Challenge #00246: Meter and Rhyme
Professor Xavier on why he abandoned the idea of a institute theme song.
“Professor? Why isn’t there a school song?”
“To be very brief, I couldn’t come up with anything good,” he confessed. “Begin with the fact that the Institute doesn’t have a catchy name, and add to that the fact that I have all the musical talents of a diseased whelk…” he shrugged. “If you can come up with something, you’re welcome to, but–”
“Geethanks, Prof!”
Whoosh.
“…I don’t hold high hopes…”
Inside of two weeks, after the literal battle of the bands, Professor Xavier had a third reason not to have a school song.
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Challenge #00245: Learning Curve
Scott, the new floral and somewhat emotionally expressive studmuffin, wows the blue hairs at the convention. His ego does a world of good for it.
“I do a lot of beach-combing for interesting pieces,” said Scott. “And I get bucket-loads of shells from that, I never knew why I picked them up in the first place, but I had bucket-loads of shells and I had to do something with them…” Click. The next slide showed an orchid made of shells. “And that’s what started the Earth and Sea collection.” An array of semi-realistic not-plants made from shells, felt and driftwood. “And then… I dreamed up this creature.”
It was his first and most nightmarish ur-creature. He’d cleaned a beached blob monster and, after making certain it wasn’t anything endangered, used what remained of its skeleton in a work that could only be judged as threatening. The wire also held beach glass he’d turned into beads, making it both beautiful and revolting. Sticks, rocks and shells made parts that were missing from the skeleton.
“I’m still working through a lot of things, and with some help, I managed to figure it out. My little brother Alex loved the beach… and I hadn’t been down to one since… I lost my entire family in a plane crash.”
Murmur murmur murmur, went the blue-haired arts donors.
“The daymares, as I call them… are all me trying to deal with death. They’ve been… an obsession since I finished putting the Hunter together.” He wanted to say, Please buy some of these, they’re taking over a whole basement and they’re creeping everyone out including me. Instead, he said, “By facing down the spectre of death, I grew stronger. I learned to conquer my fears. And now it’s time for these monsters to find their place in the world.” You don’t have to take them home… “You can own a little piece of strength against the grim spectre of death.”
Silence. And then, stunningly, applause. The blue-hairs, grey-hairs and sundry elite filed out of the presentation hall and into the gallery, where a stunning array of macabre artworks stood behind glass.
It almost bothered him that he could convince people to buy this stuff. It bothered him more that he had fans. Who were busy beach-combing for blob monsters for him.
And worse, some were trying to imitate them.
But the money, the real money, was in the rich artsy people who didn’t have a lick of creativity of their own. So they compensated by buying galleries, and owning art.
“They’re really quite stunning,” said a blue-hair by his elbow. “All the things from the sea. It reminds us that that which we enjoy too hard can also be our doom.”
Instead of being stunned by the revelation, Scott acted pleased that she’d noticed. “Yes,” he said. “Life is too fragile to take anything for granted.”
She had a slip of paper in her hand. She’d bought the Gorgon. Yikes. He thought he’d never get rid of that thing.
He’d already told his fans, no more dead bears. Or dead pigs. Or the bones, in fact, of anything larger than a labrador. And no dead small dogs, either. And damnit, he was not in the business of turning your dead pet into an artwork. Gah.
’…have a granddaughter about your age, very interested in the modern art scene.“
Whoops. Good thing he’d learned to pick up hazard words instead of listening on autopilot. "Sorry, ma'am, but I already have a fiancee. She’s meeting me in…” he checked his watch, “Five minutes ago. I do apologize, but I simply must go find her. You have a good evening.”
Sure enough, he found Jean by the less disturbing floral creations. No surprise. She’d told him that if she “had to look at another one of those things,” she’d be doing so through a weapon sight.
“You’re looking confident,” said Jean. “I like it.”
“It helps that they like me,” he shrugged. “And that you do, too.”
“And you got rid of the dead bear. Yay,” she whispered.
Telepaths. You couldn’t keep anything a secret. “Want to hop over to the Performing Arts place and hear Sara playing?”
“Yeah. I owe her some ‘personal thanks’ for putting you onto using bones.”
“Hey, at least she shared how to stop them stinking up the place.”
“Survival mechanism, studmuffin. Survival mechanism.”
Scott laughed and walked in step with the love of his life. Things were looking up.
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Challenge #00244: One Beautiful Morning at the Bi-Annual Fair
I’m in an oooey gooey mood so please give me a sweet romantic sappy drippy waff-fest about a couple who meet long after they knew each other in high school. Extra points for any amusement park item.
In order to reduce the severity of Silly Season, Amalgam Station held a station-wide fair once every five months. Every human got some time to play, even folks like Lyr, who worked security.
Even other species got into it. Chitanians were busy hanging lights where no human could reach with the same opposite of assistance. Assorted Saurians were putting up what they believed to be appropriate Terran decorations. She didn’t have the heart to tell them they’d got Halloween and Christmas mixed up again.
By the pricking in her neck… Lyr could sense someone familiar approaching. Not close-familiar. Just someone she used to know.
She turned. O Powers. “Tae Driscol. It’s been too long!”
He smiled. “I should have known I could never sneak up on you. Haven’t seen you since Spooky School.”
“Don’t call it that?” Lyr begged. One bad choice of words, and she was an insecure little pre-cog again, trying to figure out how plastic her future was, and how she could use her erratic gift for the greater good. And just like that, she remembered being in love with Tae Driscol.
He was still as handsome as ever. The cut of his clothes and the natural materials used in them told her how successful he was as a Finder.
‘If’s from yesteryear snowed down on her mind. If she had said 'yes’. If she hadn’t had that vision. If she’d just tried to fight fate one more time…
But she knew better than that, now. She wasn’t a silly teenager, any more. She had a teenaged daughter of her own. She had a family. A husband.
“I see you’re doing well,” she managed.
“I heard you had three kids. How did you manage all that and stay this fit?”
“You haven’t met Ambassador Shayde, then.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I try to Find ways to stay out of trouble…”
“And yet you Found me.”
Another classic Tae grin. “I was after the place with the best fun. And here I am.”
Fond memories made her smile. “Flattery will get you nowhere. Happily married. Allowed to arrest you for trying any nonsense.”
“No nonsense,” he held up his hands in surrender. “I just want to win you a toy panda at the ring toss. For old times’ sake.”
Not the panda. She’d almost forgotten the old toy he’d accidentally destroyed in their class project. The project that proved to be the end of their relationship as a portent of doom.
“If you use your Finding ability, I’ll have to arrest you for cheating,” she warned.
“Flirt,” he countered. It was a joke. An actual joke that was not at her expense. He had changed.
“Jule’s bigger and stronger than you. And I’m… stronger.” Her family had always run to shortness. It just meant she had a lower centre of gravity to use against the enemy.
“Peace, Officer,” said Tae. “I’m here to mend bridges, not burn them.”
She sighed. “It’s hard to forget some of the shit you pulled.”
Tae lead her to the stall that had toy pandas as a prize. Unlike the fair attractions of yore, this one -and all the others- gave participants an actual chance to win something. There were laws against the kind of shenanigans they used to pull during their origin years.
“Well… karma’s biting my ass. My own daughter’s… a lot more like you than me, back in the day.”
“Keep her away from egotists, she should be fine,” teased Lyr.
He threw darts at balloons like a man driven. Every one hit their target. “I was so mad at you for some thing you said the week before the project? I burned your old toy on purpose, and made it look like an accident.”
Lyr stared. “I said we’d be enemies inside a fortnight,” she murmured. “And it’d be decades before we even spoke to each other again.”
Flick, flick, flick, went the darts. Pop, pop, pop went the balloons. “Never argue with a precog.” Another set. Flick, flick, flick. Pop, pop, pop. “She needs to know she can make it. Even with the headaches.”
“Can’t relax into it?”
“Yeah.” He tallied up his points and paid for more darts. “The kids in her class aren’t much of a help, there.”
Lyr remembered that, very well. "Espers can be assholes, sometimes. How often does the therapist work with the class?“
"Daily. Not that it helps. Neither does telling Katie how everyone is all worked up about their own problems that they don’t have much room for empathy… So…”
He had twice the points he needed for a plush panda. Lyr got a 'flash’ of a young, insecure girl crying into one. “She has your hair,” she blurted.
“I’m going to confess,” said Tae. “And give her a panda. And hope it works.”
“Give her a link to my bio. I’m living proof you can improve after a near-asshole experience.”
Tae handed her a panda. “I’m sorry. I had no idea and I didn’t want to catch one.”
Lyr hugged it. It was not the same panda as the one that had helped her through too many rough nights and anxiety headaches, but the feel bought back the memories.
This one would help Elaise, when her gift bloomed.
“Thanks,” said Lyr. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”
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Fallout from Tequila Night. (you make me crave sequels)
Tattoos, by their nature, are impossible to hide forever. Especially drunken ones. It’s inevitable. So, somehow, one way or another, someone is gonna find out about the tats Kitty and Rogue got of each others’ names on their butts. And immediately jump to a conclusion: they’re dating. Why else would they get such fancy ink in such an intimate place? Sure, they’ll try to deny it, but rumors are quick to spread and very hard to kill…
(#00243)
She used to love that skirt. But never loved it again after Pietro made her flash her ass to half the goddamn school.
Everyone saw it.
“You have a tattoo? Who the hell is Marie Dan can’t go?”
“Lance…”
“Answer the question, damnit.”
Sigh. “It’s Rogue. And it’s pronounced D'ancanto.”
“AND WHY IS HER NAME ON YOUR ASS?”
“Why should it even matter whose name I have on my ass?”
“I have to grab that ass!”
“Well, if it’s such a chore, you can like, stop.”
Lance sputtered. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like that… I mean, you and her; how does it even work? Do I get to watch?”
“Don’t be gross! Even if Rogue and I had something, that would be disgusting!”
“So… you’re cheating on me with her? Or do you two go at it when we’re broken up again?”
Kitty rolled her eyes and tried flat-out sarcasm. “No, I got it when I thought we were forever and then she broke up with me straight after. Care to contribute to the laser surgery?”
Sarcasm, as usual, was lost on the slow of mind. “No way, this is totally hot! Reckon we could arrange a threesome for old times’ sake?”
“Oh my God, just like, go away and die in a fire.”
And that was how the scurrilous rumours got started.
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Challenge #00239: Elemental, my dear…
Following someone around wearing a deerstalker and peering through a magnifying glass, whilst deducing things. With someone named Sherlock around, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Bonus points for an exasperated Watson getting dragged along.
Eridite Watson passed from transitory population zones to residential in a cloud of chemicals. She dutifully breathed in the immunoflu, after breathing out her own local germs for Medical to catalogue as harmless. All before she put her clothes back on.
At least they let her have relative privacy and female attendants on request.
This was a strange and unusual place. Socialism abounded and corrupted everyone. But instead of the dismal and depressing picture given her by Greater Deregulation (Hubwards), it was brightly lit, overflowing with plants, and oddly colourful.
Good news, there was a directory. Bad news, it was in that god-awful phonetic mish-mash called GalStand.
Good news, her tourist-goggles had the technology to translate it into good, old Greater Deregulation (Hubwards) English. Bad news, she had no clue how to even turn them on.
“Ye put ‘em on and press the bridge, ye ken. Yuir techies’ve already adjusted it for ye.”
The creature was speaking to her in English. Her English. But the accent was… bizzarre. Nobody on Greater Deregulation (Hubwards) spoke like that.
Watson tried it. Ah. English floated over the GalStand mess, but wasn’t very helpful.
“I’m looking for the offices of the Security Chief. I have an extradition treaty for Gareth Wifnikov-Smythe.”
This earned a sharp-toothed grin from her criminally dark face. “Ah, finally and at last, then. Good riddance tae bad rubbish. Name’s Shayde. I could walk there in me sleep.”
That should have been her warning sign. But she introduced herself, regardless. “I’m Lieutenant Eridite Watson.”
“Lovely!” An enthusiastic pumping of her offered hand. “It’s almost too good! You stay right there, I’ll just be a tick.”
And, without any further warning, the strange woman fell into her own shadow and was gone. Watson stared in confusion at the patch of floor she had been standing on. Poked it with her foot. It was solid, so how–?
“Ah,” said someone else. A shorter man with sort-of mauve skin. What was it with her and attracting coloured people, today? “I’m sorry. Shayde’s happened to you, hasn’t she?”
He, too, was speaking Greater Deregulation (Hubwards) English. But it looked like he was making the greater effort.
“She told me to wait,” Watson bit down hard on a 'sir’. This… thing… was not a 'sir’. Despite appearing to be male, it was a dangerous and polluting alien with all sorts of alien diseases. For all she knew, it was readying a blood-attack with a special, weaponized ring. “My name is Lieutenant Eridite Watson and I have an extradition treaty for Gareth Wifnikov-Smythe.” She dug the flimsy out of her jacket as proof.
“Watson, you said,” asked the little blue… not-quite-man.
“Ye-e-es…? The…. Shayde. Seemed to think it was good…”
“…powers…” muttered the thing in the rainbow coat. “If we keep on our toes, we can get this over with quickly. I apologize in advance for… the oncoming event.”
Shayde stepped out of another shadow and bounced all the way over to the little blue not-man, making high-pitched squealing noises. She proceeded to embrace… him… and continue to bounce.
The blue not-man’s expression told Watson everything she needed to know about the… oncoming event.
*
“Sherlock… May I introduce ye tae Watson.”
The alien was busy forcibly removing a deerstalker hat. “Right. That explains that nonsense,” he said in sharp GalStand. The tourist goggles provided subtitles. “What’s your nonsense?”
“No nonsense, sir.” Damn! Aliens were not 'sir’s. They were things. This place was corrupting her already. “I have an extradition treaty for Gareth Wifnikov-Smythe.”
The alien took it, read it through a monocle - fending off Shayde and the hat the entire time - and finally swore. “We’ve almost rehabilitated him and you want to take him back -stoppit!- back to your… own facilities…” pronounced, 'mediaeval torture chambers’, “in a system where a criminal has no choice but to remain a criminal.”
The blue one finally snatched the hat off the black one and glared her into stillness.
“I have been charged to secure and retrieve Gareth Wifnikov-Smythe and return him for proper punishment as befits a criminal of his nature,” said Watson. “What happens to him once he’s out of your jurisdiction is not important.”
Sigh. “…and I had such hopes…” He shook his head and handed over a device with a friendly map on its screen. “This will guide you to his cell. Please use ethical restraints until you’re on your own vessel?”
That pushed an automatic, instantly regretted, “Yessir,” out of her mouth. Red-faced, Watson focussed on the map and left without any courtesy. These were things. Things didn’t get courtesy.
*
“A-a-a-awww…” said Shayde. “But– Sherlock and Watson. Ye were meant for each other.”
Sherlock rubbed his temples. He already had a busy day. He didn’t need Shayde making it interesting on top of that. “Rael, get her out of here before I find a reason to arrest her again…”
“Yessir. Sorry, sir.”
The hat, at last, went back into its glass case behind his desk.
Humans…
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Challenge #00235: Dealing with fridge thieves
Coffee jello. Inspired because of this video.
Sara fumed. This was the fifth time someone had stolen her obsessively-labled lunch. It was almost enough to make her insectivorous again. And providing a lunchbox troll hadn’t discouraged the fiend, either.
The inconsiderate soul behind this was obviously trolling for some passive-aggressive antagonizing, but he (it was almost always a ‘he’) had yet to match wits with Sara.
She had Methods.
The “moldy” sandwich wrapper hadn’t stopped him. The food colouring in the bread hadn’t stopped him. The spring-loaded 'orrible 'airy spider hadn’t stopped him… for longer than forty-eight hours.
And shy of poisoning…
Hmmm. Sara could almost hear Todd murmuring, Sara, no-o-o-o-o… in the back of her head. All right. Maybe just severe gastric reflux.
So, after stopping by the sushi place down the road for a heinously expensive lunch, Sara went shopping.
The next day, her lunch consisted of “special” fried rice - with mealworms replacing the rice, beondogi replacing the peanuts, and crickets, amongst many other things - “special” coffee jello - made out of her heart-stopping wake-up juice - and a flask of gourmet apple juice - tainted with cascara.
She included the lunchbox troll for verisimilitude. And waited.
Sure enough, come lunchtime, her luncheon was gone. She calmly went and bought some replacement sushi and ate it at her desk while she composed an informative missive about what, exactly, was in her repast, this day.
It finished with, “And the apple juice, as you are no doubt discovering, was doped with cascara. I will be picking random items of my lunch to poison in future. Only I know where the poison is. And, thanks to a generous coating of genitan violet, I will also know who the thieves are.
"Don’t try to wash it off. You’ll only make it worse. Sara (The green one).”
Interestingly, four people at the office had to go and get their stomachs pumped. All four had purple hands. Internal Relations had a field day as a direct result.
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Challenge #00234: Intricate details
The black fellow and Scott’s riveting discussion about felt.
“I knew you were lying about something,” the fellow in tweed grinned from ear to ear. “You said you only work in artificial plants and things that aren’t alive.”
“Yeah, I did. So?”
“That’s clearly moss on Echoes of Summertime.”
“No, that’s felt.”
“Seriously? Felt?”
“Yeah. I wanted a moss look and none of the substitutes were right until Sara told me about back-brushing felt. Then it was just a problem of finding a thick enough felt.”
Most people started to zone out at this stage. Not his speciesist friend. “Really? I thought felt was felt.”
You really want to go down this road? Okay… “Most felt on the market these days is the minimum thickness you can get without the stuff falling apart. You hold it up to the light, you can see the fibres. Which is great for lamps, but rotten for back-brushing. I ended up having to go around to places that made the stuff themselves. If you want a really great moss you need a minimum of three millimeters, the right kind of dye, and five different brushes. There’s the horsehair, the straw, the nylon soft-bristle, the nylon hard bristle, and the super-soft baby toy brush I found in this yard sale, but it’s perfect for getting just the right amount of counter-fluff going.”
Amazingly, he was not nodding and nearly nodding off. “What’s counter-fluff?”
“Sara warned me about this. You get into something deep enough, and you start developing your own lingo. Counter-fluff is the fibres that end up going in different directions, which is hard to do when you’re using natural fibres. I’m picky about my moss, so I’ve ended up making my own. Do you have any idea how hard it is to make the right gauge of felt out of alpaca fleece?”
“Alpaca? I’d have thought wool was the way to go.”
“Sheep’s nice, but unless you treat it with all sorts of chemicals, it doesn’t behave properly… and I’m already on one terrorist watch list, I didn’t need any more visits from the FBI.” A negligent wave to Agent Pertwee, who was supposed to be undercover. “I did experiment with rabbit, but the staple isn’t quite right. Dog’s too rough, and nobody nearby has llamas, so I went with Alpaca.”
“I’d love to see your experiments, I’m into textiles, myself…”
That evening, Scott made a friend out of an enemy with artificial moss.
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Challenge #00232: A Lake Appeared in Winsome Valley
The forest is completely submerged. The tops of the tallest trees are easily 50 feet below the surface. Nobody knows how the trees are still alive, but they are, and sometimes, when the water is clear, you can see flickers of movement down below the canopy…
[AN: Please keep in mind that I’ve only heard two episodes of WTNV]
There has been a lot of buzz about the lake that spontaneously appeared in Winsome Valley, just outside the outskirts of town, today. The lake appears to have it’s surface three feet above the lowest point in Winsome Valley, but its bottom is far, far deeper than that.
Most citizens have been concerned about what to name it. Personally, I think that ‘greenwood lake’ suits it perfectly.
You know, since there’s a forest in it.
The forest is completely submerged. The tops of the tallest trees are easily fifty feet below the surface. Nobody knows how the trees are still alive, but they are, and sometimes, when the water is clear, you can see flickers of movement down below the canopy. The sheriff’s secret police advise us not to go fishing in the lake.
Do not swim in the lake.
Do not go boating in the lake.
Do not engage in water-related activities in or near the lake.
And above all, do not release pet goldfish into the lake. Goldfish are an invasive species and their presence may anger whatever lives in the forest. After all, we want to be nice to whatever’s down there.
It may yet be nice to us in return.
In unrelated news, all the coyotes previously inhabiting Winsome Valley have vanished without a trace. All their tracks stop as if they stepped into another world. The sheriff’s secret police assure us that this is completely unrelated news. The disappearance of the coyotes has absolutely nothing to do with the appearance of greenwood lake.
The hooded figures in the dog park briefly disappeared from there and appeared by the shores of greenwood lake, for an hour, at exactly noon. We do not look at the hooded figures, but they nevertheless appeared very agitated. We wish them further agitation. Some of us want to play in the dog park.
And now, the weather…
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Challenge #00229: The Morning Show with Patty
A cooking show gone horribly wrong
“And here’s our surprise chef for this morning, Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Good morning!”
“Good morning, Patty,” said the tall, handsome man in the fine suit.
“Now, I understand you’re a psychiatrist?”
“That’s correct,” said Hannibal. “However, I am a forensic psychiatrist. I delve into the mind of the serial criminal, and I often don’t get to meet them until after they’ve been captured.”
“Wow, that is so-o-o-o spooky,” chirped Patty. “I don’t suppose you could find out who keeps stealing my chocolate stash when we’re off-air? Haha.”
“Haha,” Hannibal dutifully echoed. “I’m afraid I’d have to charge.”
Patty giggled and changed the subject. “So, what are we cooking, today, Doctor?”
“Today I bought some fresh, long pork ribs,” he displayed a neat tray, “and I’ll be sharing my grandmother’s famous rib roast sauce recipe.”
“Those are a lot of ribs,” said Patty. “There goes my diet!”
Up in the command centre, someone dutifully typed Long Pork Rib Roast. for the subtitle on the screen. It took ten minutes before the phones started ringing. By that time, Patty was dutifully massaging the famous sauce into her selection of ribs.
By the time the police were on their way, Patty was sharing around some that Hannibal had prepared earlier.
They found the producer, or the majority of what was left of him, neatly parceled and packaged in his office refrigerator. The bones, his head, and all the major organs were also neatly parceled, but in the trash.
Long pork, they learned that day, is a euphemism for human flesh.
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Challenge #00228: Ancient Terran Tradition
TOGA TIME!
Of course it happened during Silly Season, the quasi-annual event where all humans just spontaneously went more crazy than normal. Or what passed for normal amongst humans.
Rael, of course, expected some blame. Somehow, being attached as chief translator to a being like Shayde on a strictly working basis meant that he was also capable of controlling her actions.
Sherlock, at least, understood that someone like Shayde was not in the least bit controllable and should have been registered as a cogniscent force of nature. But he still wanted explanations.
For all of his research and fascination with humans and their conflicting histories of conflict… Rael still had no idea how to explain a human or anything they did.
Especially during Silly Season.
But nevertheless, Sherlock persisted.
He pointed to the images on one of the larger monitors. “What the flying hells are they doing?”
Rael stared. Humans, of course. Surrounded at a respectful and safe distance by tourists taking images. The difference between this and an average Silly Season gathering was that this time, the humans were wearing bedsheets and very little else.
“I… think they’re recreating a bacchanal…” Wait. No. There went Hwell barrow swinging on a liana. He was almost naked, but for a pair of what Shayde insisted were ‘tighty whities’. A faint yodel carried through the muted audio.
And there she was. Her bedsheet managed to fit better, and there were glimpses of a bikini underneath, but she, too, was involved. And dancing. And apparently inebriated without imbibing.
“My records show that she started it,” supplied Sherlock. “With a chant of, 'toe-gah, toe-gah, toe-gah’… Do you have any idea what that means?”
“Not in context,” Rael allowed. “A toga is a garment worn by the ancient Terran greek or roman factions, though judging by the head foliage, I would guess this might be roman-influenced. What it has to do with Silly Season, I can only guess.”
Finally, Sherlock got to the meat of the problem. “Are we going to expect property damage?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“…damn…”
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