Got three for you today.
Two of them are fanfiction, though not for one of your usual fandoms, but something that …actually, you introduced me to back on the Nutboard.
First off, the non-fanfiction:
In-a: Space Station
With-a: First Contact delegation
While-a: Member of the alien delegation begins to get an inkling of how utterly insane Humans are, compared to the rest of the GalaxyAnd the others:
How did Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan react to hearing some of the details of her new husband’s previous life, and how much corroboration was necessary?
General Harloche looking up Miles’ classified files after he leaves, to find out how he got all those medals, including the Cetagandan Order of Merit.
[AN: Please, please, PLEASE submit prompts separately! If not, I have to do them all at once and that kind of steals time from other things, like RL duties, adding fics to my queue, and working on that dang novel]
(#00062)
Everything really big, like the Galactic Standards, was resolved by committee. The issue currently up to debate in this one was whether or not to accept the human species into the Galactic Alliance. Since they were pending members, they were not allowed to conduct their own business, own vessels, or otherwise inveigle themselves into the system.
But they nevertheless managed to do so anyway. Humans had an uncanny knack for finding loopholes. Like Alliance business partners who technically owned a majority share. Or Alliance owner/pilots who they hired on their own bizarre adventures.
Almost all of them, disturbingly, very profitable.
“I have read the reports,” said Ambassador Nif'xand'l. “And I regret to inform the committee that I have discovered some… disturbing trends.”
Other assembled ambassadors murmured and nodded. They had read some reports of their own.
“These humans, despite their short lifespans, seem to have an appetite for risk.”
“I have at least two hundred separate incidents of property damage and injury following the phrase, ‘hey, watch this’,” reported an avian.
Several amongst the ambassadors shuddered.
A Chitanian in a breather-suit tapped at his comm, which said for him, “Their ideals of humor are frankly perplexing.”
“Humor is a cultural construct,” said Ambassador Vriis. “Which leads to the question: is human culture toxic?”
Murmur, murmur, murmur…
“No complaints have been made,” offered the Ambassador for Jezz. “Nothing to significantly alter their status from Mostly Harmless.”
“I am rather fond of their tea,” said Ambassador Nox. “It shines up my feathers a treat.”
“Humans sold it to us as a furniture staining agent,” said Ambassador Vriis. “It’s only been two hundred years. They already recognize that other species have differing uses for differing trade items. That takes some species millennia…”
“We have already apologized in full for the Nayblar Incident,” said the Chitanian through his comms.
The Chair rang a gong for peace. “We cannot deny their cogniscence. They are readily adaptable, they communicate in any way possible, they have already proved themselves more than efficacious for trade.”
“They have a disturbing tendency to mount food on sticks.”
“Thank you, Mi'igraw,” the Chair politely codified, Shut up, I wasn’t done talking. “As I was saying, given their progress under our restrictions, dare we let them out of our sight? Conversely, dare we let them interact under their own recognizance?”
That let out some alarmed babble.
“We have discovered in excess of three hundred colony worlds in various states of upkeep.” Including one on the verge of complete collapse and self-canibalism. “We have yet to discover their origin planet. Which has two names. Earth-Terra.”
“Does it really exist? Or is it one of their elaborate 'jokes’?” Of course Jezz had to object. They were immediate neighbours to Noz, a Terran colony originating from one of their continents (or islands, it was never made clear) called Oz-trail-yer. Anyone who had been subjected to Drop Bear stories was bound to be suspicious.
“Perhaps their planet of origin is still wrapped in one-way wormholes,” allowed the Ambassador for Gebra. “Each colony has stated it was rich in such a resource.”
“And they used them to throw away their undesirables. Each of our species has fallen to such temptation in the past, but we realized it is not a permanent solution. Nor a healthy one. These humans seem to just keep doing it…”
“Then there are the other… disturbing idiosyncrasies,” said Nif'xand'l. “If you please, I would submit a compilation for the committee’s consideration.”
“The Chair recognizes G'Hx'vd'loq and their submission of evidence.”
Nif'xand'l put up a display hologram. A human female in skin-tight, sparkly attire was apparently gliding across a smooth surface. “This is performance art. They call it 'figure skating’.”
“Is she supposed to be moving backwards?”
“Yes. And she is moving across water ice by means of blades attached to her boots.”
The hologram recording leaped into the air, spinning, and landed on one foot. The assembled ambassadors gasped.
“This originates on their home planet,” informed Nif'xand'l. “Before reliable freezing of water ice was invented. They formed this art on frozen lakes.”
Murmur murmur MURMUR murmur…
“This,” a different hologram. Human males in bulky armor apparently throwing themselves at each other for possession of a leather ovoid. “Another human activity. A sport. They play this for fun. At first, I believed it to be a substitute for battle, to aid in curbing their hostile and warlike tendencies. Then I discovered the cultures most enamored of this… game… were the most warlike.”
“Contrariwise, the Britanian sport of Soccer forbids physical contact, but inspires the most warlike behavior amongst its followers.”
“They invest far too much involvement in recreational activities and those who excel at them.”
“And then there’s the food,” said the Ambassador for Gyiik. “Look at this.”
“The chair recognizes Gyiik and their submission.”
It showed a plant. A purple, leafy ball.
“Is that the crop they call 'cabbage’?” asked the Chitanian through his comms.
“Yes,” said the Gyiik. “They call this one Red Cabbage. And this,” a root crop, also purple, “is a Red Onion!”
“They are not colourblind,” said Nif'xand'l. “They have the most creative vocabulary for colours that I have ever heard.”
“And yet, these are called red foods.”
“Perhaps it is their 'irony’.”
“No, it is not universally applied. Other purple crops are called 'purple’.” The Gyiik threw up one pair of her hands. “It is enough to make Nyomnahm, Goddess of Bounty, weep…” She wiped at her own tears. “Look, you. White chocolate.”
It looked like an inoffensive creamy chunk.
The other ambassadors leaned forward for an explanation.
“It is clearly not white. And the essence of chocolate, the cocoa, is not present. It is neither white, nor chocolate!”
“They have an obsession with accumulating wealth. Even the colonies who have been amongst us the longest.”
“They have a dangerous desire for the things that cause short-term pleasure and long-term harm.”
“A disregard for personal safety in the name of entertainment.”
“An unholy want to show unrealistic things for entertainment… and to make them appear realistic!”
The chair rang the gong several times. “We must consider the question. Do we allow humans to join, or do we allow them to manage themselves and sever all association?”
“I, for one, would like to at least know what the flakk they’re up to.”
The room filled with variations on agreement.
“They contribute significantly to mercantile endeavours.”
More agreement.
“I like their food-on-a-stick.”
“I move that the human species be reclassified as insane, by merit of overall behavior.”
“Seconded.”
“In favour?” asked the Chair, taking note of those who stood or otherwise indicated their approval. “The Yae’s have it. The human species is nominated Insane But Mostly Harmless. Under these conditions, do we accept them into the Galactic Alliance?”
It was a grudging Yae. After the second tie. And finally won after a heartfelt plea by Ambassador Mike the Gyiik.
(#00063)
Ekaterin sat opposite General Guy Allegre in the otherwise bland and featureless room. It was one of the sealed variety with baffles technological and mundane to prevent anyone listening in. There was, no doubt, some authorised surveillance occurring, but it was also strictly electronic, unsupervised, untamperable, an inaccessible save to the chief of Impsec, who was in the room.
A room like this said, plainly and clearly, This is slit-your-throat-before-viewing material, and no horseshit. Ekaterin began to wonder if a minion was going to bring her her Vorfemme knife should such an occasion arise.
“Thank you for your time, Lady Vorkosigan,” said Allegre. “I am to brief you on some of Lord Vorkosigan’s -ah- past adventures.”
She nodded. “He talks in his sleep. Frankly, I find most of it perplexing, rather than informative.”
Allegre rolled his eyes in a surprisingly effective and communicative manner. Which meant that he knew about Miles’ annoying little habits, too. “Would you prefer the summary in order chronological? Or… order baffling?”
Ekaterin bit down a smirk. Much as she loved Miles, he could get to be an outright puzzling and hyperactive git. “I think I would prefer chronological. His more baffling nightmares seem to blur missions.”
“Quite.” Allegre cleared his throat. “Lord Vorkosigan gained Impsec’s attention when he left Barrayar a Service Academy reject and almost came back as an Admiral of a mercinary fleet… An event that resulted in the demise of his bodyguard-batman Sergeant Bothari. We recommended that the best place for him was -ah- where we could keep an eye on him.”
The birth of the little Admiral. Oh yes.
“His first assignment under military command was a notable failure on paper, but nevertheless bought to our attention the lingering psychological effects of an extended term serving at certain posts. And the inadvisability of placing certain elements in exile there.”
Kyril island. Camp permafrost. Ekaterin had heard little about it, apart from the idea that being the weather man there was the worst post imaginable.
“Afterwards, a fact finding mission under command in the Hegen Hub highlighted his… difficulties… in the traditional command structure.” Another throat clearing. “He disobeyed orders, went AWOL, and rescued the Emperor with the help of his pet mercenaries.”
Now the Emperor’s own Pet Mercenaries and Plausible Deniability.
“Goodness,” said Ekaterin. “Where does one of the Empresses of Cetaganda fit in?”
“That would be his diplomatic mission. Sent to be nothing more than a political olive branch, he managed to stop a war, rescue a… princess of sorts… and acquire one of the highest awards Cetaganda could offer.”
“That would be the 'nightmare gene-groves’, yes?”
“Quite.” Allegre flipped through some events. “Aquiring unique personnel,” Taura the Unforgettable. “Freeing an entire concentration camp,” the Snoring Marilacans and the demise of Ensign Murka. And Sergeant Beatrice. “The Komarran clone plot,” Mark. “And of course you’re familiar with the Komarr Incidents.”
“Intimately,” said Ekaterin. “He did inform me of most of this himself.”
“Yes,” said Allegre. “But this,” he handed across the collected files, “is the unedited version.”
Oh dear. Ekaterin was glad she had since learned to speed-read. Miles could put a fine sheen on anything.
(#00064)
Haroche sat behind the only other desk that could unlock the universe. Gently caressed the interface. He’d got rid of his boss - who was gassing about retirement but seemed determined to stay until he died. He’d got rid of that damned paranoid dwarf. And now he had penultimate power.
Ultimate power would only be achieved once he figured out how to steer his Emperor.
The last time the Emperor slipped his Imperial security was… hm… quite a long time ago. And rescued by the apparently incompetent nepotistic dwarf.
Further reading revealed that said dwarf had a cover as a mercenary fleet Admiral… who had liberated planets, foiled incredible plots against Barrayar… and was incredibly dangerous when riled.
It shouldn’t matter. The mutie dwarf had been removed from Haroche’s sphere of influence. Or influence-ability. He should be no further harm.
He had five minutes to relax before he got the news that the damned hyperactive mutie was now an Imperial gods-damned Auditor.
Aimed at him.
Fuck!
[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Inspiration!
All of my lovely readers have been very good at sending in prompts for me, so I thought I’d try and inspire the aspiring authors out there.
So here we go:
Include the words, “put down the bubbles and nobody gets hurt”.
Have fun.
InA-WithA-WhileA
In a- alley!
With a- small dog!
While a- dark elf curses!
(#00052)
The right hand rule, Drixxt was certain, was leading him in circles. His native ability for navigating in the dark, being a Dark Elf, was failing him because this place, despite being allegedly on the surface had levels of darkness below and beyond[1] the levels of ‘stygian’. Drixxt suspected this was the sort of darkness you got before light had come by to make things all cheerful and disgusting.
“Wot’s a feller like you doin’ inna place like this then?”
Drixxt turned, weapons ready, to face his foe. Mighty would his blades flash and flood the already soggy streets of Ankh-Morpork with the blood of–
A rather disreputable-looking wire-haired terrier.
“Woof?”
Drizzt relaxed, but did not lower his guard. “Begone, mongrel.”
“Right 'nuff for you to talk. D'you got any idea where you are?”
Drizzt blinked. The only other being in this alleyway was the dog. It couldn’t have possibly…
“'Course dogs can’t talk,” said the dog. “You must be havin’ a wossname. Dee-loo-jun.”
“Delusion,” corrected Drixxt. He had to take the dog’s word for it, otherwise he’d believe he was mad.
“You must be right brave,” said the terrier who didn’t. “Walkin’ into the Shades like this.”
Drixxt stopped. He’d heard about the Shades. The place where only the cruelest and most cunning survived. Where newcomers to the city came to die.
“How many are following me, Dog?”
“Who said I could count, mister? Lots.”
“Curses,” muttered Drixxt. This was going to be a hard fight.
Getting into the Shades was easy. The tricky part was getting back out again.
[1] A surface-dwelling species would have said 'above and beyond’.
[Muse food remaining: 3. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00041: The Noodle Incident(s)
There was that one time with the limes, the rhododendron hedge and the grand piano that all parties agreed never to speak of again…
Oh, the potential for each of these. I don’t know which universe to play with. So I’ll play with all of them :)
There is a certain genius for mischief. People who possess it are generally pranksters and the geniuses at it can make their chosen victims laugh at their own predicament.
Two such geniuses, Rael found, should never go together.
He already had enough on his personal agenda with Shayde, a creature who possessed magics in advance of current technology. But it got infinitely worse when the Enterprising Endeavour was in port and Hwell Barrow escaped the watchful eye of his saurian business partner, Ax'and'l.
Hwell had initially tried, according to all reports, to ‘blarney’ Shayde. Shayde, on the other hand, spotted him coming from a mile off and turned him down flat in ways he did not understand until ten minutes after she left the room. Things escalated quickly from there. He sent her chocolate-coated insects. She sent him caramel encrusted lizards. He somehow managed to dope her shower head and dyed her hair teal. She somehow got into the Enterprising Endeavour’s systems and dyed the air fuchsia. He set a flock of guinea pigs loose in her garden. She shipped live cargo to a very distant port… live cargo that liked to eat the containers she put them in, and breed like insects.
There was that one time with the limes, the rhododendron hedge and the grand piano that all parties agreed never to speak of again… Nobody could prove who did it.
The Enterprising Endeavour was in dock again. Which meant that Lyr, being both a precognitive psychic and a keen observer, had once again drafted Rael as bodyguard and reliable eye-witness. Which, in turn, meant he had to move his warming tank in for something Shayde called a 'sleep-over’.
“Ye serious. Ye never heard o’ smores?”
“Never,” said Rael. For all he knew, this was another Drop Bear story.
“Ah, yer in fer a treat,” Shayde opened her door.
Hwell had escaped his guard and managed to completely fill Shayde’s quarters with peculiar, helium-filled balloons.
“Condoms,” said Shayde as they escaped their former confines and began drifing into the corridor. “He cannae resist the classics…”
X-Men Evolution Universe
“What are you doin’, Tallwater?” Logan growled.
“Nuh-thiiiinng…” Sara almost sang. She was up to her elbows in bits and bobs, building a Device.
“You’re up against Fixit again, ain’t'cha?”
Sara put her screwdriver down so she could face him. She’d gone from aqua to very much more than a little bit blue-ish. And she was almost glowing. “I owe him one.”
Logan shook his head. “You been on his case ever since he accidentally sent you jauntin’ dimensions.”
“And he has the nerve to retaliate!” Sara was snippy, and when she got snippy, her Bostonian accent got thicker. “And he’s better at it… Well… There was that one time with the limes, the rhododendron hedge and the grand piano that all parties agreed never to speak of again…”
“Y'never thought of callin’ a truce and working on the problem?”
Sara glared at him. “That,” she sniffed, “requires him to apologise first.”
And, because I love it so much…. Dresden Codak’s X-Men Reboot Universe
In the opinion of Pepper Potts, there are some kind of geniuses there should never be two of, let alone two of in the same general area. Like, an entire continent.
Her life was interesting enough just trying to keep a leash on Tony Stark. Playboy multimillionaire genius inventor and any other nouns you had to spare. But now there was Sara Adrien. Mutant chameleon creative genius and a lot of other spare nouns, and a few of them actually polite.
Tony hated her for two reasons. One: she re-designed his holographic emitter vambrace so that it could both disguise a person for longer and fit into a rather clunky-looking sports watch. Two: she had found out his full name and used it against him whenever she was ticked off with him.
Well, not exactly hate hate… but not quite as mature as friendly rivalry, either. It was hard to maintain friendly rivalry with someone who had subconsciously absorbed the theories of ninjitsu as a method of getting the pranks past both Tony’s and Pepper’s paranoid security measures.
The nanobot packaging had been the last straw. Not that it disassembled its wrapping paper form and then spread anywhere it detected Tony’s DNA, but that it graffitto’d, Tony Stark is a louse! anywhere it had enough clear space.
And he couldn’t sue her for libel, because she’d paid to have a new species of louse named after him.
Pepper couldn’t see anything that would make them stop. There was that one time with the limes, the rhododendron hedge and the grand piano that all parties agreed never to speak of again… but it just kept… going.
“Eureka!”
Never before had three syllables struck terror into Pepper’s heart. She had to look, just so she could appreciate the train wreck that happened afterwards.
It was a hovering hula-hoop. Or rather, it looked like a hovering hula-hoop.
“What monster have you created now?” Pepper asked, only half-joking.
“Personal weather system.” Tony in a manic mood was never much for excess verbiage. “It’ll follow her around, stealth at first, of course; and rain on her - and only her.”
“This could not possibly go wrong,” Pepper deadpanned flat sarcasm.
As per protocol for these things, Tony set it loose, waited half an hour, and then sent the taunting text, How’s the weather?
And for two weeks, nothing happened. Two glorious weeks without so much as a black fax.
Tony actually relaxed. Well, relaxed for Tony.
Then came the garden party. A fine mist filled the air, but it did nothing to dampen the spirits of anyone in attendance. Until Sara showed up. Glittering and spectacular and - Pepper noticed - not being rained on.
“Why the hell is she dry?” muttered Tony.
“How the hell should I know?” murmured Pepper.
“Mister Stark,” said Sara.
“Ms Adrien,” said Tony.
They shook.
“Wonderful work with the programmable watering system,” said Sara. “I have it doing the rounds at Xavier’s. And congratulations on your fashion choice.”
“…zuh?” said Tony.
“I hear orange is the colour for celebrities of your calibre.”
Pepper and Tony looked together. He had turned a brilliant, vibrant, fake-tan orange.
Tony licked his hand. “Orange kool-aid?”
“I was out of Tang.”
“I’ll get you for this.”
“Really, Mister Stark. You have to stop handing me the weaponry. Those are the nanobots you originally sent after me, remember?”
Tony fumed. “Yes,” he growled.
“And nice try suborning the Sentinels. It won’t work a second time.”
“Wait. I didn’t reprogram the Sentinels.” Tony turned to Pepper. “Did I?”
Pepper didn’t have to check. “No. That wasn’t us.”
“Hmph,” said Sara. “Someone is using our personal vendetta against us.”
“Us?” Tony quoted.
“I did not put you on SHIELD’s watch list.” Sara snagged and sipped some juice. “My motto is Mostly Harmless, as you will recall.”
Tony caught on. “Someone’s trying to up the stakes.”
“Shall we happen to them together?”
Tony had a very nasty grin. “Yes. Let’s.”
Oh dear. Now he had Pepper in conniptions at two syllables.
[Muse food remaining: 3. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
(#00029)
Rael had seen Augments before. Animals that humans normally called pets were genetically altered to be smarter, more able to do the things that humans did. They rankled him, but they were legal. Most were companions and helpers.
A very rare few were ability aids.
The female pushing the trolley bore no external signs of being less than fully able. Until she spoke.
“I want chocolate milk you’re in the way.” Each word fired out rapidly next to the other without emotion or inflection.
The augmented St Bernard by her side said, “We say ‘excuse me, please’.”
“Excuse me please.”
Rael moved himself and his burdened shopping trolley out of the way.
The female human lunged for the chocolate milk.
“Ah-ah. No-no,” said the St Bernard.
“I been good I want chocolate milk.”
“Sometimes food. You must brush your teeth more.”
“…'es, Nana. Sorry, Nana.”
There was a story there, of course. Everyone had a story. It was rude to pry and demand to know what it was. He knew more than one person who had an Augmented pet as their only family. After the disaster of his first encounter, he made a habit of being the part of the community that stopped by to see if they needed any help.
Rael got his press-pak bricks of polenta and caught up on the couple, now having an argument over another treat.
“Excuse me, ladies?” Rael offered his card. “I’m available at discount rates if you should need help.”
Nana the St Bernard took the card with a, “Thank you. I appreciate the offer.”
“Your coat is pretty,” said the human.
Rael thanked her and went on with his day. Nana had been tailored, he had no doubt, to help a female somehow stuck at a particular progress level. All things considered, the dog had more rights than the human she was assisting.
Things had gone a long way since Gaspode, the first Augment in galactic history.
He, too, had been made to help someone who was not, strictly speaking, completely cogniscent. Human and dog, the pair made one functional entity.
Rael wished them every luck they could obtain.
[Want more? Submit a prompt or ask a question!]
Challenge #00028: Don’t You Cry, Baby Mine
The sun shone brightly despite the time of year, but its warm rays brushed uselessly against heavy curtains. Inside the dark room, a father held his baby in his arms and prayed that the child would find peace. (darkfoxglove)
Sergei Darkholme, better known to the world as Azazel, wept for his son. He had his father’s tail and pointed ears. His mother’s blue skin. Less fingers and toes than normal, but he was healthy. Alive.
And stuck like that.
Raven stopped at the threshold. “Is he–?” she whispered, terror clear in the tiny squeak of her voice.
“Nyet. He lives. I have done tests. He has not your magic.”
“You can disguise yourself when you want to, why–?”
“He can not. He will never be able to. The way he is… he will always be. Blue. With tail. Uh… I forget english. The three fingers.”
“Tridactyl,” Raven supplied. He could see it in her face. She was just picturing what her ‘brother’ Charles Xavier would do to their son.
“Da. Spacibo.” He also knew what was likely to happen to him if Erik got his hands on their little boy. “What do we do? What can we do?”
“I have a friend in East Germany. Irene Adler. She… she sees the future. She’d be able to tell us the best thing to do. To… to make sure he’s going to be okay…” She joined him by his side, embracing the little boy who was positive proof of their love. So new. So tiny. So clearly in danger from the first breath he took.
“We will have to take back roads.”
“Yes. I’ll write her and let her know we’re coming.”
Their baby wriggled and yawned in his arms. “Your name is Ivan Darkholme. And no matter what happens… you are loved. Remember that, Ivan. Remember.”
He had his mother’s yellow eyes. And the owlish stare of babies the world over. In that, at least, he was normal.
Challenge #00026: I Spy
quietstorm81 answered: A mother finding out about her daughter’s crush via somewhat unethical snooping in a stash of love letters.
Station night was well and truly underway. She should have been going home. She should be closing down her office and leaving it all to the night crew. It was late and getting later. Her family would soon wonder where she was.
Sheppard would be wanting his bedtime story.
Lyr knew all this. She knew what she was doing was a slippery slope on Mt Morals. But…
The really big but…
Her eldest daughter was growing up and she was still growing into her precog ability. Despite all the safeguards, her daughter could get hurt.
And she’d been having nightmares about that.
The really worrying thing about nightmares for a precog, was that sometimes they came true.
So really, what she was doing was working on a hunch and putting her mind at ease. And fooling herself at the same time.
Lyr opened a data trace on Lyr Marken Junior, and found the password-protected folders in the personal data section in under a minute. Lyr stared at them. Just like the diary in the sock-drawer of days of yore… She could override that security in a cold second.
She turned away from that violation of privacy and checked the more public chat feeds. Hello. That was an inordinate amount of drafts… They were all addressed to one particular male who shared some classes with Lyr Junior.
Hah. that explained the sudden interest in Five-D Calculus.
She bought up his file. Handsome kid, in the latest fashion for patterned-colour buzz cuts. No piercings, but a heritage tattoo. Interesting. He was descended from the Punaba tribe. Nice to see kids recognizing their histories instead of trying to ignore them. Pity for the Markens that their own genetic heritage would have to be a patterned shoulder-band. In a complete circle.
…not that most people’s heritage wasn’t like that, when you looked far enough…
Let’s see… No criminal record. Not an excessive number of behavior corrections in the schooling system… Smart, but Marken women were always big on the brainy sorts. And no data in his files about Lyr Junior.
Would it be telling if she gave her daughter the speech about the fine lines between crushing on someone, obsessing about someone, and stalking someone?
Lyr went back to the saved drafts. Emails. How quaint. Her own disaster-crush in the puberty-zone had involved brush calligraphy and a wax-sealed envelope. She read a few of her daughter’s drafts.
Clumsy. Awkward. Eerily beautiful, in their own way… But all varied attempts at asking a boy who didn’t know she existed to please notice her. All harmless. No red flags.
“You’ll have to pay for mis-appropriating Security property, Officer Marken.”
Lyr yelped. Sherlock, her Cuidgari boss, was looking over her shoulder. “I probably deserved that.”
“Every parent does it,” said Sherlock. “That doesn’t mean it’s right, and it doesn’t mean I approve.”
Lyr shut down her searches and dug out an Hour coin. “I apologize to the office for my indiscretion.”
“The office accepts, provided such indiscretion is not repeated.” Sherlock took the coin. “Talk to her. You get better results if it’s mother-to-daughter instead of officer-to-suspect.”
Lyr sighed, shutting down her station at last. “Yes, sir.”
[Want more? Submit a prompt or ask a question!]
Challenge me?
Once again, I am bereft of fiction prompts to write an instant (shortish) fiction based thereupon.
So, once again, I ask you, my dear readers, to challenge me to do something you’d like to see done.
Anything at all.
Submit a prompt, ask me a question about my pet universe, or even pop a thought into the answer box below. In return you will get your very own free miniature fiction here on my blog for the enjoyment of all.
Feed my hungry, hungry muse.
I mean, I can’t work on my trilogy every hour of the day…
Challenge #00025: Movie Madness
Rogue and Rahne, the closest the Evo cast arguably has to a vampire and werewolf, end up having to watch the latest vampire-and-werewolf-starring cinematic blockbuster - the Twilight movies, courtesy of a lost bet (likely with Kitty). Cue the mocking and snarkiness!
[This author has only seen the first Twilight movie and removed herself from the sequels as a means of self-preservation]
“So what’s this all about, then?” asked Rahne. Kitty was standing guard at the door and, for some reason, Kurt was guarding the window.
“Well… Ah don’t know much,” Rogue got her credentials out as early as possible, “but from what Ah heard, it’s… well… Some housewife saw ‘Dracula meets the Wolfman’ and wrote an AU romance starrin’ her Mary Sue.”
“Is not!” Kitty shrieked. “It’s the greatest romance like, ever!”
Kurt coughed. “(Coughistoocough).”
“Hey! I saw your stupid blue people movie! You like, owe me.”
“…they'renotstupid…” muttered Kurt.
The movie began. “Okay,” said Rahne. “Which one’t the Mary Sue?”
“Bella Swan. That’s the gal with the brown hair, there.”
They watched for a few minutes.
“Wait. So how’s she a Mary Sue?”
Rogue bought up something on her phone. “That’s the lady who wrote this mess. Next to her description of our heroine.”
“…oh.”
“Total adoration by all a the boys in five, four, three…”
“What? Since when does that happen?”
“It actually happened to Myer, Ah heard.”
“…blarg…”
Another few minutes in which more movie happened and steam escaped Kitty’s ears.
“Wait. Those are the vampires, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m gettin’ a weird stalker vibe off 'em.”
“You, me, and everyone else with a brain stem,” said Rogue.
“…hey!” objected Kitty.
“Wait. He said she should stay away from him and now he’s following her everywhere? How’s that supposed to work?”
“And he warned her that he’s dangerous. She should be bookin’ in mah opinion.”
More movie passed in stunned disbelief.
“HE SPARKLES?!”
“Real vampires don’t freakin’ sparkle.”
“What are the werewolves like?”
Rogue checked her phone. “Uh. Native Americans who are heavily into arranged marriages. From birth.”
“How many movies are there of this?”
“Five.”
Rahne thought about this whilst witnessing Bella and Edward say and do incredibly stupid things. “What was the alternative?”
“Walkin’ down main street in our underwear.”
“Turn that rubbish off. I’m doin’ the undies thing.”
“*HEY*!” Objected Kitty while Kurt cracked up.
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Challenge #00023: About a Girl
Scott and Sara’s father have a conversation about Sara, Todd, Jean, Duncan and life beyond being a mutant. Bonus if Sara herself makes an appearance.
Sam found him staring at nothing, leaning on a balcony rail and looking teen-serious, aka constipated. “You’re looking flabblegabbed. Sara happen to you?”
“Uh. Yes. Sir. Mr Adrien.”
“You can call me ‘Sam’ if it suits your fancy.” He joined the teen at leaning on the balcony rail. “Deep thoughts?”
“How the– How does she do it? One minute I’m mister sane and sensible, and the next I’m arguing her case and she has this… smile…” His fingers mimed a Cheshire grin.
That was his girl. “Sara has spent her life in the company of some very manipulative people. To her credit, she only uses those powers for others’ good.”
“Wait. So the Toad being here regularly is a good thing?”
Sam gave him a side-eye. “Given Sara’s description of Mr Tolenski,” he took care to emphasise the boy’s real name, “I’d say he was one good samaritan away from complete redemption.”
“But– he’s a thief. A punk.”
“A kid who had both his parents die in an unfortunate event, was pushed about from pillar to post in the foster system before winding up in the thrall of a really bad alleged carer…?”
Scott, who had exactly the same story, glared. “I get it. His story is my story too. The only difference is he–”
“–was not found by the Professor. Did not have what you gained. His story could still have been your story.”
“…there but for the grace of God…”
“Or, at the very least, the Professor and his pet experiment.”
“So Sara is playing Professor for Todd?”
Sam nodded, more at Scott getting the name right than in agreement. “I’d say more… good samaritan. Helping because she sees the potential future for Todd. A future you’ve already gained.”
Scott shivered. “I dunno if she *can*…”
“How long did it take you to overcome your own bad experiences?”
“It took me… oh God… Two *years* to quit hoarding food in my room. I still keep a can of spam and a packet or three of tic-tacs for good luck.”
“And Mr Tolenski is showing remarkable progress in comparison. He’d much rather spend time with Sara than -say- lift anyone’s wallets.”
Scott checked his pockets. “Yeah. Guess.”
Such little faith. “At least extend him the courtesy of knowing where he is by virtue of having been there?”
“That’s a very Sara way of saying it.”
“I’m proud to say I taught her everything I know.” _And that may be your last warning._
“Hrmph…” Scott looked out into nothing for some time. Finally saying, “Why do women always wind up with the jerks?”
“Speaking as a married jerk,” Sam began with a hint of amusement, “I’d have to say I have no idea. Nobody’s a jerk inside their own head. Therefore jerkdom has to be bestowed by others. And, I do believe, everyone’s a jerk to *someone*. My best guess is, the lady doesn’t see the jerkdom. Only that which can be redeemed with differing amounts of effort.”
“Mmmrrrh…”
“But then I’m no expert. My own lady of choice chose to pull against progress rather than push towards it. And I became a jerk by leaving her to do it.”
“I thought jerkdom was bestowed by others?”
“I did indeed say so. But does it make me more or less a jerk to recognize that I’ve done horrible things via bad choices?”
“I’d say not recognizing it is the jerkitude.”
Companionable silence for a moment.
“What’s her name?” asked Sam.
“Who?”
“The lady you have your eye on who happens to be with the jerk.”
Sigh. “Jean.”
“Ah, yes. The famous Jean Grey. Jacquelline…” sigh. His heart still hurt at her name. At the thought of the potential rift between them. “…admires her accomplishments.”
“I admire more.”
“Hmm?” A young man in that state did not need much in the way of encouragement.
“I love the way she sings along with the radio. I love the way she hip-dances when she cooks. I love watching her eat. It’s so… graceful. I love the way she combs her hair, the thousand little things she does. I love her strength, her power… the way she can take a picture of just anything and turn it into beauty and… I just wish she’d see me 'that way’. Instead of some goofy brother or something.”
“Would you win her, if you could?”
“Uh. Jean’s a woman, not a tchotchke at the fun fair? I’d much rather win the honour of having her decide to stay with me.”
“Noble way of putting it.”
“Yeah. Noble. It’s kinda like being the 'nice guy’ only with less of the creeperdom. And more invisible for it.”
“Her choices are hers. You respect her enough to let them remain so. You can’t love every part of her and exclude the one part where she acts independently of you.”
“Even when she chooses to go out with Duncan Matthews.” The way he said that name with a sneer told the rest of the story.
“I’ve heard about him, too. Though less glowingly from everyone else except Jean and Jacquelline.”
“He thinks he can get away with it because he’s a football star…”
“And society will let him maintain that illusion until such time as he stops being so. And like all illusions, it will soon leave disharmony in its wake.”
“Not soon enough for me…”
“Amen to that thought, gentlemen,” said Sara, scaring them both out of their skins. “Alas, such things can not be made to happen.”
“And don’t start working on it, my little Machiavelle,” teased Sam.
“Also, it’s dinnertime. Coming down?”
“Of course.”
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