Challenge #00849-B118: Tough Crowd

A species that has a language where musical vocables (La, de, dum, da etc.) are all either swearwords or very rude.

“I d-d-d-d-don’t know what happ-p-p-ened,” complained Rabbit.

“We were going so well,” said The Spine. “It doesn’t compute… it doesn’t compute…”

“…i don’t want to be mus-ic-ians an-y-more…” sulked Hatchworth.

Pete 17, urgently directing repair teams of Walter Workers, took a deep breath. “What the heck happened? Everybody loves your music…”

“I dunno,” said Rabbit. “W-w-w-one minute, I was all, ‘Attune your ears to the g-grinding gears’, and the n-n-n-next, it was a rrrr-rrr-riot.”

“They don’t like Brass Gog-gles,” said Hatchworth, huddled in a corner.

Realisation hit like a truck. “I told you not to put that in the set list,” complained Pete 17. “I told you for a very good reason. Do any of you remember what that was?”

Hatchworth put up his hand. “I know, Mis-ter Wal-ter! Pick me!”

Sigh. “Yes, Hatchy.”

“The cul-ture and lan-guage of this plan-et puts our lyr-ics in the naugh-ty box.”

“What?” said Rabbit.

“We were sing-ing rude words.”

There was a moment of relative silence. Filled by the noise of tools and urgent repairs.

Finally, there was a single summary of realisation from The Spine. “Oops.”

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

Challenge #00848-B117: It Just Goes

About the EM Drive, a possible new space drive that no-one has a coherent theory on HOW it works, but as long as no mistakes have been made in the experiments, it seems that it does. …Somehow.

“Well, the future space programs will no longer need propellants. However, they should probably investigate this thoroughly, this looks like an accidental discovery of summoning…things. While using Cthulhu as a propellant sounds hilarious no one wants to know what happens after that. ”

[AN: The EM drive looks like a fascinating piece of technology even though it is the physics equivalent of a beneficial glitch in the matrix. The part about Cthulu is pretty much spot on, too. Note, though, that China has also previously claimed to have found live unicorns and injured dragons. A side-effect of using the device?]

All space propulsion is dangerous. The propellant used in the original NASA missions to the moon was renowned for eating the engine that used it. The liquid hydrogen used for decades to wrench human and vessel from terra firma has exploded mid-launch. More than once.

Numerous memorials remain in dedication to those who lost their lives to the Plasma Drive and the attempts at building a Warp Core.

And, once the Artificial Gravity Drive was invented, the tetchyness of the engines were renowned. More than once, a ship has succumbed to the forces of the virtual gravity well that was supposed to pull their ship towards its ultimate destination.

And then there’s the EM Drive. Nobody can explain it because it violates the laws of physics. Physicists have gone mad trying to explain why it works. One, who came closer than any other before her, filled her journal with the words, “It just goes!” before committing suicide.

The biggest downside of the EM Drive is, of course, the Unreality Field. It works because it shouldn’t work, and the resultant catastrophe to the fabric of reality - though undetectable by the instruments of science - is soon noted by the locals.

Put it this way - Earth didn’t used to have a continent called Mu.

There, you will find dragons of all varieties. And unicorns. And lizard people. And the EM Drive factory - now abandoned and the residence of vampires and ghouls.

Nobody goes to Mu. Not twice, anyway.

And there’s also the disturbing fact that Australian archeologists have unearthed evidence that the EM Drive had been previously attempted by the natives. Which would explain a hell of a lot about Australia.

[Muse food remaining: 14. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00847-B116: The Diving War

This battle would be much more intense if both sides weren’t trying to lose.

“If we do not win for the glory of the emperor, we will be executed as criminals.”

“But we can’t win! The odds are stacked against us.”

“Have no fear! I have bribed the other general to lose to us. All we have to do is make sure that we don’t hurt his men.”

Meanwhile, in the other camp…

“The emperor told us to conquer his own army. That’s insane!”

“I know. I have secured assurances that if we don’t hurt his men, the general will appear to fight and fail.”

The next day…

The emperor watched in confusion from the hilltop. Both armies, supposedly fighting for his honour and his birthday, were doing a lot of shouting and swinging. But not an awful lot of killing.

“I’d heard that pitched battles such as this had the rivers flowing red with human blood,” complained the emperor.

“A poetic exaggeration,” said his advisor. He was sweating.

There were men falling. The emperor could see that. What was lacking was any kind of injury.

“Is it normally like this?” said the fourteen-year-old emperor.

“I couldn’t say,” hedged the advisor. “There’s no such thing as a ‘normal’ battle, sire.”

“Are they not sufficiently motivated? One had thought that the threat of death would inspire any man.”

The advisor smiled a nervous smile. “Most other renowned holders of the crown offered… much more generous rewards.”

The emperor stood. Cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “TEN YEARS’ SALARY FOR THE FIRST MAN TO REALLY DIE!”

“Sire…  you don’t pay them,” said the advisor, a little too loudly.

And that was how the revolution started.

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

Challenge #00846-B115: Vortex Realm

“Help! I’m trapped in a Craft Show.”

How many aisles must a man walk down? How many different booths could stock yarn? And what the hell was tatting?

Maisy stopped at yet another booth that sold merchandise almost identical to the last booth.

“…uuuuuuuuuuuugh…” groaned Paul, designated human packhorse. “My feet hurt. How big is this show floor? Can I please put this crap in our room and go for a coffee?“

“Hmm?” Maisy looked up from an array of beaded… somethings. “Let me guess. Your amuse-by date expired.”

“I’m hungry and I’m tired and I need caffeine,” Paul whined. “I wanna go…”

“Why would anyone want to leave?” smiled the person in the booth. “We have everything you want.”

Euw. Creepy.

Maisy smiled. “Fine. Go put that lot up and get caffeinated. Ping me if you need to find me. I’ll put up a flag.”

“All the crap, here, you could make a flag.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Paul laughed as he strode through the crowds at FiddleCon. There were doors near the corners that lead to the elevators that would take him either up to the rooms or out to the streets. As he recalled, there was a nice little bistro across the road that sold all things sugar-dusted and sinful.

As long as he walked towards a corner, he’d be fine.

Five turns later, he almost walked straight into Maisy. “How’d you get ahead of me?”

“I thought you were going to our room?”

“I’m trying. I’ll see you again.” This time, he walked faster. Kept his eye on the corner that should have been his destination. And walked into Maisy’s arms.

“I stood exactly still,” she said. “You have a lousy sense of direction.”

“Fine. I’ll head straight for a wall. Can’t miss one of them.”

Ten ‘streets’ later, he was facing a very confused Maisy. “But… I was watching you. How–?”

“The better question is ‘how do we get out of here?’“

The stall-keepers all turned towards them. Each with an identical, plastic smile. “Why would anyone want to leave?“ they asked in creepy unison. “We have everything you want.”

…the feast was about to begin…

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

Challenge #00845-B114: Hearts Wild

The adventures of an Australian in the Everfree Forest.

[AN: The pony in this story has almost nothing to do with Steve Irwin and is a parody of several nature presenters and possibly Bush Tucker Man]

The Everfree Forest. A peculiar patch of land that has never needed a pony’s help to operate. The plants grow by themselves. The clouds have seeming autonomy. It’s whispered that the animals, there, eat each other.

It’s a dangerous place. Unsafe for the incautious.

Few ponies venture into it. Fewer still enjoy their travels there.

And then there’s Heart’s Wild.

Applejack met him first. She was on her way to Zecora’s to see about some sheep medicine when an excited yellow pony burst through the underbrush. He was holding something… wriggling.

“What in the hay?” blurted Applejack.

“Have ya seen anything like this little beauty?“ the colt grinned. “Such a wonderful example of nature in action.”

The… thing… in his hoofgrip was snarling and snapping.

“Uh, if’n ya say so,” allowed Applejack. “I’m more amenable to leavin’ things like that alone.”

“Wise choice,” the pony did not stop grinning. “This little blighter’s the most venomous critter I’ve ever seen! Isn’t he lovely?”

“Uh… nope.”

“Poor little mite’s got a gimpy leg, so I’m takin’ ‘im to my reserve, up Chaos Falls way. Name’s Hearts Wild.”

“Applejack,” said Applejack.

“Aw ripper! You lot make that Zap Apple Jam. My critters go ga-ga for it.”

“Awright,” said Applejack. “Reckon ya aren’t talkin’ much proper English, right now. You get out enough?”

Hearts Wild found this uproariously funny. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I’m originally from Horsetrailya. We tend to have our own gabble.”

“Wish ya luck,” Applejack edged around him and trotted onwards towards Zecora’s. “Im a might busy, you understand.”

“Right-o,” cheered Hearts Wild. He vanished into the foliage, with the snarling of his beast as the only hint he had been there.

And since his realm of experience was wild animals, it was only a matter of time before Fluttershy found out about him.

…that pony could make the most alarming friends, bless her heart.

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

Challenge #00844-B113: In Vino, Vastitas

Now, I’m not a philosopher, but I AM drunk at this moment, so I’ll attempt to discuss philosophy within my own limited eckshp- expewir- …Stuff.

“Na, na, na, na, na, na. Y’ can’t do that,” said his drunken mate. “There’s a rule, right? Anything you attempt drunk, right? Anything… you try t’ do drunk… ‘S gonna end in d’saster.”

“She’ll be right, mate,” said Kevin. “Ph’los’phy’s jus’ words, innit? Can’t hurt anybody wif just words. It’s like… noise… duzn’ hurt.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, Kev. I’m tellin’ ya. I’m tellin’… I’m tellin’… What w’s I tellin’ ya?”

“Neveryoumindit, Bazza. We’re golden. See, thing ‘bout ph’los’phy is…”

*

It was later. They both had splitting headaches. And, apparently, an attending crowd of rapt followers.

“The hell’s going on?” said Bazza.

“Who or what must we eliminate next, Master?” said a follower. They had a weird and unblinking stare.

Kevin peeked up from the pillows. Took one look at the assembled cult and muttered, “Oh fuck me. You were right.”

There were fifty volunteers.

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

Challenge #00843-B112: Relics of a Previous Age.

I think that I’ve never seen anything so stupid and so practical in all my life.

They called it The Archive of Earth. A massive tomb devoted to the Twentieth Century. And Shayde had, through adventure and misadventure, inherited the lot.

“How much of this stuff is plastic?” wondered Rael.

“Uh. After the Twenties? Loads.” Shayde was particularly uninformative, unpacking the vaults and sorting random objects. The swarming Archivaas had left her to deal with everything they didn’t recognise. Which was most of it.

It was a bizarre assortment. Unsorted and filed away wherever it would fit. People of the Twentieth Century had made an inordinate amount of junk.

“Aw. Would ye cop this…” She held up a box.

It declared itself to contain something called ‘Flowbee’ and it had been seen on television. Probably late at night, when the tired thought anything was a good idea[1]. And it was seemingly used for hygiene.

“People used these?”

“They tried to encourage it,” said Shayde. “Always wondered what kind of nutter would use it regularly.”

“The actors in the advertising, is my first guess.”

“Someone wi’ short hair, no time, and bad taste?” suggested Shayde.

“And sleep deprivation,” added Rael. “These advertisements, they happened late at night?”

“Oh aye. Always.”

“Q.E.D.”

[1] It’s been proven that a lack of sleep leads to extremely bad decisions. Which is why infomercials happen late at night and why late-night comedy is never funny in the sober light of day.

[Muse food remaining: 14. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]

Challenge #00842-B111: Complaints Department

Person who brought the bomb: ‘You’re genuinely offended by the fact that we didn’t bring big enough bombs?’
Person they were trying to blow up: ‘I’m offended by any job poorly done, but that’s not the prime issue.’

“You call that an explosion,” griped the target. Lord Bottomsbury. “You call that an explosion?”

“Er,” said Kieth, would-be assassin. “I thought it’d work?”

“Honestly. This is not the death I paid for.”

“I’m sorry, it’s my first day. I didn’t realise– wait. What?”

Lord Bottomsbury sighed. “It’s like this. I’m sick. I’m dying. And I’d very much like to do so whilst still leaving something to my favourite grandchild.“

“Er,” said Kieth. One half-hearted arm gesture indicated the estate, the gardens, the free-range peafowl, and a small flock of luxury cars.

“Do you have any idea how much it costs to die slowly in this country? It’d all be in hock. I wanted a quick, clean, painless death with a minimum of fuss and bother and you blew up the butler!“

“…sorryaboutthat.”

“I’ll write his family into the will. I ask you, what’s wrong with a little poison? I hear Antifreeze is rather sweet. You could dope my sherry with a lethal dose.”

“I didn’t know you liked sherry…”

Lord Bottomsbury glared at Keith. “Did I or did I not send you an information packet containing the numerous ways you could kill me?”

“Er,” said Keith. “Too long. Didn’t read.”

Moral: Never hire the cheapest contractor. No matter what the job.

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

Challenge #00841-B110: When Clint Met Natasha

Some men get so nervous if a lady shows up at the restaurant with a box of explosives.

Budapest. Some years ago.

He thought he had been discretely following her, right up until the moment she sat down opposite him at the cafe. She gave him a winning smile and a, “Sorry I’m late, darling. Caught up in shopping.”

Quick handsigns. Three bogies. Armed. Target you. No look.

“That’s okay, sweetie,” he said, making sure the nearby shrubbery blocked him from any sniper. “You’re worth the wait.“

She leaned forward. Held his hand. “Whatever I’m going to say is hilarious. Then we’re going to go inside for cake,” she murmured. “Hydra’s targeting you just like they’re targeting me. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, yes?”

Clint laughed on cue. “That’s exactly right. They’ve got some lovely miniature Kuglóf, here. Let’s go get some.”

Arm in arm, he walked with his target into a crowded, public area. “This isn’t going to stop them for long. Hydra’s not known for its discretion.”

“Don’t worry. I know a guy.” She signalled a man behind the counter and showed Clint the contents of her gift bag. There was enough C4 in there to blow up the entire cafe and its immediate neighbours.

It took every atom of his training to avoid going weak at the knees. “You brought a bomb to a cafe?”

“It’s one of the few places anonymous enough to meet with allies.” She handed the bag over and neatly switched to Russian. “[Here’s the parcel. Make sure my friends across the street are distracted. You never saw me, you don’t know who I am.]”

“This will get to your friend,” said the guy who worked there.

She lead Clint after him, and through a maze of alleyways and finally, down into a network of tunnels. She didn’t even flinch when the sound of the bomb reached them.

“That takes care of those three. Now, we need to sweep up the rest of the cell.”

“And what makes you think that I won’t just drag you in for questioning?”

“Because Hydra has to be stopped. Because I know this town better than you. Because although you’re good with a bow and arrow, you’re lousy at close combat. And because I poisoned your coffee and I know where the antidote is.”

Nick Fury had been right. Clint really was a trouble magnet. “Just so you know, I’d have agreed to take down hydra without the poison.”

“I call it insurance. Let’s go.”

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

Challenge #00840-B109: Penfold… Hush.

If we never meddled in powers we did not comprehend, how would we gain comprehension?

“Uh… by examining them with science? Preferably by non-invasive, passive means first?” suggested Penfold.

Blenkinsop glared at her. “Honestly. You’re such a wet blanket.”

“Wet blankets survive fires, Blenkinsop. All I’m asking is that you pay attention.”

She sighed and folded her arms. “Really.”

“Yes. There is a reason why you found these tools and instruments in the middle of a ruined temple. In the middle of a ruined city. In the middle of a ruined civilisation with a document-able trail of destruction… Which originated in the aforementioned temple!”

“But my translations–”

“Your translations may well be off. It’s not as if a cataclysmic destruction preserves ink very well. Did you even notice that the last pages of the book were burned? Or that the writer wrote down their own screams?”

“Well I did think it a bit odd. What if it was some kind of narrative device?”

“Blenkinsop…” sighed Penfold. “What earthy variant of narrative device involves bloodstains and traces of acid?”

Blenkinsop pouted. “It’s times like this that you take the fun out of everything, did you know that?”

“And you’re secretly glad, aren’t you?”

“Oh, hush, Penfold,” Blenkinsop blushed.

[Muse food remaining: 14. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]