scavenger Lynn had ever met. And Barstow made no bones about using Lynn as a scout. Even on the ships they could fill with air.
That was when she found out what the canaries were for.
Scavenger vessels often liberated atmosphere from abandoned ships. And not all of those atmospheres were carbon-lifeform-friendly. Some, in fact, were incredibly volatile or toxic or both. And a canary was far more reliable a detector of these gasses than any electronic sniffer on the market.
And what they were reliable at was dying at the slightest hint of nasty air.
Barstow had them registered as experimental animals, and kept their environment as a bird’s paradise. They could fly, eat and breed as they pleased. And a team of small, non-cogniscent robots gathered and processed their faeces for re-marketing.
If the canary died, her first course of action was to set off her electric match. If the air didn’t light, then it was merely toxic and Barstow could run the filters until the air ran safe.
It was a little more labour intensive than the way most Scavengers did things, but it worked for Barstow. Every time the canary lived, Lynn breathed out. She didn’t like watching the little yellow birds to see if they died.
“Yeah, I know. It breaks my heart, too. I go through more business partners because of the canaries… They save my life. I make sure theirs is heavenly until… they’re needed. They save my sanity, too. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“So why do it? Why go out here to break your heart again and again?”
“I’m also petrified of crowds.”
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Challenge #00695 - A330: One Dank Afternoon in a Dungeon Pub
A skeleton walks into a bar and says “Get me a beer and a mop!”
“Har har har,” droned the barman, who happened to be a troll. “Like I don’t hear that every day.”
“Can’t blame a lich for trying to put a smile on that ugly puss.”
“Trolls don’t smile,” growled the troll.
“…okay… I guess you can…”
The bartender poured a shot of Lich Lightning, not exactly a beverage, but definitely an intoxicant for the fleshly challenged. A spell in liquid form that acted the same as anything alcoholic. And without the mess.
The skeleton downed it and coughed explosively. “Smooth,” it croaked. It also laid a gold coin on the table.
“Where the heck to you keep those, anyway?” wondered the Troll.
“Don’t ask. If we think about it, we spill.”
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Challenge #00694 - A329: Children of the Permanent Night
http://callmegallifreya.tumblr.com/post/100492890835/bulbul-e-bismil-oh-vampire-lake-teach-me
SCUBA VAMPIRES
All around the globe, the secret societies of vampire hunters noticed something strange. A drastic reduction in the volumes of their prey. All the crypts and castles were actually becoming abandoned hulks. All the roosting places, new and old, were vacant.
They knew it wasn’t them. Despite their best efforts, all the vampire hunters could do was keep the worst examples from running rough-shod through the populations of the living.
All that was left, usually, were the cunning, quiet ones who were less of a threat.
But where did they all go?
*
Somewhere near the Marinara Trench…
Vampires didn’t need to breathe. They didn’t need light. Both were a convenience, sometimes, but for the most of it, the only problem was acclimating to the pressure.
And vampires healed rather quickly.
This deep, there was an abundance of undersea creatures to feed upon. This deep, there was no dawn. This deep, they could build without detection. This deep, no hunter could find them.
The vampires of the world, the smart ones, the clever and cunning ones… The ones who only hunted to feed… had found a permanent place of safety.
Or rather, they were making it.
The main dome was finished, and various clever vampires were busy extracting air from the ocean.
Even though they didn’t really need it… it still felt nicer to have it. And light made everything cheerier, here in the eternal night.
They’d have plants, too. Once others finished engineering them to withstand the pressure at these depths.
Plants, light, food… and all the comforts of the crypt with none of the usual paranoia that came with living at the surface.
No wonder all of them were working on it at once.
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Challenge #00693 - A328: Human Foodstuff Transit
Marmite.
Normally, M'riik loved living and working on a relatively small station. It was peaceful and the views were always amazing. But there were times, like now, when living and working on a relatively small station was a pain in the anatomy.
The freighter had diverted from its logged course because of engine trouble, which meant paperwork and a freight inspection to make sure nothing was going to escape while the two vessels shared air.
Normally, a vacuum-sealed cargo hold would go without inspection, but this was Terran cuisine. Four hundred cubic units of irradiated cheese and something called Marmite.
M'riik had looked it up. It was on one of the red-lists.
Unicellular fungal culture had to be inspected for signs of life. No matter how processed it was.
Rumours about the Glunk had inspired such safeguards.
“Marmite isn’t that bad,” said the human. She was following M'riik around as she scanned every last crate in the hold. Making sure M'riik wasn’t going to help herself to a sample. “It just tastes bad. I never liked the stuff. I’m more into Vitam-R, really. Now if you want foul, you should try Vegemite. That stuff’s nasty.”
M'riik could see why freighter captains and Hitchhikers got along so famously. It was a chance to talk that lasted long enough for the topics to run out.
“I’ve no desire to try most of the things you humans call food. My species is barely past level two on the ascent from Havenworld fragility.”
Sam the freighter captain whistled backwards. “Ouch. The taste alone might kill you.”
“I’m well aware.”
There were no life-signs. Good. The sooner this lot was vacuum-sealed again, the better.
And, M'riik was pleased to note, Sam was paranoid about containing her own cuisine in her personal quarters. M'rick added her note of inspection to the ratings tablet in the pilot’s office.
“Yeah, I like clean,” said Sam. “Anyone looking for a ride to Rest Stop? I could use a chance to chat.”
“We currently have no transients or nomads aboard. Sorry.”
“Worth a shot. Gets a little boring, talking to the cat.”
M'riik was secretly glad to see her go. Humans were inherently dangerous. But, alas, they were also everywhere.
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Challenge #00690 - A325: The Treasure
A Gyiik discovers the food Elvis ate.
Vic reached hungrily for the cellulose sheet.
“Ut,” said the Archivaas Tiel, drawing it back to her body. “Payment first. I know how you Gyiiks get with new recipes. I learned after the first time.”
“My apologies,” Vic the Gyiik began to lay out her money. “Two Months plus hazard pay… and a voucher card for two Years’ worth of free meals at Unsuitable Food Eat.”
Someone in the neighbouring booth whistled backwards. This was high-stakes stuff.
Archivaas Tiel slid over the single sheet.
Vic read in awe[1]. “A quarter cup of creamy peanut butter… that’s… milled peanuts, super-fine. Mm-hm. Eight slices of home-style white bread. Have to make that ourselves, no commission kitchen will do that any more… Mmmm… Two large bananas… yes… Eight… slices of bacon and two tablespoons… butter.” Vic read the method. “Sandwiches… then fried in the butter…” She looked up. “This man ate this as a snack?”
“Apparently.”
“Was he possessed by Kürmaan, the spirit of Famine?”
“No. He was just a big eater.”
“And he did not perish from a rupture of the stomach?”
“Drug abuse.”
Vic boggled. “Truly… humans are a dangerous species.”
[1] Recipe courtesy of Mr Food.
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