Challenge #00227: On the Disposal of Sex Aids
“I don’t know why you thought this was such a good idea!”
They sat in Hwell’s personal space like the ancient mariner’s albatross. Everywhere they went, everyone knew what they were for. And renting a kitchen to experiment was not in his budget.
He managed to sell a few, anyway. Mostly for their original purpose by shy creatures who spoke in low voices and urgently shoved money in his hands before running away with their merchandise.
He needed to rebrand the bloody things. Or experiment on his own, somehow…
Hwell Barrow smiled to himself. He could plausibly build a toaster-oven out of the junk they were hauling between worlds right now. It’s not as if they’d miss any, it was all destined for a scrap furnace anyway.
The first cheese waffle was delicious. After a week or three of almost solid tinkering. He even managed to serve one to Ax'and'l before the Saurian noticed the familiar and embarrassing pattern.
“Yes, of course I washed it. What do you think I am, anyway?”
“I know you’re a crazy mammal. I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“Say ‘hi’ to the wife and kids, next time you’re home,” prompted Hwell. When they had met, Ax'and'l was an overworked, underpaid freighter captain with no sense of trade, trying to earn enough to win the permanent attention of his lady-love. Their first adventure had lead to an enormous profit and -indirectly- Ax'and'l’s wedded bliss.
Glare. “You’re infuriating.”
“You’re welcome.” He munched casually on his own cheese waffle. “I can’t do anything about the samples I already have, but I’m thinking maybe I should go after the Gyiiks. They’re always willing to do something new with edibles.”
“Have you been at your still, again?”
Safe assumption, with humans. “Strictly for cooking purposes, I swear. Besides, this batch is the best grease-stripper available.” He got back on topic. “So I cook some up before we hit port, send out a Seekerbot, and then go hunting my new clientele. One per potential customer and keep them out of their original packing, sort of thing.”
The original packing had definitely made their intended purpose clear to one and all. And Hwell had had enough of staring at avian porn in his chambers.
“All you had to do was stay out of trouble,” growled Ax'and'l, “and stay in your room and not touch anything. And stay out of the liquor! Bored and drunk is an unprofitable combination, and you never remember that.”
“So next time we’re in a port where they don’t like mammals, buy me a toy,” jibed Hwell. “There’s only so many times a man can play with balls, you know.”
Ax'and'l went through the standard range of facial tics that happened whenever the Saurian captain was unsure as to whether Hwell had just made a lewd joke, or was expecting one. “Just… talk to me the next time you have a… 'brain fart’. Eugh. Humans…” He shook his head. “I don’t know why you thought this was such a good idea…”
“Same reason I think anything is a good idea. I was bored and drunk.” He shrugged. “Trust me. Find the right market, and these will sell.”
Another glare. A mutter of, “Must not kill and eat the profitable mammal.” And finally, resignation. “Do not get that bored and drunk ever again.”
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Challenge #00226: Wonderlust
The pier at the end of the world
There was no more east left. Somewhere, beyond the sunrise, past an invisible line known only to cartographers, it circled round to being west again.
El stood on the easternmost edge of the easternmost pier, whenever she could do so. She watched the gulls and the ships and the ocean that went all the way around the world while she was stuck in place.
Trapped in Portsmouth Bay. A crowded town huddled in the space between the sea and the cliffs, where masonry was chipped out of the stone spine and elaborate buildings sometimes carved into it. Where the kings’ palace had yet to see a mote of sunshine. Where windows were either too much bother or too expensive, and the less affluent houses were designed to float away during the big storms.
East had been the direction to go, once. And here in Portsmouth Bay, they had run out of east to go.
El could still feel the need to go east. It pushed. It pulled. It drew her here to the easternmost pier and made her cling with her toes and lean into the wind coming west. It helped her gain a fix of air that had been more east by sniffing deeply of the ocean scent. Made her dream of going… anywhere but Portsmouth Bay.
And on days when a beast of a wooden ship blocked her view, she would perch on one of the boathouses or a handy roof, or somewhere else tall enough and watch the crew and the cargo cycle in and out. And seethe in resentment as it sailed away again.
Her feet wanted to go, to take her away. Her heart yearned to travel. Unfortunately, they were all stuck to a body that wasn’t allowed on a vessel without special precautions.
Women and seamen don’t mix, went the old joke between bawdy fishwives, but that’s not what they say when they come to port!
Every time El asked about that one, she got her ears cuffed for her trouble, and nothing resembling an answer. Or an explanation as to why it was so funny.
She had tried to work out what the rules were, once. One ear still rang from asking about it, whenever she got a cold. Women were allowed on houseboats because they were houses more than boats. Yes, even when they were washed out to sea by a storm and found their way back to a different place.
Boats were not houses even when men lived their entire lives on them and that was that. And stop asking about what makes them different, brat!
Today, another ship was blocking her perch, so she watched it in jealous fascination from the eves of a warehouse. Her knees tucked up under her skirt and her arms wrapped tight around them. It was almost time for Boss Joss to get her new winter gear, so everything she had to wear was both short and thin.
“Ho, little sparrow,” called one of the officers of the ship. “Why don’t you sing?”
Sparrows were poor girls meant for ‘a bad end’ because they hung around the docks and sang for pennies. Asking how that was bad got another drubbing, but El had not earned such punishment, this time. She’d just watched it happen to someone else.
“Voice like a crow,” El called down. “Ain’t nobody’s bird nohow.”
“You’re four stories up,” he noted. “Aren’t you feared of heights?”
El shrugged. “Cliff’s taller,” she said. “Boss Joss sends me up it for ingredients.” Squab and cliff-shrooms and eggs and some moss that made an interesting tea for the right kind of affluent clientele. She had to wear special gloves just to get it. And use a special bag.
“Bare-hand and bare-foot?”
“Yeh…” El frowned at the man. “Why?”
“You’re wasted as a girl,” said the officer. He shook his head and went on his way.
El thought no more of it until it was time to go back to work at Boss Joss’. The officer was there and haggling with Boss Joss over the price of a girl. Joss had never rented neither Sparrow nor soiled Dove, so the argument about selling one made no sense to El.
She just got on with getting on with things. Up and down the flues before the fire-set, unclogging the grease-trap, rinsing herself off before scrubbing the baths, the kettles, the sinks and the pots. Washing anything else always got the rest of her clean to Boss Joss’ satisfaction, so she left the cleaning until she was properly filthy.
She was finishing up on the floor - every Friday, whether it needed it or not - when her progress was stopped by the officer’s boots.
“Hello, El,” he said. “How would you like to be a boy on my ship?”
El stopped to boggle at him. “Can’t exactly grow a pizzle for you…”
The man smiled and opened his coat, then his shirt. Revealing a bound swell of breast. “Pizzles aren’t necessary,” he whispered. “Talent is.”
The next dawn found her high in the crows’ nest, breathing deep the exhilarating air of freedom as the ship sailed away from port. An entire ship full of women! Who could have thought it?
She was one of Hen’s Hags, now!
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Challenge #00224: Tea and Scales
Ever read the Patricia Wrede’s Enchanted Forest books, starring Princess Cimorene and Kazul the Dragon?
Cimorene and Sara seem very similar people, I bet they’d get along like a house on fire. *hint hint*
[AN: more books on my to-read list. I still have yet to get through The Ocean at the End of the Lane]
“Ah, hello,” said a wall. “Would I be in trouble if I came out of hiding?”
Cimorene paused in her cooking. She was just poking at the stew to see if it needed anything, and suddenly the walls were talking to her.
No. Not quite the walls. Something very close to the walls and attempting them to use them to hide. And, since the hider was on the civil side, Cimorene was prepared to not reach for her knife. Yet. “You’d certainly be in less trouble if you remained hidden,” she offered.
Part of the wall revealed itself as a young woman with not very much in the way of clothing. She was covered in greenish-blue scales where she wasn’t covered in an awful khaki thing that hardly covered anything at all. A mop of unruly, short, brown hair made Cimorene suspect that someone had happened to her.
“Thank you,” said the green girl. “Only I faded in and there was this dragon, see…”
“Yes, that’s Kazul. I work for her.”
“Ah. Well. Generally, I’ve found that caution is advised with dragons. Thought it best to make sure.” She offered a hand. “Sara Louise Adrien, not from this dimension.”
The princess met her gesture. “Cimorene. Princess and Dragons’ assistant. You’re… not some wizard trick?”
“You expect an honest answer to that question?” said Sara. “And I’m not familiar with the burden of proof in this realm. Do you have technology here? Electricity? Computers?”
She shook her head. “Those last two words made very little sense…”
“Damn. Conceptualizing multiple realities usually goes hand-in-hand with electronica. Nevermind. For everything we can imagine, there is an equal reality where it actually happens. And the world goes on even if the story finishes.”
Cimorene thought about some of her favourite books. About what life must be like for the poor people trapped in that kind of reality. “That’s horrible.”
Sara shrugged. “To some extent, yes. For all I know, I’m the fictitious pet of some mad creature fueled entirely by theobromine. One who gets bored a lot, I imagine.”
“Sorry, but this is making my head hurt. Why are you here?”
“I was a guinea pig in a trans-dimensional experiment and none of us have been able to make it stop,” said Sahra. “I usually fade back after an hour or so. If I have everything I came in with. Which can be a bother when people mistake me for a demon, a goblin, an orc, a thief, or, in extremis, lunch.”
“Well Kazul’s fine unless you wake her from her nap.”
Sara pointed. “See? That’s why caution is advised around dragons. They’re quick to anger and humans are tasty with apple sauce.”
Cimorene boggled.
“Not personal experience. Promise. Let’s just leave it at ‘someone with authority on the matter’, shall we?”
“I’ll still pass it on to Kazul. She might laugh.”
“Nice to know there’s at least one dragon with a sense of humor…”
“You know other dragons?”
“One little one. Lockheed. He’s Kitty’s dragon. Or she’s his human, it’s not exactly that clear. Plus he’s not that coherent. Intelligent, yes. But communicative… we’re working on it.”
They had tea and a chat over the most interesting things. Sara had quite the labyrinthine chain of topic association when she got going.
And it was so nice to spend some time with someone who didn’t have an agenda.
It was almost a shame to see her go.
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Challenge #00223: Wedding Jitters
Medieval AU!
Sara’s mother is thrilled to have finally arranged a marriage contract for her daughter to prestigious House Toynbee, accepted without even having the two intended meet each other. At last, her girl is going to have to behave like a proper young lady, and if not, well, she’s their problem now.
And then comes the wedding day, when the two heirs finally meet…
[AN: If you start humming the GoT theme during this, I’ll know exactly why :) ]
He was getting married tomorrow, and he had yet to meet his bride. Mortimer of House Toynbee (emblem, a mother toad with her young in her back; motto, Loyalty to brothers, poison to others) would rather much do things the way the common folk arranged it. But high blood meant high expectations, and love was something not often in the equation.
House Toynbee was army-rich, but armies needed feeding. They had managed the stopgap of hiring their armies off as mercenaries for the highest bidder, but that was starting to go bad. And in the case of marry wealth or go to war, Toynbee preferred to keep whatever passed for a shaky peace with their immediate neighbours and long-time intermittent skirmish partners, House Maximov (emblem, a purple helm; motto, We hold fast).
His elder brother Lance had wed their elder daughter Wanda on the theory that a marriage would cement an alliance. Last Mort had heard, things were just as frosty between the bride and groom as they were between the houses.
Before last year, the Toynbees hadn’t even heard of House Adrien (emblem, an open book; motto, Wit and wisdom), but thanks to a zealous messenger, a very flattering painting and a scrip containing all the information one could want to know about the Adriens… Mort found himself suddenly betrothed to a minor house with a talent for generating wealth.
Their sole daughter was bringing with her, amongst other things, a small fortune of a dowry and another small fortune of something called ‘seed money’ for her to invest.
Women handling money. It didn’t seem right.
Someone was arguing, down the long hall. Mort crept up by hiding in successive arrases so he could listen in.
“…too late to back out of it now,” screeched the harridan that was his future mother-in-law. “You’re up to your armpits in debt and that girl is your only salvation.”
“You sold me a coquette, and you’ve delivered a giraffe,” boomed his father, Frederic. “It will look ridiculous.”
“More ridiculous than Tyrion Lannister and his wife?”
“Tyrion Lannister is ridiculous on his own. He’s used to it. We have our dignity.”
“Dignity and an empty sack is worth the sack,” said the harridan.
The next arras was occupied by a tall, thin creature and a lot of moisture. They were crying. Soft, silent and above all thick tears that evidently could not be stopped.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
“…was going t’ get away,” the tall one whimpered. “It was a long enough journey just to get here, but it’s going to be four times as long going back, with her in my ear the whole way.”
His hand found hers. “No you won’t. I won’t let them send you back.” For a highborn, she had some interestingly calloused hands. He could make out an interesting weave to her hair, and dark, dark eyes set in a pale, long face. “Good day, m'lady. I am Mortimer Toynbee of house Toynbee, and I’m… your regrettable fiancee.”
“Sara Adrien of House Adrien,” she sighed. “Also regrettable.”
The tapestry thrust aside just as he was kissing her hand. The harridan, bedecked in rosy pink, held the cloth aside in one set of claws and pointed at the two of them with the other.
“Well. They have to get married now,” she shrieked in triumph.
Sara was very tall. Tall enough to be a man, but not as muscular. She wore a rather plain dress in a mottled red, reminiscent of autumn leaves. The complicated weave was the lacing of the dress. Her actual hair was caught up in a snood beneath her veil.
“You work pretty fast, boy,” said his father. “Two minutes behind a tapestry and you have to get married.”
“She was crying,” said Mort stupidly. “You never leave a girl to cry alone.”
Lady Adrien thrust the two of them out into the open. “Where is that dratted chaperone? Ruise! Roooo-eeeeeeeeeeeeeese!”
The coquette appeared. This had been the girl who sat in place of Sara while Sara was doing other things. Mort was secretly glad he wasn’t marrying her. He’d dreaded a wedded life of eternal boredom with someone who merely looked a pretty little thing.
Ruise saw Sara and gasped. “M'lady, I swear I only looked away for a minute–”
“It’s all right, dear,” Sara began.
“YOU! Not another word!”
Sara flinched and winced as the harridan set to verbally abusing the coquette, who weathered it all in stony silence. Father boggled while Mort held resolutely to his fiancee’s calloused hand.
Father shooed them out to the balcony and the sunshine.
“It’s all my fault,” Sara managed. “If only–”
He kissed her hand again, because it was closer, and said, “I would lay the blame more on your mother at this point. I will not be cruel and promise love where it doesn’t yet blossom, but I can promise you an escape from her.”
Her fingers twitched as if plucking at something. At least, the freed ones did. “If I can look at your financial documents, I can begin sorting out what’s going amiss with your family funds. I can promise stability. At least, monetary stability.”
He caressed her calluses. “You work.”
“I like to be useful. And when things are stressful… I play the harp. I’ve been playing it a lot, lately.”
Yes. She was seventeen. Old, for a virgin bride. Her mother’s anxiety for a good match must have been… incredibly stressful.
“Do you play well?”
“Some… tell me so,” Sara allowed.
It took ten minutes to interrupt Lady Jaquelline Adrien’s harangue and a further five to gain permission to listen to Lady Sara play.
But once she did… it was more than worth the wait.
“Father,” he whispered during a small break. “How much bother would it be to move the wedding up to tonight?”
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Challenge #00221: Relics
Easy come, easy go-go.
The name of the vessel was the Remembrance Maru, and according to her registry, she was a pleasure vessel. All passengers and crew had evacuated after a micro-meteor shower had pierced both her defenses and the hull. Now, after a slow cruise from eternity, she’d turned up again in Amalgam’s local space.
Shayde was instantly interested, of course. She all but carried Rael down the long and winding route to Dry Dock’s observation ports to watch the old wreck getting towed in.
Rael hadn’t even known Dry Dock had observation ports.
Even after hundreds of years in space, the Remembrance Maru was still magnificent. Rael, perpetually worried about picking up Human insanity from long time association with them, would never admit he could read the ghost of the original vessel in her pock-marked hull. The mixture of horror at that revelation and awe that such a thing had once been, and was here again, was downright vertiginous.
The gravity generator on board the vessel had died, and the Nae'hyn were allowed in first to both remove the device and give it funereal rites. Following them, the Archivaas historical documentation team and Shayde. And wherever Shayde went, Rael was obliged to follow.
Shayde’s job, when she wasn’t being an Ambassador for 1986(Old Terran Calendar), was old things. Part of her duties, today, was to go aboard the Remembrance Maru and point out all the things she recognized. Also to provide historical details as she recalled them.
Rael’s job was to translate her idiosyncratic dialect so that the Archivaas could understand it.
She burst into laughter when she saw the dance floor. “They got th’ disco floor in wi’ the go-go cages an’ a moon swing… Aw God…” Further hilarity erupted when she discovered a set of ‘stripper poles’ behind a drift of old tables.
“There appears to be an array of anachronisms in this room,” Rael translated. He waited for Shayde to at least wind down to giggling to gain an explanation.
What they got was a demonstration. Often amended with, “Ye understand the ladies weren’t wearin’ much at all ye ken.” The 'stripper poles’ were a display of sexualized acrobatic prowess. The moon swing used the out-of-reach feminine ideal for display purposes only… and the go-go cage…
O Powers, the go-go cage. It was so astonishing to watch that Rael had a hard time interrupting. Then an equally hard time making her stop before her Glamor ability conjured up the short-shorts, bikini top and the titular boots on her lithe frame. It displayed feminine power in such a way that the men of the time could handle it - restrained in a cage like a wild animal.
It was all he could do not to shrivel in sympathetic mortification.
Lunch finally pried her out of there and he quietly advised the Archivaas to keep the relic locked away for everyone’s mutual safety.
It was a short trip to the Docker’s favourite den of unsuitable food, Deep Fried Everything Eat, for a quick fix of calories a la carte.
“Did you have to do that?” Rael whined. He did not appreciate it when she demonstrated. For her, they were toys. For everyone else, they were valuable historical artifacts.
“Ye know what they say,” she grinned. “Easy come, easy go-go.”
Rael glared at her. They were going to be going through the vessel for days… “Can you at least try to restrain yourself?”
“I thought I was…”
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Challenge #00220: Tempus Flakkit
Time as currency and the dreadful issue of small talk while handing your life away and being 30 seconds short whilst on your commute.
Nomadic life was fine, so long as one was healthy. However, there were still illnesses that forced a stay. Stays cost. Hot-rack hotel beds were fine for sleeping, and you could harvest any food you wanted in the working gardens, but if you didn’t know an apprentice Gyik chef, the odds of getting it cooked for free were minimal.
As a Hitchhiker, Dirae knew most of the tricks. There was no such thing as all the tricks. Everywhere there was to go, there were new tricks to learn. And the old reliable ones that never really failed.
Such as being able to play an instrument on public transit. It bought in the Seconds, and sometimes Minutes, and they all added up to the Hours it took to get more than self-medical care.
Transportation cut in on living costs, but it saved the energy Dirae needed to get the things she needed to get better.
A man in engineer blues tapped her harp, interrupting the tune. “You’d do much better business playing something more lively.”
She took a thirty-second coin from her floppy hat and handed it over. “Thanks,” she said, and started up a different number. The passengers on the tram remained completely unmoved to put more change in the hat. Dirae played as fast as her fingers would let her, but there was no return on her investment.
He got off on the next stop without so much as a minute return from him.
She played what she felt like, an angry little number, one of the very Australian human songs about things that could kill you including, according to the surviving lyrics, the original author.
That didn’t earn anything either. Dirae had to get off on the next stop.
Her income was thirty seconds short.
Damn that man!
She needed more medicinal attention than her own knowledge. And that was going to cost, and as long as her voice was out, she couldn’t sing. And if she couldn’t sing…
Tears sprung up at even the idea of the idea of not being a Hitchhiker any more. Wandering was her life.
“Ah, there you are!”
Dirae looked up.
A very vibrant lizard in festival gear was grinning with all their sharp teeth. “I enjoyed your music, but I was stuck in the next carriage. Here!” Half-hour coins spilled through their claws. “This is from my cousins and I. We were all singing along and having such fun. Where’s your hat?”
Dirae dug it out of her bag. It was the one with the secret drawstring that turned it into an instant coin purse.
The lizard-child insisted on listing names with each coin. “So you can thank us if you pray.”
He danced off, whistling the Australian number as he went.
Rule five hundred and twenty-three. Always depend on the kindness of strangers. The creed of the Hitchhiker saved her skin again.
Not just enough for treatment, but for supplies.
She’d have to make a little offering at the next Nae'hyn shrine she saw. And thank all of those lizards having their festival. Rule one: Gratitude is always welcome everywhere.
Dirae walked into the Medical node with lighter feet and a flying soul.
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Challenge #00216: Icky-what?
Scott, inspired by watching Sara at the harp, is day 17 in his surprising new hobby, marked by his acumen and desire for a greater range of expression and development. Jean comments.
It was not an art usually appreciated in the making, it was something appreciated after it was finished. And even after seventeen days of practice, he was still too shy to show anyone but the Adriens.
He knew Ororo saw it, because she left encouraging little post-its on his desk. And sometimes, gifts of culch.
He was deep into an arrangement of interesting stones when he realized he had an audience.
Jean was peering over his shoulder in stunned fascination.
“Uh,” he said.
“You weren’t answering my ‘ping’, so…” she pointed. “What the flying hell is that?”
“Ikebana,” he said, placing a twig.
“Icky… what?”
“Ikebana. As Sara would say, flower-arranging with a twist.”
Jean rolled her eyes at the mention of her quirky-on-a-good-day roommate. “Don’t tell me, she got you started on this.”
“Sort of.”
“How does anyone 'sort of’ get you into flower-arranging?”
I heard that 'you’ thank you. “Well, it started with this harp video and Sara showed me the difference between technically correct and talented,” he began.
“I saw the video, yes…”
“And… I wanted to be able to… reach people like that.”
“Still missing a few dots.”
“So I talked to Sam, and he said I should find my hearts’ passion.”
“Which is flower-arranging.”
“Ikebana. There’s no vase, the plants stand as part of the art. On their own.”
Jean shook her head. “So how the heck do you get them standing up like that? Is it the rocks?”
“No, there’s these little stand things, you can get them in wire or plastic, but some folks carve them out of wood or fold them out of this special paper, because the artificial stands interfere with the spirit of nature inherent–”
Jean held up a hand. “I get it. This is your hearts’ passion.” She smiled. “You should leave a few around the mansion, ninja style.”
Scott mock-glared at her. “You know I am no good at ninja.”
“I’m sure Sara could help,” she teased.
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Challenge #00214: Typhoon
“…and that’s why I built an extra arm for it, just for high-fives.”
There was a reason the Mark-4 was a short-lived model. It was designed by a madman who happened to lead a character cult of engineers and builders. Only one team could pilot the beast that resulted.
“It’s unbeatable. Weapons everywhere we could fit them and a few places we couldn’t,” Jeung grinned. “The real trick will be finding enough triplets to pilot them all.”
“Triplets.” He stared up at the Crimson Typhoon. It had three arms.
“Well, two can share the load, fairly well. Three would be better. More brain power. Stronger against the Kaiju.” Another smile from the wrong side of the Uncanny Valley. “That’s why I built an extra arm for it. Just for high-fives…”
He stared at Jeung, wondering exactly how to separate the mad genius from their followers long enough to have them committed. “I’m sure it has other uses…?”
“Oh yes, yes. Weapons. Punching power. The Wei’s are very good with finding non-standard battle techniques in the sims. We should get them started… before the apocalypse…”
It was a phrase that would stay with him until he needed a really good speech, on the last day of the Kaiju war. “Yes,” he said, patting the genius’ shoulder and gently leading them away. “Yes, we should.”
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Challenge #00213: Emotional… Promotion
When Scott finds out that leaders can indeed be seen crying and still be respected, he adjusts accordingly.
Kitty had recorded it because she couldn’t believe it. She showed it to Jean because she still didn’t believe it after watching it fifteen times in a row.
“Wow,” Jean said. And, after the third view, “I was joking when I said Sara’s playing could make a statue cry, but - *damn*…”
She accidentally showed it to Rogue because she shoulder-surfed a lot.
Rogue told Kurt. Kurt told Hank. Hank told Ororo.
Rogue also told Jamie. It went viral from there. Or at least, as viral as viral could get while still trapped on Kitty’s phone.
Professor Xavier knew without having to be told. One of the advantages of being the world’s strongest telepath.
Thus, he was prepared when Scott came in to talk.
“Don’t worry about the negative effects of that video,” the Professor began. “You’ll find it sometimes advantageous to show your humanity.”
“How?” Scott wondered.
“Emotion is not evil,” Xavier counseled. “It is part of us and who we are. Leadership is a job, not a personality.”
Next training sim, he let himself ‘out’ a bit more. Showed his concern for his teammates. Let slip a little fear that they came to harm.
Amazingly, they tried all the harder for it.
It was like a miracle.
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Challenge #00212: Prepared.
When being the coward of the county works out well.
There’s always that one weirdo in every town. That’s me. I try not to let on, because this is redneck country, but I’m scared of just about everything. Fortunately, since redneck country is also survivalist country, nobody bats an eye at folks ordering food by the pallet. With GPS co-ordinates instead of a delivery address.
I don’t have a bank account. Not since I saw what was happening with the housing bubble and switched to cash-only. I only keep my drivers’ license because some folks need to see ID before they let you buy certain things.
People thought I was crazy for moving into the old silver mine. Building a house in the warren of tunnels that had been abandoned before electricity stretched its wires across the country.
I don’t let any of my programs use my location.
And I spend a majority of my time extracting the silver that the mining company was too cheap to bother with. Smelt it myself. Make my own coins, in quarter-ounce, half-ounce, and one-ounce lots. I raise my own food. Vegetables and meat alike in lit galleries I re-enforced myself against every kind of possible attack.
About the only thing my place won’t withstand is a direct nuke. And frankly, I don’t want to live through one of those.
I got everything the whole town could need. Food, water, shelter and even entertainment. For years. Because if a disaster happened, I’d be called on to look after all those other idiots or they’d shoot me and wreck everything I’ve worked for.
I was prepared. Because I was scared.
I felt the explosion more than I heard it. Something big had gone wrong down in the town. I loaded my truck with the emergency gear, and more than my usual amount of first-aid and went looking.
Some idiots had managed to blow up the hospital.
The fire department used city water to try and put out the flames. I hadn’t trusted city water since they started fracking in the area, and it turns out I was right. Fire department set themselves on fire. People were trying to use more water to stop the flames and just spreading it further.
Right.
Time for some judicious sabotage.
I went the long way around and shut off the pumps. There wasn’t a lot of guard-dodging because everyone and their kid brother’s dog was going towards the smoke. By the time they worked it out, it’d be too late.
I loaded up my buckets with sand until the truck could hardly move and headed for the fire. They’d be running out of death-water by now.
Good timing. People were screaming about no water, so I just handed them some sand.
I hate public speaking, but this time… it had to be done. “Get Jim’s crew and all the movers he’s got to bring more sand in,” I hollered. “The water’s full of gas! We can’t use it. We gotta smother the fire.”
The pet store across the way started a chain with all their kitty litter sacks. The garden place let us have all the soil. After that was gone, and my sand was gone, Jim’s crew saved the day.
Then it was all triage in the street and getting folks to help where they could. I knew most alternative and emergency medicine than anyone since I’m terrified of getting hurt.
Town’s honey stocks went to zero, and the potatoes have to be et up after using the skins on all the burns… but lives were saved.
You won’t believe the headline it made in the local rag.
Survivalist Wins Bravery Award.
Now there’s some irony for you.
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