Challenge #00902-B171: In a Shared Domicile on Amity…
Random number prompt - use a random number generator and redo a prompt from the first year of instants - do NOT read the first story before writing the new one.
[AN: The random number was 133: Anywhere in the story: “The element of surprise didn’t so much rest upon someone hearing you but registering the significance of your approach.” (I hope altering one word counts)]
There was an important lesson in here, somewhere. Living with Deathworlders taught them well. Continuing to remain alive around Deathworlders taught them fast.
It was the oddest thing. Humans would sleep soundly with K’kerik in the domicile, making small domestic noises and generally behaving as if all was normal. But the instant she consciously registered that there were sleeping predators in the vicinity, and acted accordingly… the humans would startle awake and zero in on her presence in seconds.
They could always detect her when she made an effort to move silently. And when she made no effort to disguise her footfalls, the humans startled and worried when they nearly stood on her.
In the end, she talked it over with her human friend Lu.
“Oh, that,” said the human. “Yeah. The element of surprise doesn’t so much rest upon someone hearing you but registering the significance of your approach. We evolved on a planet with some really stealthy predators. Being able to detect something being quiet is something of a survival instinct.”
“I must be utterly quiet or make significant noise to be detected?“
“That’s the bunny,” said Lu.
“You humans are very strange.”
“Thank you.”
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Challenge #00901-B170: Strange Creatures
Alternate universe prompt: The X - Mares
[AN: Of course I instantly thought of MLP:FiM]
Things went very quickly bad when the entirety of Ponyville discovered that Fluttershy’s strange friend was stranger than they had believed possible.
His glowing eyes almost bugged out of his head. He smiled with sharp, sharp teeth. He vanished in a puff of sulphur. He didn’t have hooves. He had paws. And his tail… was more like a dragon’s than a pony’s.
And everywhere he ran, he caused panic. Running and screaming. Most of it away from him. He bounced off things like Pinkie Pie. But he was not as fast as Rainbow Dash.
Not… all the time.
He was half-concussed when Applejack finally lassoed him. And… crying?
Fluttershy couldn’t be heard about the many voices raised in fear and anger. Things were looking very bad for the monster in their midst.
_Stop!_
It was a command obeyed by muscle more than mind. Nightcrawler squirmed in his rope prison like his insect namesake before the pony responsible appeared. He was a unicorn, and his hindquarters were supported by a wheeled device. “There’s no need for violence,” soothed the bald stranger. “Nightcrawler is more scared of you than you are of him.”
“Thank you,” breathed Fluttershy. The only one besides Nightcrawler who still had the power to move. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell everyone since this mess started.“
Nightcrawler, meanwhile, struggled free of his bonds. “Dankeschoen…” he tried to hide where he was standing and failed immensely. “If I may ask… who are you?”
“My students,” he nodded towards the ponies on either side of him, “Call me Professor X. Phoenix, Cyclops, Icemare, Beast and Wolverine… all call themselves the X-mares.” A quirk of a smile. “I find it a little ridiculous, but they do have a snappy turn of phrase.”
Nightcrawler couldn’t help but notice that almost all of these ponies looked… normal.
“I can teach you how to use your gifts, Nightcrawler. How to make them your own.”
“Would you teach me… to be normal?”
“That’s… a little beyond my abilities.”
“Good,” said Nightcrawler. “I’ve seen what normal can do in bad circumstances. I’d much rather be all me.”
That earned him big grins from the X-mares.
“Will he be safe?” asked Fluttershy.
“I can’t promise safety, either,” said Professor X. “I can promise that he will be well-prepared for danger.”
“It… seems to find us,” allowed Cyclops.
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Challenge #00900-B169: Mama Bear
Murphy’s law of Babies 2: Toddler gone? It’s with the humans.
Nita almost didn’t notice the curious little Numidid until she nearly stepped on the poor child. She was big for a human, and this little scrap of pinfeathers barely cleared her boot.
“Whoops,” she said. “Hello, little peep. Where did you come from?”
Alas, the tiny child was still talking Scribble. Multilingual Scribble, but still Scribble. It varied between Numidid, Amity English, and Galstand. She sounded irritated, and paused occasionally to peck at one of Nita’s trailing aglets.
Ah. The chase-and-find-out stage. She must be driving her mothers to moulting. “That’s not nutritious or delicious, little peep.” Nita bent to scoop the keet into her hands. Both to elevate the child out of danger and bring her into Nita’s range of focus.
No locator bracelets… but a fine shower of dust indicated that this baby had been cleaned recently. Either she hadn’t been fitted, yet, or was part of the transient population. Or, using a combination of Occam’s Razor and the soft flannel onesie, mother had taken the locator off for bathing.
Some cheaper models had trouble with bathing materials.
On one hand, mother was probably fretting herself into a quick trip to Medical. On the other hand, forcing Security to deal with an unfed baby was worse than unfair. And there was an Unsuitable Food kiosk nearby.
“We don’t cook baby cogniscents,” said the Gyiik at the counter.
“I was going to ask for some baby food,” growled Nita. “I know she’s a child.” She put the keet into a handily empty bowl and used the Gyiik’s towel as an impromptu cover.
The keet was definitely trying to Scribble an enquiring “Mama?” or “Nomnom?” in three languages. Unfortunately for Nita’s detective work, the name on the kid’s clothing was written in Numidid chicken-scratch. And it was so blurred from multiple washings, that her translator apps couldn’t fathom it.
And while she was online… Nita sent a quick text and some footage to Security. Heavens forfend that she be found irresponsible.
*
Security turned up with an anxiously piebald mama Numidid riding her shoulder.
Nita heard “BABY!” and then an incomprehensible gabble of Numidid chirping and squawking. She wisely backed off, because even a Havenworlder mama would take on a Level Six Deathworlder to protect her child.
“It’s okay,” said Nita. “The instant I realised she was following me, I picked her up and took her to get fed. Then I sent a message to Security.”
“And…” Officer Marken consulted her eyepiece. “Threatened a Gorgonite with his own fork?”
“Ze was planning to eat little peep, here.”
Marken gave her the understanding, Fair Enough nod.
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Challenge #00899-B168: Rule of Innocence
Murphy’s law of Babies: When you look away for two seconds and your child has absconded, it will invariably be found in whatever situation would cause the quickest messy death or most political upheaval if an adult were in the same situation.
Luckily children can get away with anything by virtue of being children, and will not be immediately vaporised for hiding behind Graknor, Conqueror of Galaxies’ legs.
Sahra let her toddler go so she could tuck herself back in. Poor little Amba was having trouble with her solids and the perpetual search for something she could chew - besides Sahra’s nipples - was ongoing and arduous.
It was the other reason she brought Amba with her, this Meet. So she could see the best of the Galactic doctors and finally, finally, figure out what was going wrong.
Nobody had commented about her temporary exposure. But then, she wasn’t the only ambassador nurturing their young.
Unfortunately, her young was the only one going straight up to a Level Six Deathworlder’s spiked-armour boots.
Klacid the Conqueror of H’radiss, ruler of worlds, devastator of enemies…. did not notice Amba until the tiny girl threw up on his shiny shoes.
He stopped, mid-speech, and picked up the child. Sahra, already halfway towards the scene, inadvertently blurted her baby’s name. It was bad form to interrupt an Ambassador’s Introduction, but she wasn’t thinking clearly by then.
No mother at the Meet would blame her.
“What do you do, little scrap?” said Klacid the Conquerer. “This is the origin of the mighty humans?”
And then Amba grabbed hold of and bit his poking finger. Using all four of her sharp, new teeth.
Worlds could have died.
Sahra disengaged Amba with profuse apologies.
“Num num num,” said Amba. “Bas’da Numnum.”
O God… no. Sahra managed a pained rictus as she tried to retreat in a dignified manner to her appointed seat. Simy, one minute too late from running messages to the Mythos table, fielded Amba to place her in her playpen.
“She is a warrior,” crowed Klacid the Conqueror. “She has drawn blood before she has picked up her first weapon!” He roared with laughter. “These humans are admirable. I like them.”
It was only later that science would discover that H’radiss blood had an enzyme that Amba could not produce herself. Klacid merrily volunteered to bleed for her, and was very disappointed that the medtechs could not only synthesise the enzyme for Amba, but infect her with retrogenes that would fix the problem.
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Challenge #00898-B167: Rule of Cute
Observation: The more fragile a species is, the less danger it is in (physically) from the humans. The ones that can withstand them are treated aggressively and with much suspicion, and the dainty little ones are coddled and cooed over. And petted if the humans can get away with it.
[AN: Just FYI, not all Havenworlders are tiny. But loads of them are]
It should have been an ordinary shortcut. Just a quick dash home to pick up her LifeAlert bracelet. She needed it to avoid danger and because of her idiot roommate, she’d forgotten it in their rush to catch the next tram.
Didn’t have the time to do things properly. Now I have to do them twice.
Alas, the quiet lounge that was always empty had humans in it.
Crap!
None of her people were cleared to encounter humans yet. The most dangerous of all known Deathworlders. The ones with the most potential to create great havok or great miracles.
Tyr’ip shrank down, hunkering close to the ground and trying to be stealthy. No sudden moves. No sound. She was almost halfway there.
“Aaaaaawww…” cooed a human.
O Powers. They were all watching her!
“It’s oh-kay,” cooed a second one. A big, muscular sort with mutliple scars. “We won’t hurt you.”
“Are you lost, sweetie?” singsonged a third.
Several of them were putting on Phin gloves[1] and some were looking up their Curtedex[2] for matches.
Tyr’ip found herself trying to burrow backwards into a wall. They were planning to handle her! She breathlessly attempted GalStand. “Self being class two Havenworld… Please no be squeeze.”
“Aaaawwww…”
“Dat’s so cyoooot…”
“She smol.”
“Aw adorbs diddle cinnabon…”
What was happening? Several of the humans were getting on their knees. Trying to reach her reduced eye-height.
“It’s gonna be okay,” cooed the leader. The female with the scars and the muscles. “I’m Tambry. We want to make sure you get safe, okay?”
It took her a moment to work it out. “Self has initiating… nurturing?”
Coos and squeaks from the humans.
“Take that as a ‘yes’,” whispered Tambry.
Ko’rii, her idiot roommate, almost soiled herself when Tyr’ip returned with not only her LifeAlert, but a volunteer honour guard of six burly mercenary humans.
“Lesson,” said Tyr’ip, who was starting to grow used to them. “Do not allow forgetfulness. You never know what else might turn up in retrieval.”
[1] Humans rarely give up a chance to let an acronym go unmolested. Thus Ph-N, standing for Ph-Neutral, became Phin. Such gloves are a vital courtesy when handling some Havenworlders.
[2] Rather like a wiki for species. Contains important information such as what class of world they come from, how to be polite, and emergency medical treatment.
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Challenge #00897-B166: Adult Onset Responsibility
So if the first person to contact another world is automatically ambassador, what happens if an accident involves first contact being between the alien civilisation and Bigot McAssface, who would fit right in on that Greater Deregulation. Specifically, the rest of BMA’s civilisation, especially the ones interested in galactic alliance, would usually say the complete opposite of anything he does, but now he’s their galactic spokesperson.
[AN: This story will contain slurs because my main character is an arsehole]
“Keeping the channel open and waiting for a rescue that will never come. Goddamn slopes and reee-tards running everything take all the good jobs away from a hardworking man. None of ‘em can do a decent job for the right price. Like hell was I paying two weeks’ wages for a substandard repair job that I could do for myself for less than a meal! I did just as good a job as any of them stoopid fucks. Probably better. It did last three days longer than the usual patch.”
What Andrew Kysely did not reveal was how fifteen separate techs told him to stop his bad habit of over-gunning his engines or doing fast-reverse braking. That sort of thing was bound to burn out an engine ahead of its time.
“Gonna put on some music. If you idjits out there hate what I play, then how about you boost a little faster and get here sooner. The longer you take, the longer I’ve got, on the record, putting my opinions into the comms.”
He put on one of his favourites, They Took My Job So They’re Gonna Die. An underground Country classic.
When he got back from the toilets, he would wax lyrical about the censorship inherent in Purgatory politics. His people were so oppressed. The darkies in power kept going on about equality and leveling the playing field, and then never giving the hard-working white people any kind of help they would appreciate.
Something about skill levels and willingness to work.
Idiots.
He was still in the can when something went strange with physics. He could never afford a grav drive - those damn slopes overcharged for the things and refused to give him one because he would ‘kill’ it - so the first thing he noticed was how random droplets of piss tended to slow and stop in the air unless he vacuumed them up. They were supposed to spiral towards the walls and join the general patina that the idiots at locks and docks refused to clean.
The next thing he noticed was, after he flushed and cleaned up, how the regular kick-off didn’t work, and how he had to swim to his cockpit.
The view out of the window was purple smoke and… some kind of eye-dazzling haze.
And coasting through the mess was some… weird thing. Like a giant brain with whiskers and… peacock feathers? Undulating along like a jellyfish.
They gently shoved his ship along with feather-tendrils the size of an arterial highway. And then they were gone.
Normalicy resumed like waking from a dream.
It took him a full minute to realise that he was broadcasting dead air.
Andrew took up the mike. “Don’t mind me, guys. Take your time. I’m only hallucinating from some kind of deprivation. Or the chemicals you keep sticking in my ration packs have finally caused a reaction. I told you. I keep telling you. A man. Needs. Meat. Maybe a few vegetables, but mostly meat. Chemicals ain’t food. I’m reacting to something in there that you idiots use to substitute for REAL FOOD.”
And then the aliens came. It was a bulky, blocky ship. Andrew kept on the air, describing the vessel and tripping over his words. All the way until they dragged his ship inside.
*
Koop’xand’l had the bad luck to be assigned the new ambassador. The human communicated by yelling, yelling louder, and baffling attempts at mime. It was not a clean creature, and seemed to expect others to look after its messes.
Therefore, it was either some variety of elite… or a candidate for Diminished Responsibility.
The jaunt through the new wormhole was quick A short hop with no internal nexus points. The Mark-Maker hovered in a position clear of the wormhole and mined data from the inhabited planets’ broadcasts. Some of which filtered into Koop’xand’l’s dataplat.
Most useful were words that the human could understand. “Many calm. Ambassador staying many calm.”
The human gaped. Then slowly enunciated. “How. Did. You. Learn. To. Talk?”
Evidently, the new ambassador believed the Coelophita to be less than intelligent. Reducing things down to that level was almost insulting. “We are scan planet transmissions. We are hunt information. We bring. We use.”
“Are you telling me that you’re learning from the media broadcasts?”
Ah. So he wasn’t that slow, after all. “Correct.”
“Those’ll give you the wrong picture. Let me tell you what’s really going on…”
Koop’xand’l recorded it, of course. For later translation. And she was able to confirm some things as true. The planet was called purgatory. He was from a group of people called Cawkids, a thin slice of the population that, according to the media, felt entitled to a larger slice of the metaphorical pie. And, according to Ambassador An’dru… deserved it for existing.
Later examination would prove that there were no Cogniscent Rights violations in the Purgatory System. The Cawkids were isolationists who believed in their past victories (on another planet) and refused to admit that their absent privilege was cheating.
And, a matter of some minor interest, all the Cawkids resided on one smallish continent called Nutexus. It bristled with prejudice, bullets and beer.
Purgatory proved to be mostly full of decent humans who honoured and respected the List of Cogniscent Rights without ever seeing it beforehand. They had developed it independently. A notation of some merit for the humans therein.
Unfortunately…
The Purgatory delegate had at least tried to pick up both GalStand and Coelophita and mixed them both in her confusion.
“Citizen Kysely is number outlier. Should not being counted. He is number anomaly. Worst example of planet.”
“We are aware,” said Koop’xand’l in the little Ingliss he knew. “Law remains. First encounter being most experience. Experience gaining position.”
Secretary Esoghene winced. “He is not representing planet. He is representing minority only. Is much bad.”
“There may being solution,” offered Koop’xand’l. “I am hear words ‘killing with kindness?”
*
“…so I got me a fancy gold jumpsuit,“ Andrew rubbed his greasy hands down its front. He doubted that any of the weirdos in the arena could understand him, so it didn’t matter what he said. Just that it went on for a good long while. “And this matchin’ bracelet and anklet set. And all the meat I could ever want. Eggs, bacon, gravy. Y’all know how to feed a man. ‘Course I put on a li’l muscle,” he patted his now-ample belly. “But that’s a sign of prosperity, ain’t it? I’m doing good. I am doing good.“
Pretending to be his assistant, Rong looked up from her tablet monitors to see if Andrew was done preening. Considering how his core food group was Deep Fried, and his addiction to foodstuffs that were bad for him… she estimated he had about a week left.
A month, if he discontinued his habit of ignoring the medtechs.
She, and three other ‘assistants’ were all poised and ready to take his duties over on the instant of the inevitable heart attack.
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Challenge #00895-B164: The Old Heart-Stopper
There is coffee, there is turkish coffee, there is paper-due-in-six-hours was-coffee-once, and then there is whatever you just made and drank.
Grace watched Sara cautiously as more and more ingredients kept coming out of random storage places. Turkish Coffee steeped in its special apparatus. Espresso poured out of the little budget coffee maker that pushed hot water through little capsules, and it did so on a near steady stream. The finished cups of steaming liquid went into a cooking pot that already contained a boiling mess of Caf-Pow, Monster, and SupaPowaDynamo - the only energy drink with a warning label.
Grace’s mouth fell open as Sara added Trucker’s Friend Pep Pills to the highly-caffeinated pot.
“What. The. Hell?”
Sara poured the filtered Turkish Coffee into the pot. “You said you need to stay up for seventy-two hours in order for you to do over that project, right? This stuff? Has been known to keep people awake for a week. I advise you sip when you’re feeling blinky.”
“…i thought you were going to do some juju on my laptop…”
“Sorry, my friend. Your laptop has gone to silicone heaven. Data and all.” The last of the espresso joined the mess in the pot. And then two dozen sugar cubes. And then a handful of cocoa nibs ‘for flavour’.
“You have emergency services on speed-dial, right?”
“Please, I already have a medical degree,” said Sara. “I am emergency services.“ She tested the goop for consistency and turned the heat up. “Or at least, I can keep you stable until the EMT’s turn up. And you know they don’t like this neighbourhood.”
“…maybe I can take the fail…?”
“Grace.” Sara crossed the room to embrace her hands. “You’re in good hands. I promise I won’t let you OD or pass out before your project’s re-done. I’ve got you. And I’m kind of used to this stuff.”
“That explains the week when you were talking to the potplant in complete gibberish.”
“Okay. So my Core Language research was a little dodgy…” the pot didn’t so much boil over as boil up. The bubbles had their own support structure. “Whoops! It’s done!” Sara raced over to take it off the heat and render the stove safe. Then she convinced two servings of the resulting goo into some ceramic candleholders that could easily double as shot glasses.
It was the consistency of molasses.
It smelled like Satan’s asshole.
Do or die time… Grace nibbled a piping hot droplet away from the rest, and almost flipped when Sara knocked hers back with grace and poise.
And then it hit her like a semi truck strapped to a jet bomber. “HolyshitIcanseethecoloursofsoundandIcanheartastes, isthisnormal?”
“Prettymuchaverage,” said Sara. “IonlytookminesoIcankeepupwithyou. I’musedtoit.”
*
Grace woke up four days later to a steaming, hearty breakfast platter of all her favourite foods, some painkillers, and a large, economy-sized bottle of Gatorade. Her head hurt. Her stomach growled hard enough for her to wince at the noise.
“…i’m alive…” she croaked.
“Sit up slowly,” whispered Sara. Take the pills, then eat.”
Good advice. Bless the person who invented fast-acting pain blockers. Grace drank half the gatorade before she came up for air. “Th’ project?”
“Completed, checked,” Sara waved at herself, “and submitted in time. Your grades are safe.”
Grace dived into the scrambled eggs. And the mushrooms. And the fried tomatoes. “Thank you I’m starving.”
“Well you were asleep close to twenty-four hours.”
“Ow. How many of those Mess-pressos did I take?”
“Two. That was plenty. Karen on the other hand…”
Wait. “Karen? That bitch who always eats our food and challenges us to prove it was her? The girl who takes ‘do not eat’ as a challenge?”
“She’s… currently running naked through the campus trying to get the bees out of her skin,” Sara said. “And speaking in tongues. That’s what she gets for watering it down with Jack Daniels and pouring it over an entire box of Coocoo Bombs.”
Yeah. That sounded exactly like Karen. “Please tell me you have footage?”
“Loads,“ Sara grinned. “Once you’re stable, you can watch the Highlights Reel I’ve put together.”
Grace cackled. This was going to be a good day.
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Challenge #00893-B162: Perish the Thought
(Was trying to find the post that inspired this, but couldn’t)
Considering that literature professors, English teachers, and mandatory readings have managed to make Shakespeare boring, even with the subject material, jokes, innuendo, memorable insults everywhere, and masterful handling of it all, imagine the travesty that will be lessons on Discworld in a few centuries.
Time’s winged chariot… renders all things boring.
They were doing the Pratchett section of English Lit, which was only slightly less dull than the Victorian Romance section of English lit. Which included one of the more snore-worthy stories of Sherlock Holmes. But that was sunshine and daisies compared to Shakespeare.
At least most of Pratchett was still understandable.
Most of it.
Language is plastic. You only had to look at Shakespeare for that. Before Shakespeare invented half of it, English was nigh-incomprehensible. And Lora had checked by looking up the Canturbury Tales by Chaucer.
Uuuuuuuuuuggghhh…
That was extra credit that felt like a punishment detail.
And speaking of punishment…
It was Lora’s turn to read. She cleared her throat and droned, “Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder. Elves are marvellous. They cause marvels. Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies. Elves are glamorous. They project glamour. Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment. Elves are terrific. They beget terror. The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning. No one ever said elves are nice. Elves are bad.“
Her gran had the entire set. Lora knew because during summers and sick visits, Gran would read some of the more kid-friendly stories to her. They sounded infinitely more interesting than this perpetual grind as Boris struggled with his reading. Making it sound like every individual word was a sentence as he dragged his finger across the page.
Every sentence was a prison sentence. Lora swore the seconds were ticking backwards.
And then the class nerd had her turn. Briefly, sunnily, happily turning the words to life and putting colour into the lesson. She even did voices.
Lora turned to stare. How could Vernia read like that? Like she enjoyed it? She was like Gran. Excited to hear that there was a Pratchett section in their English Lit classes.
Of course Mr Blakely had to interrupt the good reading with a lesson on what Pratchett had meant. Explaining the joke until it died a lonely death in the pits of dullness.
There had to be a better way to learn this stuff.
Maybe she could ask Gran.
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Challenge #00887-B156: Can’t Eat, Won’t Eat
A cooking show for all of us with allergies, medical conditions and on medication which won’t let us eat common items. Grapefruit, garlic and members of the cabbage family come to mind.
“Welcome to the cooking show that we all love, but chefs love to hate! It’s Can’t Eat, Won’t Eat!”
Applause and hoots.
“Our judges tonight include somebody on bloodthinners, he’s also allergic to the entire cabbage family and won’t eat onion!”
The judge waved.
“As you see, he has the three magic buttons. I don’t like that…”
The judge pressed the relevant button. A cartoonish vomiting sound carried over the audio and a green Mr Yuck face lit up on the screen.
“I’m allegic to that…”
This time, it was an ambulance siren and a medical sigil.
“And this stuff will kill me.”
A brief seranade of the death march and a skull and crossbones.
“And we also have our regular judges, someone who’s allergic to alcohol of any kind,” whistles and cheers, “and The Baby Tongue.” This regular judge had an extra button that made a ‘waa waa’ sound and added a dummy to the screen. “As always, our celebrity chefs have a fully stocked kitchen with everything they could possibly need. And we only tell the chefs once! They have to–”
The audience joined in, “Pay attention or pay the penalty!”
“That’s right! Get it very wrong, and our celebrity winds up in the sin bin.”
People watched to see if any chefs actually made it all the way towards making a complete meal. So far, nobody had.
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Challenge #00886-B155: Unexpected Bastion of Safety
“Deportment and propriety in High Society 101” at Lady Favisham’s, a mandatory course for young ladies.
(AKA “How to break a man’s wrist without letting go of your fan”)
“Men,” began Mistress Carlysle. She said the word as though it were an epithet. “They own the world. They run the world. The spend their lives believing that whatever they see… they own. They believe they have the right to help themselves. And it is up to us… It is left to us… to relieve them of that ridiculous notion.“
Tracy raised her eyebrows. This was not what she expected.
Mistress Carlysle raised a cloth over a box. It was a glass case containing a pair of kitten heels, a fan, a clutch purse, a handkerchief, and a very pretty brooch. “These are our weapons. They seem like foolish frippery. I will teach you otherwise.”
So it began. Men likened themselves to hungering animals, and it were those beasts that all these young girls now trained to defend themselves gainst in a ladylike manner.
Tracy was rather proud that she could gracefully suplex a human four times her weight without staining or tearing a delicate chiffon gown. He could disable a man with a fan. Breaking not only his fingers, but also his hands and, in rapid succession, his forearms.
Men could not imply consent when the had both his arms broken.
Kitten heels and the more spiky varieties of ladies’ shoes could either pierce a foot or pierce a skull, though killing a gentleman was viewed in the utmost of bad taste.
And there was also the Favisham’s Slap. Done right, it could deafen a man or break his jaw. Even with a half-hearted effort, it could knock an ‘ungentlemanly gentleman’ off his feet.
And, if the action resulted in a scene, Lady Favisham’s taught the most disarming tactic of ladylike defense: hysterical crying.
Lady Favisham knew her stuff. The semblance of delicacy was the most important weapon of all. It used toxic gender roles to their advantage.
And Tracy made certain she learned every trick in the book.
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