Challenge #00352: The Case For Doing Your Homework

“At last! I have - No! Oxygen, my only weakness! How did you know?”

“… Did you even look up the planet before you got here?”

Zykryxx the Conquerer looked down at the small, blue-green marble in the view screen at his feet. There was, unbelievably, cogniscent life on it. A planet with seventy percent of its surface covered with liquid water.

They were undoubtedly primitives. They were still communication on radio bands, and had only recently graduated to digital in the place of analogue. They were used to war, he could tell from their transmissions. There was not one place on their entire surface that wasn’t at war with some other space for reasons that eluded Zykryxx.

He would turn them into warriors. And he would be magnanimous enough to allow them to fight for his causes in specially designed armour, instead of their soft and fragile skin.

Mammals. They were usually only good for food sources, but these ones… had a talent for war. They even invented weapons that only had to be used once, and then stockpiled them as threats against others of their own kind.

He had already threatened them on their own RF bands. And intercepted and destroyed their primitive weapons.

Nuclear missiles. How cute.

Zykryxx listened to their communications, watched the Auto-translator as it decrypted their various languages. He laughed at their pointless bickering.

He was busy picking the most impressive of their buildings to serve as a backdrop for his glorious conquest.

He expected some attempt at a battle. Their laughable weapons were no match for his, for all their talent at maiming the enemy. Even his natural carapace was proof against their lead bullets.

Their Inglesh was the language of conquerers. He set his Auto-translators to work with that one. He would speak in his native T'toxx, but they would hear their precious Inglesh. Almost in sync.

There. Red Square. That had the largest backdrop of impressive buildings. He let their jets follow him during his descent through the atmosphere. They had already tried their most terrifying weapons on his vessel and failed. Now they were watching to see what happened next.

He descended in glorious wonder. He could see their news feeds. It was theatre. It was a show.

They appreciated a show.

Zykryxx allowed his guard to descent first. Their armour was proof against the rigours of space. No native weapon could touch them.

They didn’t even try.

Zykryxx stood tall, because the natives respected height. He faced down the most prominent of the cameras and bellowed, “BEHOLD THE MIGHT OF ZYKRYXX THE CONQUERER! YOU MAY FIGHT, BUT AS OF THIS MOMENT, YOU AND YOUR WORLD ARE MINE!”

At least, that was the plan.

The problem was, he needed to take a breath of what passed for their air.

So all that came out was, “BEHOLD THE MIGHT OF ZYKRYXxxxxgaaaaaaahhackackackackackack…”

A minion arrived with a breather, but it was too late. He had fallen. Literally.

The natives threw aside their guns and turned to older weapons, like knives and bludgeons. Their talent for war came to the fore in a battle that Zykryxx would have appreciated if it wasn’t happening to his elite troops.

Maiming wasn’t just a side-effect of their weapons. It was a goal of their war. Maimed soldiers could still be interrogated. Investigated. Experimented on. All that was necessary was to render them helpless.

And all they had to do for that was disrupt the armour of the soldiers.

Zykryxx had no doubt that they would also maim him. His limbs could regrow, in time, but they didn’t need to experiment with that genetic bonus. Therefore, with prudence and forethought, he laid down and played helpless.

“How,” he panted through the breather, “How did you know that Oxygen was toxic to me?”

The human looked down on him with its ugly, flat, fleshy face. “You didn’t do all your homework on us, did you?”

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Seen in another fic (take two)

Sorry, ignore the last one. Here’s the full prompt, with some details changed from the original:

“Well, Sir, where there’s living there’s crime, as my grandfather the Detective Superintendent always used to say. You know [this station] has more than her fair share of it, though.”

“Your grandfather was a fairly senior cop. No doubt you started learning your disrespect for the law at an early age,” [new station commander] commented.

“He did a stint in Internal Affairs, sir. He also said, when there’s a lot of crime, the police are underfunded; when there’s too much, the police are lazy; when there’s far too much, they’re complicit,” [senior enlisted on loan] said.

‘Exactly the sort of logic I would expect from the maniac who disabled the suppression system, glued a chemical detector tuned for [drugs] on the wall, and threw an incendiary grenade into one of the Regulatory Branch store complexes,’ [station commander] said.

‘In that case, [Commander], you should be happy. Someone else in this can must have reasoning skills,’ [enlisted on loan] deadpanned. ‘Besides which, the detector came up with half a dozen different positives. Or so I heard.’

Again, if it makes it easier, just use the bit about police status. – RecklessPrudence

(#00351)

[AN: It is now very obvious that I don’t read many of my prompts before I get started on the story…]

The Commander glared at the enlisted Constable. “Nine, to be precise. It’s the only reason you still have your badge. Nine out of fifteen Regulatory Branch employees were smuggling narcotics out of Evidence for various purposes.”

“And a further five were so deep in their gambling debts that they were considering it. Of those, three have been scared straight. Say what you will about my methods, sir, but I get results.”

“Results that do not always coincide with your case file,” the commander noted.

“My case file is generally dull, sir. I tend to get distracted, looking for things of interest.”

“Hmn,” said the Commander. “And central sent you to me, for my sins.”

“I doubt it, sir. They tend to send me to places for other people’s sins.”

The Commander sighed. Minos Station did have far too much crime and the Constable was just the human to sort it out. “Do let me know when you find it. I’ll make it part of your case file.”

The Constable grinned. “Thankyou sir. I’ll endeavor to make you proud.”

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Found this in another ‘fic.

“Well, Sir, where there’s living there’s crime, as my grandfather the Detective Superintendent always used to say. You know [this station] has more than her fair share of it, though.”

“Your grandfather was a fairly senior cop. No doubt you started learning your disrespect for the law at an early age,’ [new station commander] commented.

"He did a stint in Internal Affairs, sir. He also said, when there’s a lot of crime, the police are underfunded; when there’s too much, the police are lazy; when there’s far too much, they’re complicit,” [senior enlisted on loan from another command] said.

Alternatively, just use from ‘also said’, to 'complicit’, if that makes things easier. – RecklessPrudence

(#00350)

[AN: fifteen stories to go and then I have to fucking edit the book. Eep]

Lyr tried not to sweat as she sat in the Supplicant’s Seat opposite Security Chief Sherlock. She sat rigidly to attention as if she were in full uniform - instead of Civilian togs and sockasins*. She watched every micro-sign on the Cuidgari’s face and prayed for any kind of precognitive 'flash’ to help her out.

Sadly, the Powers that ran the universe were not amenable, today.

“Marken,” said Sherlock. It was the first word he’d spoken aloud in ten minutes.

“Yes sir,” she did not fall into the trap of filling the silence. She knew that one from old times.

“I served under your grandfather, at one time. His psi rating was, as I recall, a little higher than yours.”

By one and a half, thought Lyr. “Yes sir.”

“Do you believe your ability may be helpful in your duties?”

You and I both know that my ability is an erratic sex-organ-of-your-choice, Lyr deliberately avoided saying. “I’ve thought out some work-arounds, sir. They’re in the file.”

“Appendices A through to G, yes. I’ve read them.”

Lyr bit down hard on a, Did you think any of them are valid? and matched him nonchalant glare for nonchalant glare.

Silence was a weapon. Too much of it could cause irrevocable harm to a cogniscent being. With just the right amount, a law enforcer could prompt a reluctant perp to talk.

She counted the seconds in her head. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Sherlock put the reader down with a click so audible, it was amazing it wasn’t heard in the Tailfin Drydocks. “I have also familiarised myself with your permanent record, Ms Marken.”

“Of course, sir,” she said. I expected you would, she thought.

“Both your parents were in Security, too. Yes?”

“Yes. They were rendered critical in the last B'Dauss bailout.” The event that returned Amalgam Station to Cuidgari hands at last… but killed or maimed millions.

The B'Dauss had been very bad stewards of their holdings.

“And your grandfather cared for you since then.”

“Yes sir.”

“There’s quite a lot of understandable acting out in your records, Ms Marken. And, considering your grandfather was a senior officer, an equally understandable contempt for the processes of the law.”

“Where there’s cogniscent life, there’s crime, sir,” said Lyr. “And we both know this station sometimes has far too much.”

A slight smirk was all she needed to know that she was echoing her Granda’s own words. He said some things so often that they had welded themselves to her own thought processes.

Lyr put all her effort into not blushing.

“Tamil Marken had a lot to say about crime. The saying foremost in my mind goes: when there’s a lot of crime, the police are underfunded; when there’s too much, the police are lazy; when there’s far too much, they’re complicit.”

Lyr found herself mouthing along, briefly bit her own lips, and added, “Yes sir. I remember it well.”

A raised eyebrow. “And now you say you can work with the law?”

“I get empathic in intense situations, sir. Flashes happen more often. I’ve been through Psi Training. I know the letter of the law, and its spirit.”

The other eyebrow joined the first. “No doubt at all that you do. Consider yourself welcomed to the training course. Quartermaster is down the hall and to your left. Follow the signs.”

She could feel the universe breathing out. Or maybe that was just her. “I’ll do my best to make sure you won’t regret this, sir.”

Lyr shot to her feet, saluted, and marched smartly to the door.

“And Marken?”

She turned, “Yes sir?”

“You have a very expressive face. Do work on that. I could practically read what you were thinking.”

Every atom of her being became dedicated to delivering her blandest, “Yes sir,” of her life to date.

Her dignity held out until she was around the aforementioned corner, where she almost collapsed in paroxysms of mortification. It was just like Granda interrogating her, all over again.

She had a lot of tricks to learn.

*A hybrid of socks and moccasins. Hard, protective footwear is a sign that the wearer is on duty/ready for work.

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Challenge #00346: Didn’t This Happen On Star Trek?

Most sci-fi universes either use FTL travel, or involve long trips in suspended animation to go to new planets. Why not both?

Science moves faster than space travel, and an FTL ship overtakes a stasis ship from the same planet. 

[AN: Working top-down from my inbox because our internet is being a shitty-head]

Fiction became fact so fast that fiction itself had been abandoned. Except for soap operas. Nothing could kill them.

But there were still the beloved classics, and humankind carried those wherever it went.

Truth, on the other hand, did not put the operations centre of a space vessel under a glass dome on the very top of a surface that was almost designed to sweep space debris straight for it. Truth did allow for some streamlining, but it was made to drive anything that hit the ship away from anything important.

The stars did move. The old shows had that right, at least. They moved through rainbows, from blue through to red, if one cared to peek aft and watch.

“Sir, we have a nav beacon.”

“All slow. Match speed and course.”

By the time the engines obeyed, they had caught up to the old vessel.

And it was old.

Predating navigational shields, it relied on heavy, multiple layers of armour to protect its contents. It was pock-marked and barely recognisable as a space vessel.

“Identification?” said the captain.

“It’s a long-hauler, sir. Trying to get into the on-board computer…”

The bridge crew busied themselves with everyday tasks until data arrived.

She was called Purgatory, after the thought that vessels given inspirational or aspirational names were bound for a bad end. The same theory went into the naming of colony worlds.

Any place called Paradise was absolutely, positively, guaranteed to be the exact opposite.

There were three colony worlds called Hellhole so far.

This vessel had the same destination in mind as the Goldbrick. And, given current calculations, would take five hundred more years to get there.

“Options?”

“I see three. Towing. Carting. Stripping. Towing is out because there’s only one way to do it: protect the ship mother-duck style and travel CTL the rest of the way. That’s a year of fartin’ around. Or more, depending on the Purgatorys hull integrity.”

“Right. How’s Carting looking?”

“I can’t find any docking ports that are intact. Looks like this one was built around its cargo with no avenue for later intervention.”

The captain rolled her eyes at the inclinations of her short-sighted ancestors. “So that leaves Stripping. Which would more than likely kill the passengers.”

“What about a hybrid approach? We mother-duck it and then start working on building a damn airlock out of the wrecked hull. Then we can move the passengers into a modded cargo hold and strip the rest.”

“Sounds like a workable plan. Well done.” The captain clapped her hands, once. “Right. Let’s get kludging.”

Specs for the cargo bay came from the Purgatorys computer. All was ready for the passengers by the time the engineering crew finished their version of an airlock.

There were hundreds of them. Ferried out, one by one, with battery rigs attached to their pods. Inspected and checked before getting docked to their new home in the Goldbrick. Stacked floor to ceiling like cordwood. If cordwood steamed gently in downward drifts.

Nurse Batanga noticed it first. “They’re all… white. All of them.”

Which lead to a flurried cross-check through all of the illogical windows in the cryo-units. Every last one of the passengers was of european descent.

Further checking in the records revealed that the Purgatory was part of the Great White Exodus. When the white and white-passing left Earth to make worlds in their own privileged image.

Which resulted in months of debate as to whether to let them die or let them pickle in their own ignorance, culminating in them inbreeding themselves out of existence anyway.

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Challenge #00342: Wild Goose Chase

The Three Pig Trick: Releasing into an area three havoc-causing animals, traditionally pigs, labelled 1, 2 and 4, (may be scaled up for larger numbers of animals) and watching the chaos ensue in catching the labeled animals and searching for the nonexistent missing numbered ones.

The premise was simple. There was a large flock of numbered geese in a fenced enclosure. Their opponents had to catch every last one alive before they went after Shayde and her reluctant companion, Rael.

It shocked him that Shayde herself cheerfully blew the starting whistle.

“Reet,” she said, turning away from the chaos of feathers, hunters and angry geese. “Let’s leg it fer the ship and piss off home.”

“What? That’s against the rules…”

“So’s makin’ sure there’s no’ a hundred geese in there.”

“What?”

“I might'a erased Forty-two and Seventy-three. And set ‘em a bit loose.” She grinned. “C'mon. Ere they catch on.”

Rael had to follow so he could ask, “How can you possibly believe they’ll let you get away with this?”

“Ye only get tae get away with the three-pig-trick once. So I made sure they didnae know it.”

“Those are geese…”

“Same principal, different pun.” She seized his hand and began running in ernest.

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Challenge #00340: Send Me an Angel

(parte deux)

There are two main Slenderman mythos’ on the internet, both spawned from the same sets of images and data, and later the games.

The Second is a monster that hides in the shadows, a silent watcher and protector. He likes the children, they can see him sometimes, and he will keep them safe. His punishment may be swift or slow, sometimes deadly and always utterly terrifying. If an adult can see him, it is already too late no matter how far they run. They have already committed their crime.

A child taken by him is one that will be glad to go, and may play with him forever, or grow into another faceless guardian.

See…

A small child huddled in a dog house. There is a chain around her thin neck, attached to a post in the middle of the yard. The water bowl by the plastic shelter has frozen over. There are bruises over most of her body, and her knuckles are broken and bloody from cracking the ice to get a drink. She is barefoot, dressed only in a T-shirt and thin jeans.

Snow begins to fall.

Hear…

Her desperate attempts to keep quiet. The shiver in her muted ululations.

Her unvoiced prayer for an angel.

Be…

The next best thing.

*

She hated being called Simon. Daddy had found her notebook with the E sticker on the end of her name and had gone all out. He said she deserved it. He said she was an abomination for wanting to be a girl.

She tried to explain, but the PVC pipe kept coming down on her body. Driving the devil out of her, he said.

All she tried to tell him was that she was really a girl all along.

And now she was in the yard until she stopped crying.

She remembered thinking that, if there was a kind and loving god, He would send an Angel to make everything better.

And then… the angel came.

He looked like a tall man in a dark suit. Except there was no face. Just a featureless white orb. He tried to take the chain off.

She shook her head. “Daddy says I’m a dog until I man up.”

The Angel didn’t speak. It never made a sound. But Simon got the feeling of great sadness and great anger. His clawed hands reached into his suit and bought out a golden envelope. Showed her how to open it into two magic, thin blankets that helped keep the cold out.

The razor-sharp talons never hurt her. They even took the pain away when he sucked all the bruises off her skin.

Then he turned into shadows and poured himself into the house through the crack in the basement window.

*

Fucking kids. He only had one goddamn son and he was the seven plagues in one skin. Wanting to be a girl. Shit.

Well, if he wanted to be another bitch, he could stay in the goddamn dog house until he learned to be a man.

Serve the little bastard right.

The lights flickered.

The shadows changed.

The TV stuttered and flicked across stations. Very rapidly.

“You/should/ne/ver/hurt/sim/own,” the TV said. “You/will/be/pun/ish/d.”

Something was behind him.

He turned and looked. A big, looming shadow. Almost, but not quite like his own.

And then came the stinging sensation just like being hit with a piece of PVC pipe. Again and again and again. He shouted. Screamed. Tried to escape.

But they kept on coming.

And the shadow turned into the image of a man. A tall, thin man in a black suit.

By then, he had no way to tell if there was a face. Involuntary tears obscured his vision. And it was not long after that, that a biting cold chewed at all of his body.

“You/sh/ood/ne/ver/hur/t/Simone,” the TV repeated again and again. “You/will/be/punish/d.”

It was all over but the cold. He crawled all the way to the heater and turned it up.

And up.

And up.

But the cold still stayed, no matter how hot he made the heater.

*

“Police and Chid Protection Services are conducting a full investigation following a fire in East Lompoc,” the news reported. “Neighbours were alerted by the screams of the child, who was later found chained in the backyard, with only a plastic dog house for shelter.

"The father was killed in the fire, and neighbors have stated that they attempted to report signs of abuse, but were ignored, owing to the ‘colour’ of the neighborhood.”

A clip of Nanny Arbest, who lived two doors down from where Simone used to be. “I know that poor child was in trouble. I know that man was hitting on her. Following that cursed book. Whenever I could, I’d sneak that poor little girl a hot meal. Sometimes, I’d sneak her away for a night. Let her play with my dolls, poor dear. She was so terrified… And every time I called the CPS they said they’d send an agent. And they never done nothing. Never!”

“That 'cursed book’ is the controversial parenting manual, To Raise–”

Fzzt.

“Enough of that nonsense,” said Nanny Arbest. “You don’t need any more ugliness in your life. You hear?”

“Yes, Nanny,” Simone smiled. Smiles had come easier, since the angel came.

“I got some pretty little clips for your hair. It’s not long enough for ribbons, yet. I’m sorry, honey.”

“It’s okay, Nanny,” Simone ran her fingers over the array of sparkly triangles on the cardboard. Lingering on the one with the beautiful yellow flower. “It’ll grow out. Daddy said it always grew too fast.”

Nanny Arbest pressed her ample lips so hard together that they made a line in her dark, kind face. Simone knew why. She didn’t like to speak ill of the dead until they were “cold in the ground” for a week.

A week from today. Then, they could speak freely about how awful Daddy had been.

Nanny got her to stand, and fussed with her dress, stockings, and coat before they stepped out to Uncle Joe’s car to go to the funeral home.

Daddy couldn’t afford to be cold in the ground. All his money was still being recovered from the charred mess of his mattress in the attic.

So he was being cremated.

Simone let herself have a secret smile at that thought. He was going to burn three times, all up.

Once in the home. Once in the funeral place…

And then forever in Hell, if there was a God.

And Simone knew there was one, because he’d sent her an Angel.

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Challenge #00339: The Thin Man

There are two main Slenderman mythos’ on the internet, both spawned from the same sets of images and data, and later the games.

The First is a monster that lurks in the dark, steals or follows children for unknown purposes that vary from story to story, some more dangerous than others. Some accounts put him at merely feeding on momentary terror, others range through feeding on souls, or blood, or simply creating more slender, faceless creatures

I showed them, yesterday. The gif. The photos. Even showed them the ones other people had shared. So I could prove that I wasn’t faking it.

They know about him, too.

They know. Just in case one photo from a stranger is going to be my last.

Except…

I can see him, now.

He’s a brief flicker in the corner of my eye. A patch of black in the shape of a man.

Following me.

I don’t know what he wants, but it can’t be good. It’s like he’s given up on waiting for me to have a picture taken and is cutting out the middleman.

I know he needs light to be seen. That’s why I’ve taken up living in darker spaces. My friends think I’m crazy. Even the ones who’ve seen the photos.

And I can’t help thinking that this might be my last journal entry.

Because I keep thinking he’s in the shadows, too.

*

The new creature blinked, though it had no eyes to do so. The computer screen, the words on it, the chair the creature sat on… all diminished in significance.

The fear had gone.

In its place, was a hunger.

Stand, said the Parent. No sound came, but the understanding of instructions persisted.

A brief memory of being shorter. An echo of the former life. The life that no longer was important.

I will teach you to hunt, said the Parent. I will teach you to feed. And when you are ready, I will teach you how to make others - and how to teach them.

The new creature followed the Parent. Seeing things that had once mattered. The last object it noted was a mirror by the door. In it were two identical creatures. Looking almost, but not quite like a human in a black suit.

Except for the faces.

There weren’t any.

They both let themselves out into the night.

They had to feed.

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Challenge #00338: The Return of Wark

Someone has taken a formal invitation to its logical creative interpretation and shown up/put someone else in a literal penguin suit

“I still say the instructions were a little vague,” said Rael.

“You managed tae follow them,” Shayde noted. She was resplendent in an empire-line gown in gold and white. She’d also done something with her hair that made it sparkle.

“Yes, but I know your lexicon. Others are not so advantaged. I had to field several hundred queries about your meaning.”

“And ye got paid fer it…”

“Don’t get me started on the gender binary issue. There’s more than ‘Ladies’ and 'Gentlemen’, now.”

And there he was. One of the cogniscents who had not checked with Shayde’s Ambassadorial offices and gone… creative.

It was a literal penguin suit. Not the sad, floppy, faux fur fabric ones favored by animal rights’ activists. This was a penguin suit that paid significant effort to making the wearer look like a giant penguin. There was even a highly effective beak mask to complete the effect.

“Aw. Poor lamb…”

“Penguin,” corrected Rael.

“Mind if I get 'im on me dance card?”

There were moments when Rael could never understand her. And this was definitely one of them. “Are you showing him off or comforting him?”

“It takes some effort tae pull that off. Column A and Column B.”

They cut a surprisingly good figure on the dance floor. And judging by the twitching, Shayde was explaining while seeming like she was smiling.

And judging by his smiles… he’d done the costume on purpose.

Just part and parcel of the weirdness that followed her.

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Challenge #00336: Vulnerable

“No, Lasagne! My only weakness!”

Rael did his utmost to resist Shayde’s variants of charm. It rarely worked, but he persisted. Often as much as she did.

It had, in fact, reached the point where she arrived with temptation in hand. Usually in a tin box, but this time, she arrived with a thermally insulated parcel.

“I know ye dinnae like the ballet, but I have tae go an’ yer me preferred plus one. And ye ken how it gets when I turn up with plus zero.”

He’d seen it once, from a distance. What he could resist on an everyday basis, no carbon-based male could possibly ignore.

Mercy did not sway him, any more. “Cards on the table, Ambassador.”

She put down the container. Unlocked the seal.

No. Lasagna. With all the unsuitable, naturally sourced, original ingredients.

“Ye ken the cheese had tae be irradiated.”

“…aye…” he whispered absently.

Shayde heartlessly closed the box again. “Finish up and then eat. Then ye can fetch yer good coat.”

She knew him far too well. Far, far too well. “You’re helping me finish up. Unpaid.”

“As ye wish.”

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Challenge #00335: To Be a F.A.I.R.Y

“When you wish upon a star, it’s actually a satellite. Your wish has been recorded and an agent assigned to your case.”

She’d just passed the written test. She knew the rules. When it came to wish granting, they gave the toughest one of the day to the rookies. To see what they could do.

It was all part and parcel of being a F.A.I.R.Y. Facilitating All Invocations, Responding Yesterday.

It was a tough job, granting the wishes of children in a world with over seven billion people. It required enormous fortitude, wings and guts of steel, and a heart seven times too large.

She, like all the other rookies, waited in line to be presented the Pointy Hat. Each in turn would pick out a simple scroll and that would be their assignment.

Too soon, her turn came. Her hand trembled as she flicked around the scrolls with her fingers. Her heart hammered in her chest as she pulled it out.

And then fell into the heart of a star as she read the words:

I wish my Daddy would come back.

Wishes like that could ruin a F.A.I.R.Y. They shouted of broken homes. Of fights in the night. Of death and destruction.

There were two things any F.A.I.R.Y could do - follow the letter of the wish, or follow its spirit.

She waited for dismissal and made a beeline for the research station. The simple-looking scroll was coded with all sorts of metadata. The wisher, their location, a slice of history… all viewable on the crystal ball.

She watched every last minute. The child’s father had not run off. He’d been in an accident. He’d died. And no F.A.I.R.Y had the power to bring back the dead.

And now that she looked, that father hadn’t been much of a Daddy. He was rough and violent and had never learned better ways to vent his frustrations. He left his family helpless, because he had to be the ultimate power in the home.

Mama was lost. She had no idea how to pay the bills, and currently no access to the household funds. She was selling belongings just to get by. Making do with sausage-meat, beans and rice.

They didn’t need Daddy back. They needed a better Daddy.

And it was her job to find one.

*

He was lost. The GPS had lead him on a series of wrong turns and now was no longer talking to him. Well, there was a garage sale, here, so that meant someone was amenable to strangers coming by.

Then he saw what was in the garage sale.

This was a collection of things on the far side of desperation. The scattered belongings of a man; belongings that nobody wanted for the asking price. The clothes that didn’t fit any more. The toys out-grown. The tupperware un-used.

The silent auction of a prized possession.

This was a garage sale desperate for money. Too many signs with prices also had ‘make an offer’. The lady of the house had that air of desperation that spoke of falling slowly into ruin and trying so very hard not to.

And there came the solemn child carrying out their toys.

He introduced himself. Told her about the fritzing GPS. Cancelled his plans. Asked her about her story. Found out about a man of many subtle cruelties. Offered to help out.

The first thing he helped with was the finances. Showing her where she could get help and assisting with the filling out of forms. Told her where she could sell all of her former husband’s man-things at a better price. Helped her haul them there.

And what slowly emerged behind the cautious veil of fear and tears was a wonderful woman. It never occurred to him to control her. She was much better as a free agent. And so was the kid.

And, as a free agent… she asked him to stay.

Of course he said yes.

*

“It took you three years,” said the chief. “On one wish.”

“Yes sir.”

“Most of that was convincing a fellow to do the right things.”

“Didn’t need much pushing, sir. Just a series of excuses to hang around.”

“And you didn’t grant the wish as stated…”

She dared glare him in the eye. “How could I have done so, sir? It states in our charter that we aim to make lives better.”

There was a ghost of a smile on the chief’s face. “Exactly so. Welcome to the force, Rookie.”

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