Challenge #00320: Homo S. Cuisine
Considering how many toxic things humans ate, it was a little surprising that their cooking was not only edible, but delicious.
“YE-HE-HEEESSSSS! It’s here!”
The nervous Passeri crew gathered at a safe distance to watch the Ship Human - somewhere between lucky mascot and terrifying on-board entertainment - cackle and sing to herself.
They had been told that female humans were far more trainable than the males. That they were, on the whole, quieter and less dangerous than the males. The Passeri had since become convinced that they were told lies.
Right now, the human was singing “It’s here,” over and over as she towed the large freight box towards the segregated kitchen set aside for her bizarre human foods.
Inside the box was a series of smaller boxes. Something Vaishnavi greeted with glee. “Sweet! Individually wrapped. You’re getting five stars, InterShip Galactic.”
The smaller boxes had warning stickers on them. Biohazard. Caustic substance. Carnivorous enzymes.
“My pardon,” said Tyrti, the closest Passeri crew-member the human had to a friend on board, “those stickers are… normally cause for alarm. Why do you express joy?”
“These?” a negligent wave at the brightly-coloured warnings. “This is just alarmist rubbish. They do the same sort of thing for cheese.” Yes. Some human cheese had escaped at Sygnus Twelve. The entire installation had to be heat-sterilized off the surface of the moon. “These are just pineapples.”
The surrounding Passeri took a collective step back, as if the human had said ’it’s only uranium 238’ instead. Only Tyrti stayed in her place. Thus, she was in a prime position to watch Vaishnavi gather ingredients. These included some biohazard-isolated cheese, a caustic material called Tomato Paste, and the ever-present tins of the Terran delicacy, Spam. There was also a flat disk of something bread-like. Thankfully, the packing labels declared that the biohazardous yeast had been killed by irradiation.
“You cook now?”
“Why not? I’ve been waiting for these babies for ages. I want to celebrate.” And, out of deference to her ship and crew-mates, Vaishnavi turned on the isolation protocols before proceeding.
The number of things humans just casually ate without concern inevitably boggled the galactic assembly, so Vaishnavi’s cooking inevitably gathered an audience. It was why all four walls of her kitchen were transparent.
Vaishnavi treated it as an opportunity to educate, and ignored the gasps as she sampled various ingredients. “Today, little birdies, I’m cooking an Earth favourite all over the world - Pizza. Pizza began in a nation-state called Italy…”
What was most surprising to the crew was how… delicious it smelled. Many were barely restraining coos of hunger in anticipation of being fed. They had seen the toxic ingredients. They knew it should have been hazardous. One of them had fainted when the human negligently ate a piece of raw pineapple.
Yet all wanted to try some.
It was almost as if the legendary human insanity was… infectious.
They watched in eager anticipation as the steaming creation journeyed through the scanner to determine exactly how toxic it was to the ship and her crew.
Many cheered at the green light. It passed the first test. It wasn’t poisonous.
Tyrti the Brave tried the first piece. “This defies logic,” she announced. “It tastes of beauty.”
Vaishnavi grinned. “Share and enjoy, birdies. I’ll get some batches going.”
And that was how the phrase Unsuitable Food got coined.
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Challenge #00319: In Memorium
Found on a gravestone, “Name, date-date, (Killed 99 bears) We pray he has found rest”
We pray he found rest. We’re not sure, but we hope so, because nobody ever found a body, and 99 may not have been enough.
(replace bears with appropriate sentient or nonsentient species at your discretion, especially in the case of early-contact humans :P)
If any being needed any further proof of human insanity - besides ten minutes’ contact with any number of the species - all they had to do was visit Memorial Moon at Velliguas Three.
There is a temple, there. Carved out of a mountain. With Bas-reliefs depicting heroic deeds. And a statue of a human in a space suit and in a heroic pose.
And a plaque.
ANDREW JONES, it reads, 234598-234632. Destroyed 99 planet-eaters. We pray he has found his rest.
Then the visitor reads about the exploits in the Bas-reliefs. Sees the recorded videos depicting skin-of-teeth, seat-of-pants, luck-of-idiots combat style that ended ninety-nine of the swarming creatures that ate planets.
The hundredth planet-eater… destroyed the vessel Jones was piloting. The Velligulae never found any remains to bury, though they did have to gang up to vanquish the last of the beasts where one human had previously sufficed.
Put in association with the humans’ reputation for being unkillable, and one could see exactly why the Velligulae pray Andrew Jones found his rest.
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Some questions should remain unspoken.
“I can’t believe you just said that. I am so glad they ended the call before they heard you.”
“What? It was a perfectly valid question.”
“I don’t care, it’s downright rude! And kind of disgusting.”
“But now you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
“…yes, damn you. Next time you wonder something like ‘How do conjoined twins decide whose hand wipes their shared ass when they poop?’, keep it to yourself!”
“Aww, but I had so many other questions about them…” – Josh
(#00318)
What people don’t know about the Insulter Pin is that there are several levels.
A plain, mirrored fan means that the wearer is frequently unintentionally insulting and doesn’t always understand when they give offense, or why it is offensive.
A mirrored fan with a black trim means that the wearer will, on occasion, be deliberately insulting. Often in retaliation for an emotional injury. This is rarely done with forethought, and if there is any, there is generally a warning involved.
A mirrored fan with black-and-yellow striped trim means that the wearer is frequently deliberately insulting, but no-one can tell when they mean it or not.
Shayde has graduated through all three.
They’re working on the codification of the fourth level.
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Challenge #00317: Common Band
Different cultures, different vocal physiologies, and different mechanisms of hearing certainly make for interesting music nights.
Of all the past human phenomena that proved endlessly fascinating, the one that Rael could not turn away from was ‘channel surfing’. Every time either one of them found themselves at the other’s residence, Rael always let Shayde have the entertainment remote.
Not because she had good taste, but because what she did fascinated him.
Even the humans used to limited entertainments picked a select few channels to view. Or selected series based on their interests and rarely strayed.
Shayde wanted to view them all. No filters (though she did finally put some on the gore and sex content) no restrictions… just hopping from channel to channel to see what was playing.
And not once did she ever succeed in going 'round the horn’.
This time, she stopped at a music show. According to her expression, it was due to the train wreck factor.
“Who th’ fook is this, then?”
Rael looked. “Ah. They called themselves the Common Band. They composed and played music based on the sounds and words all known species could appreciate.”
“That’s two hundred words an’ about three notes if ye don’t count half an’ quarter tones,” said Shayde. “That’s nuts…”
“Bethoven got a symphony out of two notes,” countered Rael.
“It’s unbelievable.” She dialed up information on them from her personal info-reader. “And they’re a hit?”
“For forty years,” sighed Rael. “They have a very wide fan-base.”
“How th’ fook can anyone get forty hits out of two hundred words and three notes?”
“You would be amazed,” said Rael. He hoped she’d pick up the remote again, but a new song was starting.
“Ee, this one’s catchy…”
Damn. Too late. The Common Band had found another fan.
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Challenge #00316: Sing-along
Humans burst into song spontaneously all the time, usually started just by one humming and becoming a little quartet or a vocalist and backing choir very suddenly.
Add in various aliens, and the somewhat macabre lyrics for the beginning of Bohemian Rhapsody
The humans called him Captain Ted. It was the closest they could get to Tyd'r'kaad and, compared to the many other things they said and did, it was only mildly annoying.
He was the first galactic captain to have a mostly human crew, at the ratio of five humans to one Sognati.
The humans got stranger in large groups, so the Galactic Evaluation Committee had charged him and his crew to empirically experiment with group numbers and take notes.
And now there was this. Captain Ted dutifully recorded it, but he couldn’t fathom the significance.
A group of humans had spontaneously started singing.
“No escape from reality…”
On the next line, practically the entire sorting bay was doing it.
“Open your eyes. Look up to the skies and seeeeeeeeee…”
One, located at a noted acoustic spot, took the solo. “I’m just a poor boy.”
“Poor boy” sang the rest.
“I got no sympathy.”
“Because I’m easy come. Easy go. Little high. Little low. Anyway the wind blows, doesn’t really matter to me…”
“To me,” sang the soloist.
Up until this point, Ted had thought it was a religious observance, as they did at more festive times of their year.
Someone, somewhere, was singing music.
“Mamaaaaa,” sang the soloist. “Just killed a man.”
What?
“Put a gun against his head. Pulled my trigger. Now he’s dead.”
This made less sense than the female who was singing about being a poor boy. Obviously, the words had no relation to reality. But, he was also obligated to record the entire performance.
In all its macabre surreality.
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Challenge #00315: Downhill From There
A Tragic Mispronunciation and its results
“This is all your fault!”
“Me? It was him that didnae recharge his teletubby.”
“Assistant.”
“Whatever.” Shayde struggled upright. "And he said he wanted a bubble-bath of oranges…“
"A meal at Unsuitable Food..”
“I was bein’ amenable.”
“You do not take Ambassador Maliik’s common nouns at face value!”
“Well I wasnae given the Cliff Notes!”
“Could this day get any wor–”
“DON’T ASK THAT!”
Baaaa…
“Well. Whaddaya know… Purple sheep like bubble-bath oranges.”
One of them licked his ear. Rael sighed. “Just… help me find Ambassador Maliik before security gets here? Please?”
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Challenge #00314: Ekkritism
(Someone had a mispronunciation accident, this was the result)
Wolverine: Oranges
“Just a warning, Ambassador Maliik suffers from Ekkritism,” Rael murmured into Shayde’s ear.
“Aye? And what’s that when it’s at home?”
Translation: I know you’re trying to tell me something, but I have no idea what it means.
“He unfortunately mispronounces all names as common nouns with seemingly no relation to the original name.”
“Oh, this is gonna be fun…” Translation: call Security now and save everyone the bother.
Ambassador Maliik entered the chamber with minor pomp appropriate to a small Ambassadorial negotiation. There was a brown-suited attendant with a view screen on hir chest.
“Table the JOAT,” Maliik grinned. He shook Rael’s hand.
The view screen read, Rael.
“And this must be the galactic-level famous Ambassador Blanket.”
The screen now said, Shayde.
“And ye canna say ‘rail’ or 'shade’, then?”
“Of course not. Those aren’t your names.”
“Let it go,” said Rael. “Please. Before there’s an incident.”
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Challenge #00284: All Things Ridiculous and Human
Squashed Fly Biscuits - the round shortbread ones or garibaldis, whichever is more convenient.
Bonus points if someone is disappointed to find out they don’t contain real flies.
(all the bonus points ever if it involves T'reka, I’ve totally fallen in love with that story, but realistically whoever fits the prompt)
From the Journal of T'reka the Inquisitive:
With exposure, I have been picking up some of the human language. They understand that I am still learning and change their speech modes accordingly. On our return to Toxic Island, and with some help, I helped them understand that they were sharing the planet with my people, and that my people were more comfortable with the humans remaining on Toxic Island for now.
They are currently pleased with this, as colonizing Toxic Island has proven to be difficult. Or, to use a human term, ‘interesting’. They are sharing with me their foods and beverages. Which can be a source of some confusion…
*
Alice watched Trekker as she lit politely on a chair not made for her anatomy. For all her muted colour, she was a pretty bird. Avian life form. As always, her monitors’ lights indicated that she was recording.
As always, her query in English was preceded by mutterings in her native tongue. Alice could pick out a few words, here and there, even if she mangled their pronunciation.
Eventually, Trekker asked/sang, “What you make?”
Alice didn’t think too hard. She was busy measuring and mixing. “Squashed Fly Biscuits.”
Trekker’s eyes lit up. “You insectivorous?”
Oops. “Not this time. Sorry. It is a… wrong name on purpose. A misnomer.”
“No flies?” sang Trekker sadly.
“No flies. Is raisins. Dried grapes.” Alice offered her a spare handful.
Trekker examined them in a very birdlike way. Looking at them with each eye. Twice. Thrice. Gently picked one up in her wing-fingers and tasted it.
“Very grape. Very sugar.”
“Sweet. We say 'sweet’ for sugar taste,” corrected Alice.
“Your talk has many word for same thing,” complained Trekker. “Why you no say 'dry grape biscuits’?”
Ah. They’d had trouble over this, before. “It is funny for us. Raisins look like squashed flies. We do not eat real flies. They are… unclean.” Alice had to stop herself from adopting Trekker’s singsong method of talking. “Make us very sick.”
“Is joke, yes?”
“Yes. Is joke.”
“Is all joke for food? I hear males talk and eat of 'shit on shingle’.”
Alice blushed. “Not all jokes are for food,” she allowed. “Just some. We find many things funny.”
“Why did chicken cross the road? For science?” offered Trekker.
Alice sighed. As far as her version of diplomacy was concerned, this was a massive failure. “Ye-es,” she allowed. “But that is also a joke in bad taste.”
“Bad… taste?”
“Because it makes fun of you.”
Trekker bird-examined her. Looking with each eye. “You… respect science?”
“Yes. Otherwise we’d still be in a cave and hitting each other with rocks.”
“For my people… science is… foolish. I am… used… to being made fun of.” She preened a little. Coming over as nervous and shy. “Curiosity is same word for… idiot.”
Alice sniffed back proto-tears. Never before had she wanted so hard to just grab the alien creature and hug all the bad feeling away. Alas, this was still seen as an attack move by Trekker. “We hold curiosity in great merit,” Alice explained. “For us, stupidity is never asking 'why’.”
Trekker sat a little straighter. Held her head a little higher. “I am start to hold human in great merit,” she sang.
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You overhear the strangest things from public-phone conversations sometimes…
“…well, sir, it was about, oh, a meter or so tall, looked kinda like if someone had stuck bat-ears, a big-lipped face, skinny arms and legs, a ratty wig, and, er, prominent female features on a big lima-bean of some sort and… …No, no sir, I’m not drunk or drugged, I swear it. As I clocked in and went to begin my shift, it - or she, I guess - was sloppily wandering around the central dispatch area in gaudy jewelry, sunglasses, heeled sandals and what looked like a gold bikini, waving an empty glass around and shouting in a heavily-slurred accent that she wanted more booze… …Yes, sir, that’s exactly why I’m resigning - pardon my bluntness, but seeing crazy shit like that while stone-cold sober is proof I’m nowhere even close to cut out for this job.” – Josh
(#00283)
It took a special kind of person to work in Crypto-control. If someone was going to go nuts over a grade three goblin in a Las Vegas state of mind, they clearly didn’t belong. No matter how unflappable the FBI said they were.
Clearly, it was half-past time to look in other areas for recruits. FBI, CIA and the rest of the secret service alphabet were far too ready to throw their hands up and quit at the slightest glimpse of the strange, the bizarre and the unexpected.
Director Blemisch threw her pile of candidate profiles in the nearest trash can and bought up her favourite browser, then her most secure search engine. She tapped her ideal qualifications into the search engine and crossed her fingers.
She needed someone with unique qualifications.
Open minded.
Able to accept strange new circumstances
Physically fit
Capable with most known weapons
Adaptability
Prepared for unexpected events
The search engine’s progress bar crawled at a snail’s pace. Blemisch left to retrieve a snack and a beverage from the empty and desolate break room.
When she came back, the engine said she might find what she was looking for at a place called M5 Industries.
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Challenge #00282: The Kindness of Strangers
In the bottom of one of the many pockets of the bag, forgotten but apparently not for that long, was a slightly battered perfectly pink apple. It had been on many journeys, and was remarkably unscathed considering how easily apples usually succumb to bumping about in a bag full of other odds and ends.
There was a face on it. A happy face made of two small circles and a larger arc. Cut into the skin by someone else’s knife.
It also smelled sweet. And made Tia’s stomach rumble.
Tia bought it closer to her mouth.
And gasped in shock as a gnarled old hand snapped onto her wrist. “That’s not yours, young lady.”
His eyes were older than the rest of him. And full of so very much pain.
Tia didn’t let it go. “You gonna eat it?”
“No.”
“You gonna let it rot?” she made a face.
“It won’t rot,” said the old man. “It’s… a memory. From an old friend.”
Tia’s stomach rumbled some more. “I’m hungry. Got anything edible?”
“Edible is a big word for a little girl.”
“Not really. It only has six letters. If you want a big word, try ‘condescending’.”
A warm smile. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He dipped into his coat pockets and presented a banana like a man pulling a rabbit out of his hat. “I don’t often have my bag of memories out. Here. This one’s edible.”
Tia swapped it for the apple. She watched the old man kiss the stylized face and slip it back into the bag from whence it came.
The banana was delicious. It filled the empty places, but not quite all of them. “That bag’s bigger than it looks. You got lots of stuff, mister.”
“Doctor,” said the old man.
“You don’t look like a doctor.”
Now the smile reached all the way into the eyes. Masked some of the pain. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”
Tia sighed. “Pity. Folks keep getting sick in the tumbledowns.”
“Don’t they have doctors for you?”
“Not the good kind. Doctor for the tumbledowns make people vanish. Underfolk don’t like those doctors.”
“Of course not,” said the old man. “So. Anything… special… about this illness?”
“Folks turn blue and go… strange. Then the doctors come and vanish them.” Tia licked banana off her fingers. “And it’s never the folks as aught to get sick. Like older folks or the littlies. It’s all the fit folks. The young folks. Everyone as should stay healthy.”
“Interesting,” said the old man. “All right. I think I should have a look. But I do have a few rules.”
Tia groaned and rolled her eyes. “Go on.”
“Don’t wander off. When I say run, run. Do not pull any levers, press any buttons or otherwise fiddle with things you don’t understand. And never. Ever. Try to touch anything strange.”
Somehow, the old man made the bag vanish on the way to the tumbledowns. He had a magic wand that he flicked around at random. Whatever it told him, Tia couldn’t figure out. Yet.
It took him ten minutes to find the monsters.
Two hours to defeat them.
After that, Tia didn’t want to quit running with the Doctor.
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