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 #00896-B165: Instruments of War

The gentle breeze softly ruffled the hair of the Spine as he lay in the field

[AN: This fic is inspired by Photographic Memories and may contain The Feels]

He reached over and picked it up. The fastening clips were still intact. Good. He didn’t like being bare-headed. It made people stare and treat him like a thing.

The downside to always wearing hair was that he was not used to putting it on, so it took him three tried to get it properly aligned. Next, taking stock. His hands were working. Obviously. His legs were functioning and an internal diagnostic revealed all systems green. His clothing was… well… holding together. That last round of mortars hadn’t harmed his titanium alloy plating, but his GI outfit had taken a beating.

The distant sounds of battle filtered over the sound of wind in the grass. Not gunfire. Metal clashing against metal? Had he fallen through another portal?

He stood. No. This was still where he started. The gun battle had moved on without him. Now there was another one.

The Spine headed towards it, not bothering to affect his more amenable human-like walk. There was half a chance that none of these fighters wanted to be his friend, anyway.

It was a swordfight. One set of uniformed Samurai types against a lone figure in cheaper clothing and very little armour. The lone figure was holding their own. Barely. He could tell they were flagging.

Therefore, he did the only thing he knew he was good at, any more. He rushed in to defend the outnumbered and relatively helpless. He could use his body as a shield. So many others had.

It was always weird how bullies stopped being bullies when somebody stronger showed up to help defend their victim. All that The Spine had to do was toss a few of them at the rest and they all ran away.

“You idiot,” she screamed in Japanese. “I want one for questioning.”

Oh. Well, what a lady wants, a lady gets. His left arm tore the remains of his sleeve as he unfurled his Tesla cannon and took aim at the lead mook.

Zakow. Down like a sack of soggy potatoes. The rest scattered in all directions, but it wasn’t important. He had the leader. Or someone who dressed snappily enough to be a leader.

He wished he had a hat to tip for her, but settled on fetching the mook and laying his twitching, moaning form at her feet.

“Ma’am…” he said, also in Japanese. “I do apologise for my surprising entrance. I’m called The Spine. I’m one of Walter Robotics’ fine automaton products. Will you be needing any further assistance?”

She stared, gape-mouthed at him. “Does that mean you’ll do anything I tell you?”

“Within reason,” he allowed. “If you try to order me to attack a troop of GI’s, I’d have to politely refuse.”

“I don’t care about the GI’s,“ she said, cleaning and sheathing her sword. “I care about ending Wakahisa.”

Her name was Takenaka Yasu, and she was fighting to reclaim a treasure that Wakahisa had stolen from her family. A treasure that could very well devastate Japan… and then the world. And from what Yasu had to say about Wakahisa, he was the exact sort who would mishandle an artifact that had equal potential for good or evil.

He wasn’t just a threat to the Allies. He was a threat to all life. “I’ll help you,” he said.

It’s amazing how small words can start something beautiful.

*

They’d won. Wakahisa the Immortal was dead.

And Yasu was dying.

He cradled her gently, pressing her ancestral treasure into her lax hands. “Use it,” he urged. “Heal yourself. Please?”

“And become… soulless? Like him?” she shook her head. “No, love. Life must end. That’s why… it’s precious.”

Her breaths slowed. Her heart stopped. And there was nothing he could do.

He was made for war. He was built to kill.

All he was left with were memories. Precise and clear, like photographs.

His troop found him, three days later. Still wearing the traditional Japanese garb she had made for him. Sitting under the cherry tree where he buried her. Staring at the simple symbols he had etched deep into the marker stone.

Takenaka Yasu. May my memories of love outlast all war.

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand. For them the ‘japs’ and the ‘gooks’ were the enemy. All to be universally hated. They couldn’t fathom how love was literally in his core. About how he could only pretend to hate.

So he kept quiet. Pretended he had a glitch. Just for a little peace.

It was what they were supposed to be fighting for.

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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 #00894-B163: The Unexpectables!

Beauty, brains and brawn. The traditional makeup for any team. Have fun.

There’s hundreds of ways to be a hero. And more than one way to be a heroic team…

Munashe finished the delivery forms for her auction winnings. An entire library of childrens’ books from a now-defunct school. Purchased for a dollar from a government auction because nobody was interested in buying things from a school.

The story books were going to a children’s hospital. The educational stuff was going straight to an indie school in the same area that was doing weekend tutoring for donations.

“Excuse me, miss Castell?” said the clerk. She was a rangy teenager type, still growing into her full dimensions. Gangly, awkward, and probably feeling out of place wherever she went. “How do you do it?”

“How do I do what?” she asked.

“Um. Well. You look so… amazing. But you got everything wrong. I mean. According to all the beauty tips? You’ve gotta straighten, dye, bleach, pluck and lose weight? And you’re not even close to fashionable? But you look… adorable…” She was lost, and terrified, and she knew what she was saying was coming out wrong, and the blush that dominated her face and neck was now threatening to set her ears on fire. “How do you do it?“

“Beauty is more than what the magazines tell us it is.” Munashe tucked a stray Egyptian Twist behind her ear. “Most of it is confidence. Some of it is doing what’s right and the determination to do so. And you need a healthy dollop of ‘fuck the magazines, I do what I want’.”

The “Oh,” that came out of the kid was laden with relief. “But… I don’t even know where to start…”

“Start by finding what makes you feel good. Then move on to what suits you. And if you’re like me and you like clothes that both fit and last? Learn to sew.” She brought out one of the many contact cards in her purse. “Here’s a local place that does lessons for cheap.”

The kid was re-ordering the world inside her head as she took the card. Her narrow world was opening. Good.

Munashe loaded up her minivan with the extras she currently didn’t have a place for and headed for her U-Store shed.

It was looking like a beautiful morning.

*

Corinna was holding Mimi’s hand as they walked through the shadier side of town. Constantly on guard, even though her wariness was hidden.

“Somewhere here,” murmured Mimi. She had her eyes riveted on her tablet, and only let go of Corinna to tap an interface.

The tinny, find-me jingle of Guy’s phone sounded from an alleyway.

“Hey, ladies,” smoothed one of the local menacers. He was the athletic type who could do no wrong because he had a promising sporting career. “I could convince you to give up the lesbo life if you just give me some of your time.”

And of course Mimi had to open her mouth. “I’m not a lesbian, I’m asexual and I’m autistic. I’m trying to find my friend, leave me alone.”

Corinna winced. “Look. You probably have a busy day of yelling at women ahead of you. How about you pretend that you didn’t see us and then nobody gets hurt.”

“You threatening me, pocket rocket? I could make four of you.”

“You’d better listen to her,” monotoned Mimi, walking into the alley to find the jingling phone. “She can bench-press you.”

“…god damnit, mimi,” Corinna muttered.

The menace laughed, “Shyeah right,” and threw the world’s sloppiest punch.

It probably worked to ‘show’ hundreds of women ‘their place’, but it didn’t work on Corinna. She used her low centre of gravity and knowledge of the collected defensive arts to toss him casually towards the nearest trash pile.

“Listen,” she said. “I’d really hate to give you a broken limb, but if you insist on fighting me, I’m gonna have to do that. Tell you what. You leave now, and I won’t bench you for three months, how’s that?”

He picked himself up from the trash in a roaring rage.

“Try to be nice,” she sighed. She was in a good mood, so the breaks she gave him would not impede his ‘promising career’ for longer than it took to heal. Then she called him an ambulance.

He was still cursing when she ended the call.

“We did warn you,“ said Corinna. “You go ahead and tell your friends that you fell down the stairs. It’ll be our little secret.”

Mimi was down the alley. Rocking herself where angels would fear to tread.

“Jemima Wirth… what now?”

“Phone,” she said, busily oscillating. She was crying.

“Guy’s phone?”

Nod. “Promised.”

“I know he promised to keep it with him. Maybe he didn’t have a choice.”

“Phone. Promised.”

Corinna Dalca dialled up Munashe. “Yeah hi. We got a problem. Some asshole’s kidnapped Guy again.”

“That’s it. I’m getting him tagged,” said Munashe. “Okay. Get Mimi to play Sherlock until I get there. You’re gonna have to play Dolly and Watson.”

Right. Mimi liked alliterative adventure titles. Got it. Corinna worked her way into Mimi’s iron grip. Let the taller girl rock with her until their breathing matched.

“Okay. Sherlock… This is the case of the Purloined Pal. All Sherlock has is this mobile phone and the surroundings it was found in. Extrapolate as much as you can.“

One of the EMT’s came to investigate just as Mimi went into vacant, staring Static Mode.

“She’s okay,” said Corinna. “She’s autistic. This is a meltdown. I’ve got her. She’s going to come back out in five… four… three…”

Mimi snapped aware again. She wasn’t quite Mimi, any more. She was Sherlock. “The trash surrounding this phone has been here for several days, as evidenced by the mould growths. Therefore the phone was tossed down this alley at a vector indicating that our perpetrator was standing in or near the mouth of the alley. If I were to hazard a guess, there were many assailants who took the victim into a van and fled eastwards.”

Mimi stood, Corinna still absently under one arm as she brought up a map on her tablet. “Felons tend to flee in a diagonal pattern, and given the plethora of one-way streets in this neighbourhood, combined with the need for relative privacy and isolation, I would hazard that our best options are here, here, and here.”

The ambulance left, revealing Munashe and the mini van. “I got Vincent, just in case.”

Vincent was the ridiculously purple plush lion that Corinna had won at a carnival some subjective eons ago. Mimi almost literally dropped Corinna and dived into the sanctuary of Munashe’s minivan. In the absence of Guy, Vincent was the next-best security prop.

Corinna took the next seat in the back. At 4′10″, she was frequently cause for pull-overs because officers thought she was too young to ride shotgun. Not that Munashe didn’t get enough trouble for Driving While Black.

It was the most careful chase in the history of crime fighting. Munashe took deliberate pains to obey every single traffic rule, just in case. And even then, there were still three pull-overs because her minivan or herself managed to ‘match a description’ on their blotters.

Yeah. Like many perps used rainbow-painted vans with “FAIRY GODMOTHER FOR HIRE” blaring across the sides.

But it was okay. Munashe always carried a small stash of carrot cake muffins and diet-buster brownies to ensure the good feeling of every policeman she met. The resultant nostalgia was usually enough to allow them on their way.

Mimi, in Sherlock Mode, could pick out signs of use on any abandoned building in short order. Thus accelerating the locating of Guy.

Then they had to get her to be Miles Vorkosigan to come up with a genius strategy for trashing the bad guys.

The local criminal element was eventually going to learn that capturing Guy on the eve of their cunning plans was not going to cripple their team. They had hundreds of work-arounds for Mimi. And thousands of ways to use the city to their advantage.

It was why Mimi kept calling them The Unexpectables. Nobody ever did what the bad guys expected of them.

In short order, the meth ring was foiled and Guy was temporarily freed so that Mimi quickly wrapped around him.

“Now will you say okay to the locator jewellery?“ Mimi pleaded into his chest. Listening to his heartbeat and feeling his chest fuzz always grounded her. “I made it look and act like a sports watch. It’s pretty and everything.”

“I’m sorry,” Guy soothed. Petting her hair. “I thought I had a lead on those gum pops you like.”

“Not important,” said Mimi. “Next time, no surprises. We go together. Rule one: stay close. You promised.”

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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.

[Muse food remaining: 15. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00892-B161: Malevolent Dictatorship

Person #1: Y'know, despite the fact that we’ve been conquered by a mad scientist, you’ve got to admit at least they make the trains run on time.

Person #2: So the train /won’t/ be late?

Person #1: Might be a bit early. And on fire. With electricity flying off it. And a dark cloud of doom preceding it. And a strange, shrill laugh.

Person #3: You know, like the 11:25 one.

Say what you like about Mad Doctor Snapcase… in fact, he rather insists you say what you like about him. Preferably in a really loud voice with clear enunciation. That way, the secret spy devices installed for free in every home can pick it up. And then the secret police can pick you up in short order.

It’s more efficient, that way.

But for those who survive the obvious intelligence test, things are not so bad in the newly-renamed Snapcasedonia. The trains and the buses all run on time. He had to re-order time especially for that, you know.

And while we’re enjoying the benefits of the resultant temporal freedom, let’s give thanks for those. Loudly. In a nice, clear voice. For instance - life is an all-day breakfast. And an all-day lunch. And an all-day dinner. Whatever your food fancy, you can have it, all day long.

You can pick and choose your birthdays. Eternal youth is just around the corner. Literally. No, not that corner, the other corner. Run! You can still catch it!

Faster! Faster! Left, left, right, left left right, leftleftright…

Oops. Looks like the cost of eternal youth is eternally chasing it in an infinite temporal loop.

The management does not have to apologise for that inconvenience. After all, you got exactly what you wanted.

You don’t even have to go to work. Some alternate, temporally-inconvenienced echo of yourself is enjoying the benefits of a perpetual workday! You, gorging yourself on your all-day feast, get paid for their hard and, indeed, eternal labour.

And if you’re listening in the office, don’t despise your boss. It’s not worth your energy. Despise, instead, the temporally-advantaged echo of yourself who is growing fat on that luxury ice-cream you purchased last week. And won’t share. That bastard.

We can’t choose which temporal echoes we experience. We must enjoy the ones we have. We must enjoy them. Mad Doctor Snapcase insists that we do.

Loudly.

And in a nice, clear voice…

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Challenge #00891-B160: Nil Mortifi Sans Lucre?

FAQ Assassins

- Business hours are 9:00 to 5:30
- Please deposit last will and testament in box below
- Knock and remove shoes before entering

They say that life is cheap on Ghiisham, and they are correct. Life is cheap. You get one for free. Living can be expensive and death, though inevitable, is much more expensive than taxes.

Especially if you want it tailored.

Junior assassin Mykoss looked up at the client. They were all over sores and dressed in the bare minimum of charity clothing.

“Beggar’s Guild is across the road,” she said.

“Already in there,” said the misshapen wreck of a human. “I want t’ hire…” A wretched, wet, array of wracking coughs. “Someone t’ deal…” gasp wheeze.

Mykoss took pity on them. “The Charity applications are down the hall.”

“I’m already dying,” said the beggar. “Wanna kill th’ bastard as caused this.”

Oh. Mykoss brought up the short list of assassins who would work pro bono. It was a very short list.

“All the assassins willing to do the job are… booked… for six months.”

The shaking hand of the beggar slid across a single, printed image. “This was me… before the accident.”

A beautiful and vivacious lady smiled out of the paper. Youth and vigor turned into a corrupted monster about to die.

The transformation had taken, according to the date on the photograph, three months.

Mykoss scanned and filed the photo, as well as an image from the kiosk. “I can put you on the Extra Credit and Free Time roll. That means that every assassin on the planet who wants to buff up their resume will be going after your target.”

A shaky and weak nod. “Good. Good. That will have to do, won’t it?”

“For the records, I need your name and the name of the target.”

Wheeze. Cough cough. “My name,” she said, trying to remember it. “I used to be… Lilandry. Pessimer. Yes. That’s who I was. And your target is… Fortune Pessimer. My father.” A shaky smile, showing that she only had three teeth left and all of them were bad. “He never liked what I was doing with my life. Never wanted a daughter.” Cough cough cough cough. “Got all that?”

“Yes,” said Mykoss. Pessimer. That family was one of the high-rollers who paid assassins to not assassinate them. “I’m going to need a fee.”

Lilandry dug into her filthy clothes and produced a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. “My life savings. Thank you.” And without any further fuss at all, she died.

Mykoss unwrapped the bundle, expecting weathered and worn single Snifter notes[1]. Instead was a thick wodge of Ten-Thousand Keg notes. The highest denomination on the planet.

It was almost enough to buy the services of the Head Assassin himself.

Mykoss added it to the bounty notice, properly counted and added to the Assassins’ Guild funds. And added the fact that the client was recently deceased. Then she published it.

She was due to knock off in an hour… She could probably have a go at earning those Kegs, herself.

[1] Ghiisham was originally a penal colony with no guards. Therefore the economy is based on alcohol.

[Muse food remaining: 17. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00890-B159: Absolute Power…

Nam et ipsa scientia potestas est - Knowledge itself is power

Knowledge is power. The knowledge of physics allows many species access to space travel.

Power corrupts. Those with the power to conquer worlds will do so.

Those with the knowledge of how to fight back… sometimes fail to apply it. They have better ways.

“This system is now ours,” boomed the bird before them. “You will serve us in all things you do.”

“As you will,” said the Chief Librarian. She wore a simple, tweed robe and a cotton wimple. “Do you wish to read, view, or experience?”

And at that point, Ju’riix the Conquerer verbally signed his own death warrant. “I wish to burn that which is heretical to the teachings of Bo’bobo'bo!“

“That,” said Chief Librarian Volx, in the same quiet and level tones, “is forbidden.”

“HA! You are weak and puny squishy things! You are soft! You have no power over me!”

“On the contrary. You came into this system with what looks to be a plasma propulsion drive. Those are rather vulnerable  to EMP attacks. We’ve had one of the more sophisticated EMP cannons aimed at your vessels since you passed the asteroid belt. Surrender your outrageous notion or suffer the consequences.”

“You have not the power!“

“On this planet, no. But a station in the belt has had a lock on you for hours.” She tapped idly at a display. A flash of light carried through the large windows. “That was one of your minor attack vessels. Do you want us to aim at your flagship?”

“Lies! Trickery!”

Volx sighed and brought up a screen. On it, showed multiple views of the explosion. And the rest of Ju’riix the Conquerer’s fleet. “You have underestimated the balance of power in this encounter. Please don’t embarrass yourself further.“

Ju’riix the Conqueror seized the Chief Librarian in what he thought was a threatening grip. Volx did not resist.

“All I have to do is snap your wing-bones,” snarled Ju’riix, despite clear evidence that Volx did not have wings. “Your people will be without a leader!”

“All I have to do is nod,” murmured Volx, and did so.

Flashes of light in the sky soon paired with explosions on the screen, and it became very hard for Ju’riix the Conquerer to breathe… Light dimmed… The power in his muscles faded.

The next thing he knew, he was in a comfortable environment with three solid walls and one clear one.

There was food. There were ablution facilities adapted for his body. There were comfortable furnishings and a console through which he could access information.

There was also a bracelet around each wrist and ankle.

And the Chief Librarian on the other side of the clear wall.

And no visible means of egress.

“You are now being studied for the education of others,” murmured Volx. “You will be provided food, comfort, cleanliness, clothing, and company until the end of your days. Please don’t try to escape. It will only result in further embarrassment.”

His immediate response was to try and destroy his environment from the inside.

Volx sighed and shook her head. Invading captains never made good subjects. At least, not during the initial Standard Year.

The Acolyte Glin’yss was busy taking notes. “This is an excellent display of the use of power. May I ask a question, ma’am?”

“Questions are always welcome, though answers may not exist.”

“Um. They say knowledge is power,” she began. “And power corrupts. Are we not being corrupt in our use of knowledge?”

“We are sworn to share knowledge with those who seek it in peace. Those who wish to destroy knowledge are our enemy. You may rest assured, Acolyte Glin’yss, that while absolute power corrupts absolutely… there is no such thing as absolute knowledge.”

“That’s…. not an answer…”

“Corruption disadvantages the powerless by making them more so. We only render those powerless who would threaten us and our vows.” Volx watched Ju’riix discover that there was nothing solid that he could bash his walls with. “We seek knowledge to share knowledge. We ask, and we never take. We give without demand. I do not believe that we are corrupt. And I am willing to learn otherwise and amend my behaviour accordingly. This… individual,” she waved at the cell that contained Ju’riix, “mistook calm control for weakness. He thought he could obliterate that which stood against his beliefs. And it is your job, Acolyte, to find out why they were that important in the first place. For our records.”

“For the records,” Glin’yss bobbed and took her station.

It was a learning opportunity. For very obvious reasons, it was incredibly rare that anyone would ever attack the Archivaas.

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