Challenge #00209: Réve-olutionary
When Julie dreams.
“Good morning, Miss Shayde!’
Shayde turned. The only person who could get away with ‘miss'ing her was skipping along with a peculiar little box in her hands and, as always, Nanny in tow.
"Good morning, Julie,” she said, tagging along because it was way more interesting than grocery shopping. “What’s in the wee box?”
Julie blushed and giggled. “It isn’t wee, it’s dreams.”
Dreams? Now that was interesting. “How’d they catch dreams in there, then?”
“I wear a special hat when I go to bed,” said Julie. “It records them all. And then when it’s full, I take it to neurosciences.”
“Julie has good dreams,” supplied Nanny. “Four months’ food budget.”
This was one of the moments when Nanny personally creeped Shayde out. Dogs should live in the Now, but Nanny had been made to fill the gap Julie couldn’t. So, this was a dog who could plan.
But the concept of buying dreams sent up a more urgent mental red flag. “They buy 'er dreams?”
“Copy and analyze,” said Nanny. “They are Julie’s dreams. Always Julie’s dreams.”
She’d measure 'em up for certain then. Make sure some tosser wasn’t taking advantage of a girl and her dog. Or a dog and her girl.
*
“Good morning, Julie,” said the pleasant man in Sciences Khaki. “You have a friend with you. Would you like to sign up for dream-recording services, Cogniscent–?”
“Shayde. And ye would'nae want my dreams.” She folded her arms and glared down at him. “Na what’s all this nonsense about buying dreams off this little girl?”
“It’s not an outright purchase…” he spotted her gold vest. “Ambassador. It’s… purchasing a license to view and examine. Julie maintains the right to view, share, copy, and create derivative works from the recordings.”
He was telling the truth, but she hung around for the transfer viewing because trust was not in her basic nature.
They were beautiful. Swimming through space filled with dancing flowers and fairies. Attending a tea party with all her friends and everyone was wearing -amongst other things- a frilly pinafore. A psychadelic cosmos of balletic lights.
She wept.
Not just because of its beauty, but for her own innocence, lost too many years ago.
This was why Julie was an artist.
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Challenge #00186: Time Out From That Good Fight
Getting to a point when good enough, is really good enough. Insert a banana cream pie anywhere in the story, preferable eaten.
Rael had grown used to working hard. Not just working hard, but working smart, since his rest cycle decreed that his hours of usefulness were limited. He was so used to it that he almost flew into a panic the first morning that the Stations’ freelancer roster was empty.
He hadn’t woken too late. He had alarms rigged to his heated resting tank that would not let him. Besides, he always managed to achieve consciousness five minutes before they went off, anyway.
And during his breakfast of overnight-slow-baked Tukkatukka, S'quiib and cheese casserole, he checked the boards as a matter of course.
This morning, they were blank.
Nothing needed fixing -or even a temporary patch- in his immediate area. Nothing needed fixing through the entire impossible mass of Amalgam Station.
Rael, to whom work meant regular meals, and regular meals meant a life without pain, fought to keep calm. Deep breaths did almost nothing for his physiognomy, but it gave him something to concentrate on while he checked the news.
Aha. A once-in-lifetimes event was occurring for the entire week. A plethora of galactic calendars had managed to sync up on varying holidays, including one of the famously colourful human ones that always bought in the tourist dollar.
So, as a result, the entire station was having a week off.
A week!
Rael had long since equated joblessness to starvation and turned completely silver from abject terror at the prospect of a week without a guaranteed meal. A week of his personal accounts being drained by his own biological necessities.
Then his gaze found salvation.
It was also the Gyiik Harvest Festival.
The next thing he knew, he was standing inside the main doorway of Unsuitable Food Eat, staring at Nik as he juggled three orders in four arms. For anyone else who was not a Faiize, Unsuitable Food Eat was just another restaurant. For long-haulers between loads, it was a place where you could get a big heaping pile of something they could chew after long weeks on liquid baggies of cheap Nutri Food™.
For Rael and his fellow Faiize… it was almost a place of worship. It sold calories, deep fried, coated in chocolate, and served a la mode. And it was almost always hosted and staffed by Gyiiks, who shared a reverence of the plate.
Nik noticed him and gestured to a stool at the bar. “You look under the weather, friend Rael. Has an illness finally found the indomitable Faiize to be tasty?”
“No, I just found out that the entire station is taking a week off.”
“Ah! Panic time. Sit, I always have a test or two to taste.”
Which was why Nik the Gyiik was one of Rael’s best friends.
“The Archivaas shared this ancient Terran recipe. It is called bananacreem pie. My own research tells me it is served by assault to the face.”
“I think that’s ancient Terran humor,” said Rael.
Nik relaxed. “Ah. Praise Nyomhnahm… It seemed like such a terrible waste of good food.”
Rael rolled hie eyes ceilingward and muttered, “Humans…” and when his gaze returned to the bar, there was a large pie in front of him and a fork by his preferred hand. “Blessings,” he called to the busy chef.
It was delicious. Rael spent the entirety of his meal pondering what kind of insult it was to waste something so tasty.
“Ah, there you are,” said Lyr. “Aunty Fan-Fan saw the boards this morning and sent me to make sure you hadn’t gone survivalist on us.”
Rael laughed. “You know me, Officer. I can always find some work I can enjoy.”
She smirked. “So I see. Are you going to camp here all week, or are we going to see you enjoying the Uberfest?”
Rael did his best not to read, Am I going to have to keep you out of trouble, into that question. Lyr worked in Security, and Security was perpetually obsessed with making sure that they didn’t have to work. “I thought I might volunteer as crowd control or something else even a techie-JOAT can do. Bodies on the street…”
“Not this week,” said Lyr. “All work and no play makes the JOAT a dull cogniscent.”
He stared at her. This had to be a human thing. “What?”
“You have plenty of savings. What are you saving up for? Every cogniscent being has the right to time spent enjoying themselves.”
“But I need to–”
“You haven’t needed to for a long time, Rael. You can officially relax.”
It was like running at a brick wall with a battering ram, only to discover it was painted paper. The obstacle he had long thought blocking his way with its impossibility was just… not there.
“I think,” he chewed some of the bananacreem pie. “I might begin with a festival tour train.”
“Good choice,” said Lyr. “Stay legal, so I can have some fun, too.”
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Challenge #185: Those Who Harm
More on Sara at TED talks.
She had her green skin out, this time. And a simple little black dress that was both flattering and demure.
“Some of you are here because you know me,” she began.
“WOOO!”
“Thankyou. Some of you have already decided everything they need to know about me. And I bet these are the words you thought.”
The slide behind her showed a word cloud. Biggest amongst them were “Mutie” and “Freak”.
Murmur murmur murmur.
“Rarest amongst you, the precious few, are those who thought, ‘Oh. She’s green. Now let’s hear what she has to say’. They’re so rare that there might not be one in this auditorium that seats three thousand. And that’s why my topic, today, is Those Who Harm.”
Murmur murmur murmur murmur.
“Yes, I am talking about you. Everyone who judges first and doesn’t bother to ask questions later does harm. Not only to others, but to themselves. And I’m not only going to explain how and why this happens, but how and why to change your habits.”
Sara loved this part. Minds were about to be blown. Eyes were about to be opened. And one mind at a time, she was changing the world.
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Somewhere, over….
Sara discovers the person in this video and shows off why she’s so enthused. Scott watches in the wings while crying a bit.
(#00184)
“Isn’t she awesome?” Jubes said after the video on her laptop wound to a halt.
“Uhm,” sais Sahra. “I… would say she’s more… technically correct.”
“Are you kidding? She played it note perfect.”
“Yes, dear, but not emote perfect. Here, I can show you. Come, Gladys.”
Scott, overhearing in the hallway as he passed, slowed to a halt and peeked into the music room. It always amused him when Sara treated inanimate objects as living people. He’d even hung around to hear Sara play once in a while.
But he’d never heard her Play.
“Somewhere Over the Rainbow is a wistful song, full of longing and sadness. You need to know an instrument, heart and soul, to capture that. Otherwise, it isn’t music. It’s just a bunch of notes that go together. Listen.”
This wasn’t note-perfect. It wasn’t exactly the same. But what it was was soul-rending. It got to every last speck of lonely-and-wanting in his inner self and filled it with bittersweet hope. He stayed rooted to the spot, mesmerized. Traitor eyes leaking at the corners.
This was why Sara loved the harp and, amazingly, why the harps loved her back. This was how she took in hundreds of dollars in change at bus stations, and why she made a living at wedding bands. This… was making him really cry.
He wiped his face and heard, “Yeah, I know, right?”
He almost hissed out, “Don’t you dare say a word,” but noticed that Todd’s face was running wet, too.
“Liquid pride,” he whispered with a half shrug. “She can make you forget th’ world’s so bad.”
They stayed in the hall until the last note faded and the spell broke, care of Jubilee’s gum snapping. Both hurriedly wiped their faces before coming in with applause.
“Day-umn,” said Jubes. “That was… whoa.”
Sara, a little tear-streaked herself, patted her face and smiled. “And that’s the difference between technically and emotively correct.”
“How do you do that?” Jubes demanded.
“In all things that grip the soul, embrace them, enthusiastically.” She straightened herself as she stood and made a beeline for Todd. “I do believe we’re late for our date?”
“Worth it,” said Todd.
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A rather hairy dilemma.
Kurt, Dr. McCoy, and Rahne discuss/debate/argue about fur care and which of them has the bigger difficulty in handling the problem. Also, there’s a theory in the fandom about Rahne being unable to shave her legs/underarms/etc. because it leaves her wolf-form with awkward bald spots. Is this a fact or a misled rumor? Your call.
(#000181)
Three mutants were shopping, two wore holograms and all three were stuck in the shampoo aisle.
“Mister Wagner… I’m been having some… difficulties. Perhaps you could advise…?” He looked around. Too many humans in the aisle. Not enough privacy.
“Ah.” Kurt got it anyway. “Never use the ‘extra body’ stuff anywhere but the head, ja?”
“So, instead…?”
“Sleek shine.”
“Hm. Never comes in bargain packs, I notice.”
“One does, but you have to order it online.”
“Rahne? You’re not making a selection?”
“Not my aisle,” the young Scot blushed. “Mine’s 'glossy coat’ or 'flea and tick control’.”
“…oh dear…” murmured Hank.
“I heard some rude rumours about…” Kurt trailed off and did a bit of blushing himself. “Ladyscaping…”
Rahne glared at him and said. “It grows back when I morph, awrigh’? It’s why I carry a six-pack o’ quick-wax strips in me uniform pack. An’ nae more’s tae be said about it.”
Kurt made a zipping motion across his mouth.
“Now, I believe this store has a surfeit of brushes,” said Hank. “Given our… mutual nature, perhaps Mister Wagner can help us choose something to assist with the -ah- occasional burr.”
“…'munnaneedaloveglove…” Rahne muttered.
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Don’t bottle things up - bottles can break so easily.
Passive-aggressiveness, biting your tongue to avoid snarky retorts, saying nothing when you should say everything, quiet resentment at others’ criticisms… being hidden behind a mask can only last so long… even the most peaceful and calm spirits among us have a breaking point.
So who is it that’s ready to blow? Push them over the edge, by either words or deeds. Have ‘em let it all out… rage, scream, bellow, yell accusations and obscenities until the windows rattle… or just break down into on-their-knees tears and sobs that rack the body as everything pent-up floods out into incoherent wails and howls of no single specific emotion. But no punching, slapping, or otherwise harming others.
Would prefer to leave Sara out of this challenge - that girl’s got enough deepseated psychological issues already without having her be ground-zero of a mental volcano going off.
(#00170)
[AN: Sara’s already had one meltdown, and that was a bit of a strain on me… so I will do something rare and tell a version of the truth. How I know why it is unwise to victimize.]
Society is, by and large, a reflection and an emphasis of the media surrounding it. The instant Television took over from Radio, appearances became more important than voice. The myth of the poor nobody becoming somebody because of their talent and skill became a lost cause forever.
Hierarchy, however, has lasting power. The only difference is what gets one to the top, and how others keep those at the bottom. But let’s just say 'fear’ and move on.
In an era just barely into adequate contraception, there are still unplanned children. Sometimes, they are happy accidents. Sometimes, they are unexpected burdens that turn a double-income household into a single-income family just barely scraping by. Fear becomes an atmosphere, then.
Keep the child healthy. Keep the child fed. Keep the child away from any threat, real or imaginary, because the instant you fail at one thing, the Government will come and take it. And the loss of a child instantly leads to the loss of a marriage. And won’t They just love it? The old gossips and crones who would laugh and sneer behind your back, call you 'poor dear’ to your face, and glory in the schadenfreude that you, too, are a failure. Just as they always said.
But that’s not the real story.
In that family, just scraping by, is the child. Living and breathing in fear and unaware of it. Just knowing that there are places not to go and things not to do. A clumsy little thing. Myopic and asthmatic. Dressed perpetually in hand-me-downs and homemade attempts of clothing from a mother who battles with anything that requires an 'on’ switch.
A child who encounters, at school, a society based on image and television in colour (We can’t afford that! The one we have is still working fine) and glossy magazines that cost too much, and especially, having good clothes.
In such a society, to be a true individual is to soon be a pariah.
The true friends are the friends who stay. The ones who may also be pariahs because of an accent, or a wonky eye, or because, just maybe, a kid their age with an imagination that spans a cosmos or three just might be more entertaining than Days of Our Lives.
Whatever the reason, those friendships last. Even in a time of utter desolation and loss. When the best Grandfather in the whole world, a friendly giant in blue overalls and magic… dies in a freak accident. The time of tears passes, but the time of mourning is not over.
And when the friends gather for aimless chatter, two of the shallow Others come skipping. They are a great distance away, confident that the weedy, asthmatic child can not catch up to them even if she tried. And they sing. A taunting little tune, usually used for 'nerny nerny ner ner’ and other such childish taunts. But these two have come up with new words that will make the weedy child cry.
It’s something of a daily pastime. Make that child cry.
These two, out of willful ignorance, sing, “Cathy’s grandfather’s de-ad! Cathy’s grandfather’s de-ad!”
A lifetime’s worth of bad feelings, formerly caged in propriety and rules, comes out as red-hot rage. There is a scream. The desire for blood.
And darkness.
When the child returns to herself, there is no sign of the ignorant boys. There is a weight on both her arms. Her feet still want to run. Claw, still, at the soil hardened by a thousand feet and cheap cooch grass.
When she looks back, she discovers that two friends, each, had grabbed an arm and held her back.
She had dragged them all an entire meter.
Four times her weight and then some. At least.
If her friends had not been there. If she had been a true pariah…
Those boys -or just one of them- would have died.
Ignorant, unthinking, most definitely unknowing children -possibly popular children- had had their lives saved that day.
From a pariah.
By pariahs.
There are no words for the terror of herself that settled into her stomach, that day. How every attempt by her contemporaries to goad her into an outburst, thereafter, were coloured by that fear. By the knowledge that, given enough rage, she could kill with her bare hands and not know it until she woke up with their blood in her mouth.
And the certainty that they were too stupid to know that they were throwing sticks at a wolf.
That’s a lot to heap onto a child.
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Young Knights and Old Soldiers
Saw this quote online, figured it might inspire something interesting.
“Hoping to find a ‘knight in shining armor’ is a worthless dream. His blade razor-edged, his shield polished, his breastplate ornately-gilded, they say only this - that his experience in battle is nothing, and his courage has never been tested. He has nothing but ambition and optimism in his corner, and he could easily falter and flee when that shine fades. Hope instead to find the steadfast soldier in scuffed and dented plate, whose shield is scarred and cracked and whose sword is chipped and dulled. This is someone who has faced the enemy without fear, who has fought through the assaults of those who tried to break him and, even if in the end he was left weary and bloody, still emerged victorious. That man, battered and bruised but still triumphant, is the kind of hero one should seek.”
(#0153)
“Oh, now what the hell?”
There were two figures blocking egress. Men in armor. Men with muscles, but beyond that, they were opposites. One was a stereotypical shining knight replete with his own star filter. The other was a rusted, dented, mismatched man with a smoldering cigar and reeking of cynicism.
“CHOOSE YOUR HERO,” boomed the voice controlling this labyrinth of chaos.
“I know how this goes,” Kitty began to go to the sparkly one on the left.
“Wait,” said Jean. “This was put together by Sara on a 'flu medicine and sugar bender. Nothing fits nypical rules.”
“Nypical?” echoed Pietro.
“Neurotypical. I’ve been reading Sara’s psych books. Deal. This is her creation. In essence, we’re inside her head.”
“Euw,” said Lance.
“That explains the last three pun-related traps,” muttered Scott.
“Hush,” said Jean. “We have to think like Sara.”
“Psychoweirdo lunacy? I’m not doing anything about anything, then,” said Pietro.
“So…like, the shiny hero’s the bad one?” guessed Kitty.
“Too right,” said the other one. He had been leaning against his archway. “Mister shiny over there’s never been in a real fight. Watch.” he flicked a small, wooden cosh towards the shiny knight in a negligent motion.
And, predictably, the pretty one literally fell to pieces.
The rusty fighter lit his cigar again. “Sam Vimes,” he said. “Ankh-Morpork City Watch.”
“Told you so,” murmured Jean.
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Challenge #00145: Mein Kinder
Girl Genius, Klaus + baby!Gil. Klaus’s thoughts on watching Gil grow.
The magnetite compas was working. As was the nourishment formula the infant boy was suckling on.
His son.
Gilgamesh.
He would have to do something about the fine green fuzz of hair that marked him as Skifandran. But right now, in a hot-air flying engine cobbled together out of whatever he had to hand… it was not important.
He could not take his sister. At least, he could not take the infant princess Zeetha and hope to survive. Males did not count for much in Skifander. They would stop searching for him and his son at the first false death scene.
His son was too important to leave to the tender mercies of a matriarchy.
He could change clothing. The sooner he was out of the ludicrous bandolier-and-posing-pouch thing the Queen had chosen for him, the better.
Alas, all his cloth and leather was currently serving more important functions. He set course for Europe. And spent entirely too long staring at the tiny scrap of humanity that was the future of his line. Watching Gil breathe.
So very small and fragile…
“Come what may,” he said, knowing his son could not understand, “I will protect you.”
*
Paris was on fire. Large portions of Europe were either on fire or infested with revenants. The Other had done much damage. Incessant bickering between sparks had escalated to siege weaponry and unguided missiles.
Gil was happy in his carry-harness. A metal pod that served as protection in unpleasant circumstances, life support and -ah- hygienic necessity.
It would, evidently, soon be insufficient. He needed more than a clank to protect his son. He would need an army.
He would start, like he always had to start, with whatever came to hand. And build from there.
Castle Wulfenbach was a wrecked ruin on the ground. He would build a new one. One that was invulnerable. Or at least one that could move beyond conventional attack. He would rain order on the country.
He set up a shelter in what used to be a staff kitchen in his castle. A relic in which to build his future.
Gil hit the protective bubble with the thing-on-a-stick Klaus had managed to buy from a nervous vendor.
“No sign of Bill or Barry. Still,” he said. He had been talking to Gil on the theory that talking helped a child learn to speak. Also the theory that saying things out loud helped keep him sane. There was little empirical evidence that either was working. “If they were here, this would be so much easier…”
“Da!” said Gil.
Talking early. Promising. Klaus almost instantly smothered his warming heart in waves of paranoia. His plan put his son in danger.
…but only if anyone knew that Gil was his son.
*
Castle Wolfenbach soared. It flew over the wreckage of Mechanicsburg and the ruin of castle Heterodyne.
The Other had known when and where to strike.
It took a unique ruthlessness to deal with Mechanicsburg. It took so much ruthlessness. To make him and his family a target to everyone with a blade.
Which meant a unique talent for salvage.
He found Otilla in the body of Vonn Pinn, and set her to guarding the children. Knowing she would not fail. Especially the most important one.
“And this… is Gil.” Almost three years old. He would start forming permanent memories, soon. Klaus allowed himself the luxury of one last hug. Permitted himself the weakness of wet eyes. He would not touch or speak to his son as a father until such time as the boy grew of age. “Just. Gil.”
Von Pinn looked him in the eye, lie for lie, and nodded. “I will gift him with equal protection.”
Which, to her mind, meant the utmost protection.
*
It was called Zoing. Quite remarkable. A whimsical construct made out of what seemed to be kitchen leftovers. Gil was eight. And already a Spark.
What made a Spark into a Spark? Why would the boy break out so easily at six when his own development…
And since he had so many renegade Sparks in his custody… It was high time he indulged in some experiments.
Starting with the self-styled Doctor Dimitri. He would no longer harm any child, any longer. A man with those kinds of perversions… would never be missed.
And it would help protect his son.
Business, Science and Pleasure. A very rare triple victory.
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1 - 2 - 3 - 4, I declare a fic war!
What: Tumblr Fic War
Who: Anyone who reblogs this post.
When: Until everyone is actualfax dead, because this is WAR suckers!
Why: FEELINGS
What: Everyone who reblogs this post is opening their ask box up to the most brutal, feelings-inducing prompts anyone who is playing can imagine. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to take those prompts and DESTROY EVERYONE with them. Not just angsty stuff either, fluff can be just as bad, as many of you know!
I’m in
Challenge #00136: Just Like Her Father
“No one ever tells you that the true taste of victory is not sweet; it lies like bitter ashes upon the tongue.”
Da had always said that.
Young Cordelia had never understood her father’s caution. Victory had to be good. Otherwise it wouldn’t make sense. And it really, really had to make sense now, with Da taken hostage and herself in disguise behind enemy lines with a pack of mercenaries as the only hope of getting him to his medical necessities.
She had the spare seizure stimulator taped to her undergarments, doing the job of male anatomy to fill out her pants. She had her hair cropped short and a passport in the name of one of her brothers. As far as she knew, she passed.
But that didn’t matter here. In the drains and forgotten maintenance tunnels in enemy territory. With only a voice in her ear-bug for company.
“Left,” said Admiral Quinn. It had been sheer luck that Young Cordelia had found her in a cafeteria on Beta Colony. And possibly the product of some bizarre synchronicity that the Admiral took Cordelia’s contract for nothing more than a Betan Dollar.
All it had taken was hearing her father’s name.
She’d have to ask Da about that when she found him.
Five more lefts and three rights, she finally had an ‘up’. Which was where the tools strapped around her chest came in. Nice little grav-lifters. Cutters, spreaders… anything anyone could need to break into unseen turf, and medkits to boot.
Da was looking grey. Synergine. Pain meds. A torturously slow scoop to drag out the vital machine that cheerfully told her she was a day late.
“Cord–?”
“Hsh! I’m currently Ez, here.”
“What t’ hell?” His eyes came into focus. “You cut your hair… Why’d you cut your hair.”
“Because you wouldn’t let me go to Beta Colony without an escort so I pretended to be Lord Ezar. Come on. We can’t stay long. They’ll–”
Too late. They’d heard. The guard unlocked the door and burst in.
“Hey!”
Cordelia got between him and her Da, whipping out the weapon she’d covertly replaced her stunner with. An evil-looking needler gun.
“Not a noise, not a step,” she warned. “I will shoot!”
He got that cocky grin that bullies always got before they found out that she - or any of her sibs - had been trained in combat by Drou Koudelka and then ImpSec. “Like that thing’s even loaded.”
He took his last step.
Just like in drills, Cordelia fired, aiming at the midsection. He didn’t drop like the sims had. He looked down at the spreading red stain on his belly, and then back at her. So confused. So afraid. Pink foam bubbled up and out of his mouth.
And then he fell.
“A needler,” said Da, full scold-mode. “The only thing filthier is a nerve disruptor. You know. I told you.”
Of Sergeant Bothari and Kou’s scars, yes. Cordelia swallowed bile. “I know, Da. I just… couldn’ afford t’ lose at stunner tag.” Deep breaths. Clear thoughts. Vomit later, when they were both safe. Yeah. “C'mon Da. We gotta get gone.”
Now she understood, as her stomach clenched and her hands shook, getting him into the safety harness. She understood exactly what Da had meant, all her life.
Da kissed her forehead. “I just wanted to keep you out of it. One Vorkosigan to survive without scars…”
Too late, Da. Too late. I’m sorry.
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