Challenge #00788-90 - B057-59: The Human Answer

“What the Heck are they doing?”
“They’re having Fun.”
This is a line from a Very old Movie called The Boatnicks„ See what you can do with it, not necessarily to do with boats, could be anything us humans think of as fun.
2. .  Jam, treacle, puffed rice. Who would have thought it could be used as a weapon.
3. “Once you open a can of worms, it takes two cans to get them back.” have fun.

(1)
Usually, the Numidid said, when deathworlders meet havenworlders, the deathworlders win. They take over by force of numbers, by disease, by war, by famine, and in most cases, by their sheer capacity for breeding.
Humans were the first known deathworlders to try and make everything even for everybody.
Can’t glide like the Numidid? Humans will engineer wingsuits that turn unaerodynamic apes into the best fliers.
Not as fast or as tireless as a Human? They have a special breed of horse that will carry you in a smooth and level gait, and help you keep up with your human associate.
They defied death on a daily basis.
And they invented strange passtimes.
T'reka watched in curiosity as the young humans hauled themselves up to the branches of a sky-raker tree by means of a swing seat attached to a set of pulleys. Once up, they would lower the seat for the next child. Those already on the branch waited in a queue to get to the outer part of the branch and then leap off, relying on nothing but the fabric attached to their harnesses to keep them from grievous injury upon landing.
She would not be shocked if those demi-spheres of fabric were made from cellulose.
T'reka finally swallowed her trepidation and lit by an adult helping the young fold their deflated demi-spheres for the next trip.
“What are they doing?” she begged.
“They are having fun,” smiled the human.
Of course. They were deathworlders.

(2)
Captain Pam was an unassuming woman who tended to call everyone “dear” or “sweetie”. She was nice to everyone she met, and polite as she could be.
Which made people wonder how she came to be the leader of the Bloody Fang Pirates.
Some would say she made most of her Time by telling her story, and she was glad to tell it. And it went like this:
Oh, it was years ago now, when my little Lynn was just a toddler. The Bloody Fang captured my freighter and demanded poor Lynn as a hostage. She’s all grown now, but she was nearly at the terrible twos, then. And she could escape anything. Her playpen, her clothes… I lost count of the number of times I had to fetch her in an escape pod, naked as a jay, and covered in something sticky.
So I didn’t just give them my Lynn. I gave them some food for her. Treacle, jam and puffed rice. Three of her favourites at the time.
Do any of you have small children? No? Then you have no idea what a devil puffed rice is. I had to buy a gengineered critter just to keep it out of my air vents. We called it Rover.
Anyway, I went into my cell as quiet as you please. Did you know the Bloody Fang used to make their internal bulkheads out of toffee? Peanut brittle to be precise. I figured it might slow my little Lynn down, a bit, but it wasn’t long before the screaming started anyway.
Never act scared of a baby. They think it’s funny.
I think it took a sum total of three hours for them to surrender. And a further half hour to get all the stuff out of Lynn’s hair. And being a good businesswoman, I taught them all how to make better money at what they do. It was just natural.
Oh, and I’m the inventor of the Sticky-puff bomb, for all my sins. Nasty job it does on the air. And once you have a Spacer’s air, you have their undivided attention.
May I have another drink, dear? Thanks very much.

(3)
Everyone thinks that Ghishem is a lawless system. This might be largely due to the sheer volumes of what other planets call crime in there.
But, however, should one attempt to travel through official channels, you will find the most intensely tangled gordian knot of red tape ever conceived by the minds of Lovecraftian demons.
And yet - humans came up with it.
Tangle with Ghishem law, it was said, and be prepared to lose the rest of your life to forms and madness. And it was in this madness that Captain Krik was trying to extract hirself.
“It is not my department,” sneered the clerk.
“I was informed it was,” said the Captain. “I need to obtain form E98-TY234 in order to retrieve my vessel from impoundment and get the flakk off this damnable planet. To get that form, I need form 3459-HY87-B to get form EGRY8-345BKJ, to get form 3498Y-MBN34. But in order to get any of that, I have to start with FR5B4-Y238-K. Which I was told was your department.”
A single raised eyebrow. A consultation of a computer, one precise keypress at a time. The metronomic tick-tack of the keys soon matched the twitch under Captain Krik’s eyelid.
“Ah yes. FR5B4-Y238-K… sadly you must first fill out R42-085UY-8E4.”
The Captain let out a very undiplomatic growl. Carnage was soon to follow.
It was then that one of Krik’s companion crewmembers (they were taking it in shifts by now) came up to the counter looking angry. “Excuse me,” said the human. Her name, as far as Krik could pronounce it, was Lor-el. “Excuse me! In order to issue R42-085UY-8E4, you first have to complete the competency test for form 8623SK-1D00. Have you actually done so?”
“Er,” said the clerk. And quickly ran off.
Krik looked stunned and amazed. “Crewman, what–”
“It’s okay, Cap,” soothed Lor-el. “I’ll take it from here.”
Krik followed in increasing confusion as Lor-el went from office to random office, demanding that each clerk fill out or qualify to fill out form 8623SK-1D00. It took her half an hour to get the entire administrative complex busier than an ant’s nest looking for this purely mythical form.
And just when they were at their peak of panic, she idly asked the extremely terrified and occupied clerk for the original form E98-TY234.
They had it in a drawer, and were eager to get rid of her in their hurry to find form 8623SK-1D00.
“Et voila,” smirked Lor-el.
“You’ve earned a promotion, a paid holiday, and shares in the fleet,” boggled Krik. “How did you know to do that?”
Lor-el smirked. “Saw something like it in an archival cartoon, once. When we’re safely away, do remind me to tell you about Asterix the Gaul.”

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Still in South Park

Kurt and Todd, still in South Park. The “184th” line has pretty much become their soundtrack. Todd is rolling with the weirdness, but Kurt is nearing a breakdown (shot at by Jimbo and Ned, witnessing Kenny die multiple times, constantly stalked by geneticist Dr, Mephisto). They’re walking down the street discussing this, when they see Jesus and Satan at a cafe having coffee. Cue freak-out.

(#00787 - B056)

“…so hungry…”

“Yo, hungry’s your default state, Fuzzy.”

“It takes calories to teleport, freund. And I’ve needed to teleport a lot.”

“Speakin’ of. Shotgun nutso’s, eight o'clock.”

Kurt leaped before the distant, “IT’S COMIN’ RIGHT FOR US!” could echo against the buildings, and was out of sight before they could get a bead.

Todd had taken a very long time to figure out why Fuzzy was so great at dodging people with guns. Now that he had it confirmed, he felt compelled to take Fuzzy’s side.

Thus, he crossed the street with his fists primed and his het up. “Whassa problem wit’ y'all? Why you gotta shoot at my friend? Y'r assholes, you know that?”

Ned raised his device to his throat. “Nnnnn… we’re-just-trying-to-make-a-living.”

“Son, we’re running a very important local cable show and your pet is the hundred and eighty-fourth weirdest thing in South Park.”

“Nnnnn… He’s-on-our-list.”

“He’s not an animal, yo! He’s a human being!”

“Well he sure as shit don’t look like one,” retorted Jimbo.

Todd sighed. He was getting really sick of these lunatics taking pot-shots at the closest thing he had to a friend on this crazy journey. “Look. I don’t want you killin’ my friend, awright? Y'all never done catch and release?”

“Nnnnn… That’s-for-pussies.”

“You could interview him. Have him on your show and then - done. No more need to shoot him.”

Jimbo glared at him. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Somewhere down the street, Kurt screamed. Todd flipped the hunters a double-barreled-one-finger-salute, and literally leaped down the street.

There, at the local cafe, Satan was sipping coffee with Jesus and amicably chatting about relationships. Or they had been before Kurt broke down sobbing in the streets.

Todd hustled him off the road. “Dude, what the hell?”

“It’s okay,” he said, wide-eyed. “I have faith. I shall be reborn like that little boy who keeps gettink killed, ja? And this time, I shall have ze body on an angel…”

Jesus said, “Yae, I am not going that far.”

Kurt giggled. It wasn’t the giggle of someone having a good time. It was the giggle of someone who had stared too long at the Elder Gods and was failing their sanity check.

“Could'ja go as far as -Idunno- GETTING US THE FUCK OUTTA HERE? This place ain’t no good fo’ his health, yo.”

“Um….” said Jesus. He looked pleadingly to Satan.

Satan sighed. “All right, just this once I’ll be the good guy.”

Todd had to drag Kurt through the whirling vortex.

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Challenge #00784 - B053: Water Worship

The first thing the humans of Amity made when they reached the beach was the pipeline. The second thing they made was surfboards.

From the Journals of T'reka the Inquisitive:

Play is seemingly an important to these dangerous creatures as work is. I have personally witnessed their emergence onto the beachfront with a mixture of trepidation and fascination.

Their work was to build the pipeline previously mentioned. Their play… immediately followed. Some brought colourful discs with them for what I posit to be some form of weapon play [CENSOR ALERT: REFERENCE TO ALARMING FOOTAGE. File reference: Frisbee] Some made alarmingly temporary and illogical sand structures.

And some, puzzlingly, hurried away on their ungulates, only to return with baffling equipment.

It resembled an ovoid board, curved like a leaf and possessing at least one fin. It, too, was in bright colours. Its human bearers were also bedecked in toxic colours. A sensible warning for all life to not eat them, lest their bodies poison the entire ecology.

Each of these boards were strapped to the humans by the means of a long tether.

The humans then proceeded with their equipment into the water. They used these strange planks as impromptu boats, paddling out above highly risky depths. Even to the point of piloting through the waves.

At risk to my life, I documented what happened next. [CENSOR ALERT: REFERENCE TO SUICIDALLY DANGEROUS PRACTICES] One human in the group matched speeds with a wave and then stood upright on their board!

She made it dance on the waves before tumbling to what should have been her doom… and yet emerged alive and -I hesitate to say- laughing.

This scientist cannot fathom the meaning of this ritual. Is it a sacrifice to their ocean gods? A display of vitality and fitness? A mating display? Or is it used as a means to defuse their perpetual destructive rage?

Of course, I am keeping my distance and doing my utmost to remain undiscovered as I examine this bizarre and terrifying ritual.

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Challenge #00783 - B052: No Cause for Alarm…

When someone who’s covered with blood and carrying a knife asks me politely, I’ll usually say “yes”

[TW: Blood, murder, implied abuse.]

I found her on the highway. She was wearing what had once been a pink, teddy-bear nightie, but was now a rich, blood red and soaking wet. Poor kid looked like she’d bathed in blood. And the big kitchen knife clutched in her white-knuckled hands didn’t do much to help the image.

She was so tiny. I guessed her age at four or five. Daycare age. She should have been watching cartoons and playing with dolls, not wandering the roads in the middle of the night and covered in blood.

Of course I stopped. I’m not a monster. I might as well have been by the way she cringed and wept.

“Are you okay, kid?”

“…i’ve been a bad chimunk[1],” she whimpered. “…i killed th’ big bad wolf… an’ then i killed the sheep who let him… who let him…”

I didn’t advance on her. I just hunkered by the side of the road with her. Keeping my hands where she could see. “It’s okay,” I cooed. “I bet the big bad wolf hurt the little chipmunk; she’s not bad if all she was doing was making him stop.”

Best to keep to her own distancing language. Best to sound reassuring.

“…some of the sheep went through it before,” said the blood-soaked little kid. She had a pretty pink bow on top of her head. Well. What used to be a pretty pink bow. “…and one knew it was happening… but they let it… they let him do–” She stopped looking at the ground long enough for me to look deep into eyes that had already seen Hell. She was four. “…chipmunks shouldn’t tell lies…”

“Are you running away? From the big bad wolf?”

Nod.

“Where are you headed?”

“…mexico… canada… where the bad people go.”

Ah. “Well… the bad people go to the police first. I can take you right to them. It isn’t safe to go walking on the highway.”

“…whatever…”

She had killed her family. And an exam showed that she had been trying to tell the truth about her father. And her brothers had suffered before her. CSI obtained evidence that the mother was battling depression and mixing her self-medications.

Her name’s Clarissa. She’s in therapy, now. Talking about all the ‘lies’ that the bad chipmunks tell. If all goes well, she might be better by the time she’s eighteen. I visit her every day and teach her more ways to keep the big bad wolves off of her.

I just wish I’d gotten to that scumrat of a father before she did. I’d have made that human garbage suffer.

[1] For full details on this poor mite, check out Clarissa by Jason Yungbluth. TW: ALL THE TRIGGERS. http://www.whatisdeepfried.com/2000/12/31/clarissa/

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Challenge #00782 - B051: Quirks of Psychology

Someone who worked for Norix and was a Whisperer, at the end of the Standard Year, who really needs that job.
They’re a Queen fan and don’t know why they’re a Whisperer.

“Please… please don’t let me go. I can change the song. I’ve been working on it. I have. I love Under Pressure. I just… don’t… understand… why I keep singing Ice Ice Baby.”

Nor looked down on the pleading ape. Lucy. There was a thin veneer of civilisation between this deathworlder and literally tearing Norix apart in cognicidal[1] rage. Norix was endlessly shocked at how strong that thin veneer was. A being who could quite literally tear most of Norix’s processing facility to expensive pieces had put herself in a submissive position to a level 2 Havenworlder who was a tiny fraction over half her height.

“I understand your problem,” soothed Norix. “Can you understand mine? You are a brutal people. This facility cannot withstand fights amongst your kind.”

“I know. I listen to Under Pressure every morning… and in the shower. I’m trying to train my traitor brain. Please. I need the Time.”

Norix pondered the begging human. Three steps away from being an utter monster… and yet performing a display of abject weakness. “Familial obligations?”

“I’m trying to export my mother from Greater Deregulation West.”

Ah. The people who had sold this human to Norix for a one-off payment. Who had, in fact, sold an entire, crammed shipload of humans to Norix for what they imagined to be a profit in useless gold. The humans under her care had been shocked and amazed that they were being paid. And many were using this advantage to buy their family.

At least until Greater Deregulation West had realised that Time was where the real money was at, and effectively shut down the population drain.

“I can petition Cogniscent Rights on your behalf,” offered Norix. “And I know some associates who will… hire… Whisperers like yourself.”

Lucy breathed out in a relieved sob, almost collapsing on the floor. “…thank you…”

“I shall give you a glowing recommendation,” added Norix. “And excise negative remarks about your singing habits.”

Sobbing. “How can I repay you?”

“Live well,” she said, “and get as many as you can the hell out of Greater Deregulation West." 

[1] Well it can’t exactly be homicide, can it?

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Challenge #00779-780 - B048-49: Fame and Glory

(1) “Oh! never try for the top job! Too many want to knock you off. Not even second or third, a comfortable spot somewhere near the top is best. And it’s So interesting watching the carnage. You might even get a book about it.”
(2) “Famous!! You want to be famous, Are you stark raving mad!”

[AN: Once again I have to remind my dear followers that I can only handle one prompt at a time. I know it’s a pain in the anatomy to submit prompts individually, but it’s a literal pain in my wrists to do multiple prompts at once. PLEASE submit your prompts individually]

(1)

Merryl was, as far as all other contenders were concerned, very bad at the Game of Houses. The goal was to win the throne, and power, and enough loyalty to actually enjoy it for a while.

But Merryl never got further than advisor to the throne. She had a high-born, if incompetent husband, and a healthy clutch of children who were allowed to marry into the lesser families of the court. Many weren’t even sure she was playing.

But the smart players, those who knew how the Game was really played… they made certain they had Merryl’s favour. Followed Merryl’s advice.

Because they knew for certain that Merryl was playing the Game. She was playing the long game. She didn’t want or need the power of the throne.

She had the power of the Monarch’s Ear. She was in every court session. Whispering or murmuring advice into the current King or Queen’s right ear. And if they had a sour ruler? One who was rotten on the inside? They would inevitably make the mistake of imprisoning Merryl or threatening her family.

And that King or Queen had only days to live.

She had been sentenced to execution five times in as many years, and it was behind these prison walls that Jolf the Gnarled met with her. Ostensibly to play chess.

“The people want a Givalda on the throne. The people are stupid. The entire family is rotten and debauched. Except for you.”

“Huh,” Jolf moved a pawn. He did so awkwardly. A birth defect had left him with but three fingers on his dominant hand. The other was a paralysed claw. Disease and disaster both had left him looking like a monster. “They say I am the physical manifestation of my family’s sins. They would go through and then execute all of my family before they’d accept the likes of me on the throne.”

“They will do that, I have no doubt.” Merryl delicately moved a piece. She wasn’t playing to win. She was playing to keep the game in play. “I will write letters to my daughters… and then to my sons. And then to my granddaughters. I trained all my children in the ways of the game.”

Jolf uncurled from his habitual stoop. Staring at the grey-haired woman who had lived so long in an age of knives. She had clever children… who she had placed carefully across the entire realm. Thrice before, this woman had written letters, and a new monarch had pardoned her. “I dare say they play it as well as you.”

Merryl smiled. “You’re smart. Good. Are you smart enough to play the fool?”

“Madam, I once saved my sorry excuse for a skin with a joke.”

A rook moved across the checkered space of the board. “I remember. Play at being addled. Let people laugh at you. Be bumbling… but in your own lands? Be generous. Care for the health and welfare of your subjects.”

“More generous than I am? My family demands their taxes.”

“A lottery will suffice for generating that revenue. In fact… quietly run several gambling chains. They will fill your coffers very sweetly and none will be the wiser. Just make certain that some of the funds go to charity houses for the poor. And run them very well.”

“The favour of the people…” Jolf murmured. “Others will leave their lands to share in mine. I might snap up my cousins’ neglected lots in a game of dice.”

“Indeed. It’ll be easier when you seem stupid.” A knight. “Are you capable of siring an heir?”

“Capable, aye. No woman would want me, though.”

“I’ll search for the right one. I’m very good at this.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“For public appearances, it might be advisable for you to cultivate a slur, stammer, stutter or other speech impediment. So long as they underestimate you, you are safe.”

The current King died in the following week. It was no great shock that the next monarch in the throne immediately pardoned Merryl to resume her place just to the right of the throne. She survived five more monarchs and two more incarcerations before Jolf and his surprisingly lovely and loyal bride were placed jointly on the throne.

By that time, the only Givaldas left were Jolf and his shockingly adorable children.

Who were all taught the Game by their Aunty Merryl.

(2)

“The Consortium’s gettin’ a gig,” Shayde argued. “Why not me?”

“Because you’re not representative of a planetary body, nor enough citizens to become a virtual planetary body. Galacticly speaking, you don’t have a presence. Without a presence, you can’t really have a culture. Therefore, you’re not really allowed to share.”

“Bullshit.”

Rael boggled at her.

“I have the culture I left. Six billion souls or more left behind in time. I saw a lot o’ the planet. Learned a lot o’ the languages. I can sing a damn lot o’ the songs. Pop me in a damn museum an’ I’ll bring ‘em all tae life fer anyone who’ll listen. Anyone who’ll ask.”

“And your reason for doing this is…?”

“I always wanted tae be Noticed. Cut an album or more. Somethin’ other than bein’ trapped in a room full'a fusty old nerds who keep calling me 'my dear’ and talkin’ right over me, ye ken.”

“You want to be a… what was the phrase? Pop star?”

“Somethin’ like that. Just… a space to be me and loved for it too. Is that so nuts?”

“Yes,” said Rael, a little too quickly. “You get sycophants, toadies and pretenders latching on to your tail coats. And paparazzi in the hydrangeas. Or… anywhere they could hide. They try to capture pictures of you with your pants off.”

“They’re still around?”

“They’re almost extinct, but they do exist.”

Shayde blew a raspberry. “They’d 'ave tae work hard t’ catch me with me knickers down.”

“Telebees,” said Rael.

“Ye woh?”

“Tiny drone cameras. They can get into your private spaces through the air vents. And get some -ah- very intimate photographs.”

“Remote controlled, aye?”

“Aye-uh. Yes.”

“Faraday cage in the privy?” she suggested.

It was shocking how quickly she adapted. “That,” he said after pondering the concept, “is a very astute idea.”

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Challenge #00778 - B047: Logic Dictator

A sentence that made me just want to hug the mad genius until they felt better:
Everything I did was logical. One day I’ll understand why that makes me the one who’s nuts.

I think they thought I’d be easy to manipulate. They thought they could feed me the correct facts to sway me. Sadly for them, I saw them for villainous plotters who would all be my puppeteer for two pins. They were quickly exposed for voting fraud and incarcerated for all their other political crimes.

And I already had the will of the people for re-examining all extant criminal cases and punishing the unjust equally. And since it was legally no longer a crime to be poor, I went about curing the cause of the symptoms that so many vocal types complained about.

I’m a very frugal person. Therefore it was no great strain for me to abandon the glittering mansion of the Head of State for a modest flat. And also no great strain for me to live on the lowest existing stipend current for the unemployed. The others in my cabinet had a great hue and cry, though, at the thought of following my lead.

But they were astonishingly fast to vote for raising the stipend. Especially when it looked like I was going to make that change mandatory.

Paying the hospitals based on their successes quickly rid the medical system of all the bad doctors and nurses. The same with the schools and the teachers who coasted along on tenure.

Decriminalising addictive drugs and putting them in the hands of pharmaceutical companies eliminated drug crime overnight. As did recognising sex work as legitimate work. Many of the pimps didn’t care for my health and safety workplace laws, but the sundry employees loved it.

And with crime at an all-time low, I was at my leisure to oust the racist, sexist, and any other deplorable -ist police members.

Things had never been better.

But when I tackled the famine and the plague with the same ruthless efficiency… I was called a monster. Those people were the most likely to die. I just saved the healthy.

But they called it a senseless massacre.

And put me in prison.

For my crimes.

One day. Someone might explain to me what they were.

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Challenge #00777 - B046: Hwell Barrow/Ax'and'l Incorporated

On an idea: Hahaha you can’t be serious oh god you’re serious.

“I told you, friend. Getting there faster gets us a bonus you wouldn’t believe.”

“That is an embargo net,” Ax’and’l gestured at the distant array of vessels. “It’s not only illegal to cross it, but it’s also lethal!”

“Naw these assholes aren’t sanctioned by anyone but themselves. It’s a mercy mission we’re on. Promise.”

Ax’and’l had checked the cargo and destination. He knew this human was on the up-and-up. “It’s still suicide…”

“Naw. I have a plan. Check me nav file for asteroid B-37K. We’re going to ride it right through the blockade.”

Ax’and’l checked. “Are you insane? Wait. I’m talking to a human. Of course you’re insane. That’s a gravel clump. The only thing holding it together is wishful thinking.”

“Right,” grinned Hwell. “Which is why landing on it is such a great idea!”
Ax’and’l stared at the grinning mammal. “And how do you suggest we land on it and live?”

“I know a trick from me mining days…”

The saurian Ax’and’l had yet to learn all the portents of imminent danger, and thus allowed the mad human to de-activate the Hungry Caterpillar, and use gravity alone to gently descend towards the dusty surface of a stellar rock that was beyond fragile.

He was still having conniptions as the embargo net moved vessels aside to allow the asteroid to pass. Ax’and’l decided, then and there, that he was going to spend a good portion of his bonus on a permanent therapists’ appointment.

He was going to need it.

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Challenge #00776 - B045: The What?

How do the penguins feel about the slaughter of their Northern cousins, the Auks? The human word “Penguin” means “Southern Auk”, as far as I am aware. But there are no longer any Auks for them to be compared to.

“I have done some research,” said T'reka.

“Good for you,” said the Matriarch. She was not exactly dismissive, but she was busy. Assigning troops to the surface for the human naturalists to observe and film.

“Your people are named for a different species. The great Auk.”

“Mm? What was so great about them?”

“Evidently, their down. They were killed as food and bait, then prised for their down… and finally hunted to extinction because the museums wanted examples to show their patrons.”

“Hnf. Must not have been that great, then.”

“Do you not want to see a picture?”

“Later. At the show and share. Winter business is important business.”

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Challenge #00775 - B044: Muffin

Turns out some incubi or succubi do just as well - if not better - on platonic love than sexual.
Cue making covert bargains with children - the ‘cubi take the form of a stuffed toy, often creeping into the toy pile before the child can even walk, and become a beloved item. In return they keep the child safe from any other creepy crawlies that might be lurking. Some take up residence in nurseries and schools, the softest, best calm-down toys ever.
Most never reveal that they can move or talk, let alone their other forms and nature. They simply leave quietly once their child no longer needs or feeds them and are dismissed as one more lost toy.

[AN: What most people don’t know about ‘cubi is that succubi and incubi are two sides of the same… supernatural entity. The succubi steals from a penis-having human to become and incubi and thus curse the uterus-owners. I’m a writer. I research this shit for fun.]

Ze called hirself Muffin, ever since hir assignment to corrupt a pre-pubescent child had ended in a pleasant surprise. There was more to pseudo life than stealing souls. There was… love. Muffin never forgot hir first child. Max had woken that night in tears and terror, before Muffin could ever get to him, and grabbed the first soft thing his blindly groping hands could find.

Max had grabbed Muffin, who was masquerading as a velveteen dog at the time. Ze had been shocked at hir first contact with love. It was like… being drenched in a warmth that was completely unlike the familiar fires of hades.

It was so…

Gentle.

And yet it burned the hell right out of hir.

And Muffin whispered the words that would serve hir well for the rest of eternity.

“I’ll protect you from the things that bump in the night, until you no longer need me.”

Initially, Muffin allowed hirself to be passed along, but the wear and tear of love on a plush body meant years hidden away in storage. Years in hunger… waiting… and fighting the temptation to resume hir older ways.

Those were not good years.

So Muffin de-corporealised and went roaming. There were always new children. They were always afraid of the dark.

Ze always took the form of a toy dog. Always a little bit loved, but not dirty or beaten. Always overlooked, in the hands of hir new, infant charge. And if ze was noticed by the adults, the conversation went a little like this:

“Where did we get that stuffed dog toy?”

“I forget, really. But [CHILD] loves it so much.”

And, once in a great long while, Muffin would protect hir children from the real dangers in the world. The people who, like fleshy ‘cubi, lived to shatter the innocence of a child and called it love. Muffin could sniff them out. Warn her charges in a voice only they could hear.

And one night… ze attacked. Bit off the offending hand. Gouged out the lusting eyes. Removed the offending genetalia.

That child’s name was Twyla.

They found her, hiding in the closet, with her best toy, Muffin. Crying, still. And they couldn’t get any more information out of her about what happened to her ‘bad uncle’.

All she would say was, “Uncle Paul came to do the bad touch and Muffin turneded into a real live wolf and ripped him up. But Muffin’s a good dog. She pertecks me.”

Hardly anyone noticed that Muffin’s muzzle and paws were stained with the bad uncle’s blood.

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