Challenge #00889-B158: Nonse

With the amount of sense the last few hours have not made, I’m tempted to believe that this is all a simulation someone or something built into the universe for people foolish enough to have attempted what I did…

[AN: I am having intense internet trouble at the mome so I’m giving this to you from my phone. Forgive the lack of the usual formatting]

The trees were gathering water and farming people.

This… this was wrong. The sky was the colour of earth and the earth itself was blue. And… slightly marshy? But it was dry. A dry and supple sponge that nevertheless conspired to squelch.

A triffid on its leash was hissing at her. It looked exactly like the ridiculous rubber monsters of the movie. She guarded her eyes, just in case, and stumbled onwards down the soggy road.

One tree-child, naked as a jay, ran screaming from her. Yelling what sounded like, “Groot! Groot!” to the others.

She was out of range of the hissing triffid, at least. Shayde looked the lead tree squarely in its… face? and carefully, slowly, assumed a position of surrender.

Fingers interlaced and hands on top of her head. Kneeling in the squishy ground with her ankles crossed. And, because she was two heartbeats away from messing what was left of her clothes, Shayde did the one thing that always helped her calm down.

She sang.

“Picture yourself on a boat on a river… with tangerine trees and marmalade skies… Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly. A girl with kaleidoscope eyes…”

She peeked. Okay. This was good. They weren’t exactly aiming their weapons at her. But they were approaching with caution.

This was not the time to grin and show her sharp teeth. This was a time for staying very still and not doing anything at all threatening.

“Fimbalism finger fink,” the leader demanded. “Krelborn groot lalama!”

“Rapacious radishes,” she replied, and almost kicked herself. “Look. You cannae understand me. I cannae understand you. Mebbe a wee bit o’ pantomime?”

“Sconculous! Erid flelow carnarvon?”

Shayde sighed. This was going to be a long day. “Would ye believe, I’m mostly harmless?”

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Challenge #00888-B157: Station of Babel

Everybody panics in their own language.

This was where JOATs came into the fore. Electronic translators had their limits, and one of the most prevalent of those limits was breaching the Understanding Barrier.

Grammar is important. Especially in a panic situation.

Thus, in an emergency, the most level heads of the JOAT community come to the fore.

Shayde stood on one of the plinths, using her own passive magic to make herself understood to all listeners. “Please proceed in an orderly fashion to the emergency transport. Keep all children with you at all times. Unattended children will be cared for and may be adopted by needful nurturers.” She waved people through, careful not to touch anyone.

She couldn’t tell, in an emergency, which citizens were more fragile than others.

On the next plinth, just a few Standard Distance Units over, Rael was repeating her message in every language he knew. He’d been at it for twenty minutes and had yet to come back to GalStand.

And once the emergency was deal with, she’d have to report to Sherlock that she might have been responsible for some idiot opening the door to The Glunk.

[Muse food remaining: 19. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

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.

[Muse food remaining: 18. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

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.

[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00885-B154: Dawn Technology

“Like many other things, if you know what you’re doing, an open fire isn’t particularly dangerous.” Says the person wearing no safety gear, having lit a campfire with flint and steel and currently rearranging the burning sticks barehanded.

“You’re… burning raw cellulose,” said the alien, through its translator. “There is no safety equipment.”

“Got a shovel,” soothed Tanja. “Got loads of sand. We’re good.”

“You are not knowing if this cellulose is loaded with toxins.”

“I live here. Okay, not here-here. But I live on an island a lot like this one. These plants make a good fire. And we need a good fire.”

“You has stating previously,” said the alien. It kept its distance from the flames. Flinched at every pop and snap. “You is not stating why.”

“Survival. A light at night and smoke by day. That gets us noticed and rescued. Two: heat and light keep predators away.”

“False. You are predator.”

“Omnivorous and I have objections to eating anyone with a personality.” Tanja tried to sound as gentle as possible despite this being the fifth time she’d told the creature. She sighed. “Look. You’re a predator and you don’t eat me. Right?“

“Superior predator. Deathworlder. I posit I being tasty.”

Tanja cleared her throat and said, “Three: we want to make sure any unseen parasite is definitely killed, yes?”

“YES! Killing deathworlder parasite! Not wanting invisible bug eating intestines!”

Tanja couldn’t help but chuckle. “I know. My entire biota is dangerous and you’re lucky you landed in this…” island chain? Um. No. “General vicinity. Heck, you’re lucky my boat held out long enough to get here. And you’re really lucky that I know enough xenocookery to make sure that I don’t poison you.”

Case in point: tonight’s meal. Fish stew. Tanja had caught the fish earlier that day. One of the few breeds that multiple meat-eaters could consume. She’d marinated them in pineapples and pineapple juice to soften the meat, and then added fresh coconut to help eliminate the enzymes in the pineapple. The other vegetation, gleaned from both her stores and the island, promised to be harmless to her carnivorous guest.

“Self making bargain with invisible gods. Self never taking ride-for-joy again. Self never doing Deathworld stunt dive. Self practice safe tourism. Forever.“

Tanja dished it up. It was going to be bland as all hell for her, but probably borderline painful for her guest. She handed over its bowl with a pre-opened can of coconut milk, just in case. Then added Siracha to the contents of her bowl.

“What is flavouring?” asked the alien.

“Deathworlder flavouring. Many toxins. It might kill you, so I’ll stay downwind.”

The alien scooted even further away. Politely, so it wasn’t inherently obvious that it was scooting away. “…many thank…” it warbled.

Poor kid.

[Muse food remaining: 10. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Thievery can net you the most interesting trinkets sometimes…

“What, this li'l thing? Oh, you know how pickpocketing goes; a bit of clothing lint or spare change here, a rare jewel or costly necklace there, the pulsing locus of an esoteric magical ritual over there. Luck of the draw, really.”

(#00884-B153)

Still dunno everything this one does… I twiddled with the locket around my neck. When it’s open, it glows enough and shows up all the genuine tosh. Gives it that little extra sparkle. Gives me an edge.

Don’t really want to take it off. Even though I can’t.

Most o’ them nobs, they have fakes for wear and tear. The special stuff, the real stuff? That, they hide away. This little light of mine has them shining through the hidies. Just for me.

Gave me a leg-up it did. You’d be shocked how much tosh turns out to be tarnies under it’s lovely little glow. Flog the rubbish to the less discerning and sell the real tosh to the right people… hire the right people with the Glim… Built me an empire.

Could do without the dreams, though.

This locket. It’s the only thing I killed for. Turns out the last touch who held it had to kill to own it, too. Gotta shed blood for the right to wear it.

And every night… every damn night… I dream their deaths. Starting with the moment it was made.

You got any idea what it’s like to dream thousands and thousands of deaths?

There’s this one bloke who died of natural causes. Got buried with it. At least it’s a few hours’ darkness until the next touch robs that poor bastards’ grave.

There’s some other power, too. Another right bastard. Longevity.

Yeah, I know. You’re young. You reckon living forever with a magic locket’s gotta be a doddle.

Say that after you’ve watched your grandchildren grow old and die.

And you don’t keep your youth, either. You age. Just… slower.

Imagine being sixty for twenty years. That ain’t anybody’s idea of fun.

Well, I’m dying. It’s taking ages, of course. Worse than painful. I’ve had enough.

You? You still have your youth. Reckon you’d have a century or so to enjoy it.

You can have the bloody thing. Pass me that bottle off the top shelf. Yeah. The one with the skull on the label. Cheers.

It tastes sweet. I knew it would. One last series of death dreams before I sigh into my own.

And then I meet all the others who died for possession of this little gem. And discover yet another downside to wearing it. No eternal rest.

I want to tell you to chuck it into a volcano. Sear it with dragon fire. Anything… anything but wear it. But all I can show you is my own death. Among all the many others.

For centuries to come…

[Muse food remaining: 10. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00883-B152: Stress Indicators

Hiccups.

“But… I can’t be an ambassador,” Lalama protested. “I’d be the worst. HIC! There’s a reason -hic- there’s a reason -hoik- a reason I -hic- I went for -hiku- for Oort mining.”

“Well understood,” said Ruraha. She was a saurian. “Galactic law is not on your side. Friend Yayama… is breathing problem medical-dangerous?”

“No, I -hic- I just get -hyurk- get hiccups when -hroooip- when I’m nerv– HIC! Nervous.”

“But… you are Deathworlder. None of any may harm you…”

“Tell -hic- that -hic- to my -hic- anxiety.”

Ambassador Lalama of Beach was the first known Deathworlder to come to the Meet with a security object. She was not the first ambassador to need a hiding-cover.

Her co-ambassador for Beach, a bottlenose dolphin called Ii’ii’a, was also not the first to need a pool.

[Muse food remaining: 11. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00882-B151: Stifled Rude Noises

Prompt: That “GNK” noise a person makes when they manage to sneeze with their mouth shut.

Brexx didn’t know what was wrong. The human ambassador spasmed suddenly and made a sort of Skngx! noise. Then she gasped for breath and went, Skngx! Skngx! Skngx! in rapid succession.

Brexx hit the panic button. “Human ambassador non-communicative. Making abbreviated noises of unknown meaning.”

“…th’ flowers,” gasped Ambassador Harry.  Skngx! Skngx! Skngx! Skngx! Skngx! “I’b allergig…”  Skngx! Skngx! “To th’ flowers…”  Skngx!

Brexx flushed them unceremoniously down the recycling chute and cycled fresher air rapidly into the environment. At least until Ambassador Harry’s breathing regulated itself.

There was still an alarming production of mucous and liquid leaking from her eyes.

“What was that?” asked Brexx, just as the ERT’s arrived to add to the chaos of the scene. Brexx gave them footage of the last five minuted.

“Stifli’g sdeezes,” Ambassador Harry Blew her nose on a tissue. “If I don’d id’s very loud and sdardli’g…” HASCHOO!

The next thing Brexx knew, she was staring at the ceiling of an Intensive Care Closet Drawer. The infoscreen above her eyes told her that the Ambassador was very sorry about the noise and did not intend harm. Brexx’s hazard pay had been tripled.

Maybe admitting these Deathworlders to the Galactic Alliance wasn’t that great an idea, after all…

[Muse food remaining: 12. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00881-B150: One Missed Point on the Commercial Concourse

A time machine has to have flashing lights. It’s not a proper Time machine unless it has flashing lights!

It was a tiny little nookery of surprising inside dimensions. It only seemed small on the outside. The shelves were full of interesting things that looked very impressive. There were a myriad of blinking lights.

“Welcome, welcome,” beamed the proprietor. Their nametag declared them to be Thiite. “Do you like my time machines?”

Blez Jenkins looked again at the items on the shelves. “These are  machines that make travel in time?”

“Oh. No. These are machines that measure time,“ said Thiite, beaming proudly. “I made them myself!”

Ah. Okay. Thiite’s species must have just discovered clocks. “They’re very pretty,” she allowed. “How do I read them?”

“Read… them?”

“Yes. Which pieces indicate how much time is passing?”

Thiite’s face was an expression of sudden realisation mixed with sinking, mortal dread. “…i have made a grievous error…” she squeaked. “This shop is temporarily closed while I perform some basic tweaks on my merchandise. We apologise for the inconvenience.“

“I can help,” offered Blez. “I feel partially responsible…”

[Muse food remaining: 7. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00880-B149: Feelers

“‘The flowers that bloom in the Spring, Tra, La!’ Have everything to do with the case.”

Prison cells on Amalgam were, for assorted humanoid species, a Ten Distance Unit Cube that accommodated the bare minimum necessary for existence. And monitors for all activity.

Shayde had chosen a rubber ball for diversionary occupational therapy and sat with her back pressed against one wall. She was currently engaged in throwing it against the floor so it would ricochet off the wall and return to her non-dominant hand.

Ta-bomp, catch.

And judging by the twitch in the cell guard’s door, she’d been at it since early shift-change.

Ta-bomp, catch.

She’d drawn her long, pale hair into a braid that went from her forelock to her nape, and then wound on to finally end in a knot of hair that rested on her chest.

“Ey up,” she said by way of greeting. Ta-bomp, catch. “Ye here tae keep me sane, aye?”

Rael personally believed that was a lost cause. “I’m here to escort you to your work assignment. Even pre-assessment, you can be valuable.”

Ta-bomp, catch. She put the ball down. “Physical, unskilled labour is it then? Doubt ye got many rocks fer me tae crack…”

“No, it’s recycling.“

“Trash-pickin’. Lovely.” She picked herself up and dusted imaginary dust off her unflattering grey jumpsuit. Then offered her wrists to the shield wall. “Ye like tae cuff me in t’ front or the back?”

What?

“You already have your DR locator bracelets. Escape attempts are futile.” He entered the code that opened the wall a door’s width. “Follow me, please.”

“Jus’ like that?”

“Yes.”

“I could be violent,” she said, falling into step beside him.

“We know you aren’t. You’ve been elevated from the status of study animal to that of a small child. In order to be trusted with yourself, you must exhibit civil behaviours.”

“Aye, and then I pay me debt back, I understand it… but I dinnae ken what ye do wi’ the violent ones.”

“Therapy.” Rael escorted her into a Veet. Dialled up their destination and watched her breathing exercises. “Society is geared towards ensuring that violent outbursts rarely, if ever, become necessary.”

“…at fookain last…” Shayde murmured.

Rael decided to ignore that. The veet piped a tinny version of Jennifer Juniper through the speakers. Just atonally enough to be irritating, but no more than that. He would have to have another little conversation with Eliza about being her experimental subject.

Shayde was jiggling. “So. Ye got a girlfriend?”

He glared at her. “No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Intimate partner?”

She picked up things fast, it seemed. “No.”

“Snuggle-buddy?”

“No.”

A pause. Her gaze was taking in his entire form as a smile began to form. “Want one?”

Ugh. What was it with everyone who crossed his path coming on to him? “I don’t understand why all you biologicals are obsessed with coupling.”

“Basic instinct, isn’t it? The flowers tha’ bloom in the spring, trala… all that nonse.”

“Huh.” He folded his arms in a defensive barrier between himself and this twist in their conversation. “My biological particulars are a company secret.”

Shayde’s bio-luminescent eyes were built for boggling. They opened white and flared like a distant star in a startled white before fading back to a sort of purplish gold. “Ye don’t want closeness? No’ even a hug?”

“Hugs lead to other things. I prefer not to begin.”

“An’ yer no’ lonely?”

It was a precipitous moment that could either lead to hostility or closeness. And Rael was uncertain of which he desired. Fortunately, he was saved by the saccharine song of the arrival alert. The doors opened into the massive Station Recycling Centre and Shayde breathed in like she’d been underwater.

“Time for work,” said Rael, glad of the escape.

[Muse food remaining: 8. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]