Both as in categorically both (SPG fics) and (Koq’riix), not those two SPG drabbles in particular. English grammar is a butt on the internet with no emphasis. And it doesn’t help that I went on a tangent. Mayor McToilet did indeed produce giggles. Much needed giggles after the heart-stomping from the first drabble you evil evil author.
English is indeed a butt. And I shall laugh maniacally at being called evil.
MWU-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA….
Challenge #00453 - A078: Humanity in a Nutshell
Has there ever been an instrument more representative of humanity than the Zeusaphone? (I highly recommend checking out their Youtube page) – RecklessPrudence
“So… the Terran Exhibition.”
“Yeah, it’s docking next week. Should help defuse Silly Season for another month.”
‘Are you going?“
"Only with adequate shielding. I heard they have the Lightning Meisters playing with this circuit.”
“Lightning… I don’t think I’ve heard of them.”
“They play a Tesla coil.”
“Uh. Are we thinking about the same thing? Big generator of artificial lighting? Not a musical instrument at all, but rather an instrument of terror, testing and death?”
“Yup. They got music out of it.”
“You’re joking.”
“I have video proof.”
Together, they watched a figure in all-encompassing chain mail dance to the tune that the lightning made. Backed by a band in a cage.
“That’s horrifying.”
“That’s humans.”
“Are you going?”
“Hell yeah!”
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Challenge #00450-451 - A075-76: Whuffo/The Inauguration of Mayor McToilet
(Can I do this? I’m doing it anyway.)
Free day! If there’s a drabble you’ve been wanting to write but haven’t had the right prompt to do it, now’s the time.
[AN: I don’t know when I’m going to get one of these again, so I’m going for broke. Be warned: the first one included feels inspired by this post. The second one is just a silly thing inspired by quinsecticide ]
Whuffo
“We’re pinned!”
“Spine! Do something!”
“There’s a hill! I can’t zap what I can’t see,” he, too, cowered in the trenches with his unit. “Besides, with this atmosphere, there’s a chance I’d hit all of you.”
Someone said something about useless robots. The Spine was used to hearing it.
“It’s okay, fellas,” shouted Green. “We got air support coming in! Thank God for the Whuffos!”
The Spine needed clarification. “Whuffos?”
“You know. ‘Whuffo did you jump outta that nice plane?’ It’s a joke.”
“Ah.” Much of human humour evaded him. Especially on the battlefield.
The plane came overhead to the arcing lights of tracer rounds. Even The Spine’s eyes couldn’t pick out the tiny dots that were falling humans.
But he could pick out a scream.
“They sent the Banshee!” Roberts grinned. “I don’t believe it, they sent the Banshee!”
One chute opened before the others. From it, blue balls of energy scattered the enemy from their fortifications. The scream continued.
He knew that voice. He knew that blue energy.
“Rabbit…” What had they done?
*
Once again, the government enlisted them for war. But this time, it was not saving soldiers from Mustard Gas. This time, they would be serving in varied arms of the armed forces.
They had custom uniforms, of course. The Spine’s own multiple steam chimneys[1] made certain of that. Plus, their metal bodies had heat issues that human uniforms merely complicated.
He remembered waving to the other two[2] as they took him away.
“It’ll be all right,” said Rabbit. “We’re b-built to last.”
*
The Spine was in the army. He hadn’t seen any of his brothers[3] since the recruitment offices had separated them for uniform fittings and publicity photos for the poster artist.
He’d wanted to send a letter to Rabbit, asking why he looked so sad. The army kept telling him that ordinance wasn’t allowed mail.
Now he knew they were lying.
The chute fell faster than any other paratrooper. Became a target for the enemy’s rounds. The Spine could hear them ricochet off Rabbit’s copper skin.
And all he could do was watch as his first and best friend fell perilously fast towards the very hill that vexed them all.
He left the trench without thinking. Risked mortar fire tearing him to pieces at any second. Tried to catch his copper twin.
“OUTTA THE WAY D-D-DUMMINS!” Rabbit deliberately avoided his reaching arms.
There was a horrible crunch.
Well. Since he was on top of the hill anyway… The Spine fired his tesla at the enemy. Electrocuted their guns and possibly more than a few enemy soldiers.
He would weep for them, later.
Right now… Rabbit was a mess. His legs had broken into separate pieces. Scattered all over the mud and blood of no-man’s land.
The rest of the unit charged across the mud. The Spine let them.
“S-s-s-see?” panted Rabbit. “If I’d hi-hit y-y-y-y-you… There’d be no-nobody t’ take me b-b-back for re-re-repairs.”
The Spine desperately gathered parts. “Some of these bolts sheared straight off, Rabbit. Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Naw. I asked Duo t’ d-d-d-disable the damage se-se-sensors. Jus’ l-l-like the g-great war. Ain’t fe-feelin’ a thing.”
The pants were shredded ruins, but they did save many of Rabbit’s cogs. The Spine tried to ignore the spilling oil and piece together what he could of his brother.
“He-here.” Rabbit passed over a necklace of paperclips. “They’ll d-d-do until we g-g-g-g-g-g-get b-b-ba-b-back.”
All The Spine could think of was how his twin was going to be inches shorter than him from this war onwards. That, and wondering why Pappy had built them to last at all.
At least he knew, now. He knew why Rabbit looked so sad.
Rabbit was always smart, for all that he played the fool. He’d probably worked it out seconds after the first parachute got strapped to him. And the photographer could not make him smile.
[1] WWII happens before the cooling fin upgrade
[2] Hatchy, though operational, was considered 'too old-fashioned’ for a modern poster and just sent straight to the front as mobile artillery.
[3] Rabbit either hasn’t decided or hasn’t come out. Your choice.
The Inauguration of Mayor McToilet
The first thing The Spine did when Mr Reed left him in charge was to check and make certain Rabbit wasn’t getting into trouble.
Too late.
Far, far too late.
Rabbit was decorating the main ballroom with toilet paper. She had already transformed the curtains and the chandelier and, to a certain extent, herself.
“Rabbit, what–?”
“There’s no time, th’ Spine! I g-g-g-gotta get ready for the wedding!” A toilet-paper rosette became a wall decoration. She seemed to notice him for the first time. “Mistah Mayor, sir! You’re right on time,” she adorned him with a sash made of the same white paper and embellished with vivid red lipstick.
Mayor McToilet.
Rabbit stepped back to appraise him. “You forgot y-y-y-y-y-your monocle. For shame! And on such a formal occasion, too.”
He could feel reality slipping away under the power of Rabbit’s imagination. And his connection to the wifi wasn’t helping. “Now, Rabbit…”
“Lucky for you I g-g-g-g-got a spare.” The cardboard tube intersected with and locked on to his face.
The transformation - and the loss of control - was complete. “How may I assist, madame?”
“Take this,” three rolls of toilet paper, “and fancy up the foyer. We got g-guests com in’, Mayor! We ne-need t’ hurry!”
[Muse food remaining: 63. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00449 - A074: The Nose Compass
(Actually said by a friend today)
“I have absolutely no idea what it smells like… But it smells like food”
Amalgam Station masses roughly the same as a Dwarf Planet, but is much, much larger in size because Dwarf Planets do not, for instance, contain corridors, cavernous spaces, parks, amenities, and infrastructure.
People tend to forget this. What they know of Amalgam Station becomes the sole total of their experience and they wander no further than their own knowledge.
But not Shayde.
She ‘went walkabout’ or 'went for a wander’ or, most dreaded of all, 'went out to see what was what’. And she could turn up anywhere.
And after the fifth time Security found her and advised she utilise a JOAT as a guide, since JOATs naturally went most places that other cogniscents didn’t reach, Shayde started 'going out walking’ with Rael.
Which included a picnic basket stacked to the brim with easily-portable goodies. Or possibly more so, considering her experience with trans-dimensional storage spaces.
But this time, they had wandered too far into the sorts of forgotten areas that had denizens and sketchy shopfronts not written in GalStand. It was not dark and gloomy, at least. It was bright and blaring and absolutely teeming with things who glared at them like they were invaders. Which, technically, they were.
Rael consulted his PocketRef, very discretely. “That’s it,” he said. “We’re off the map.”
“Aw hesh yerself. Ye keep fergettin’ yer in the company o’ someone who can jump ye back tae home in a whisk an’ a half.”
“Yes, but the experience is not one I look forward to. I saw what shadow-jumping has done to people you don’t like.”
“Drop one pedo through 'is shadow an’ ye never hear the end of it…”
“Do you even know how to get home?” he rummaged in the basket. “And we’re out of snacks.” One day, in the far distant future, he would shake his habit of nervous eating. Today was not that day.
“Follow yer nose, then. Sniff tha’.”
Rael inhaled deeply. “Ooooh…”
“Aye. I dinnae ken what it smells like, but it smells like food.”
“You sure they’ll take the Time?”
“If no’ I always got me axe. Wouldnae be the first time I sang for me supper.”
[Muse food remaining: 64. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00448 - A073: Personal Assessment
The Lister is the SI unit of discipline, as defined by the amount of effort needed to make Third Technician David Lister do his duties, clean his quarters and generally not be such a shame to the Space Corps. A single Lister of discipline is therefore often more than is needed for the entire crew of a (Star Wars) Star Destroyer (47,000-odd). – RecklessPrudence
It was hard not to look down on the faceless drones. They weren’t literally faceless. Or drones, for that matter. It was just… every day, she saw a hundred of them.
It was difficult to remember faces, names, or even their numbers after the first hour. She completely gave up on it after the first month, referring to the paperwork that Administration shoved at her.
But that never, ever, stopped her from feeling bad about it.
“Mister Probin,” she said to the newest faceless cog. One of the few who didn’t hunker and shrivel in the supplicants’ chair. “There are some disturbing anomalies in your personal assessments.”
“Yeah?” said Mr Probin. “Like what?”
“Well… it’s normal for a low-level employee of your… status…” or lack thereof… “To have a motivational level of less than one thousand NanoListers. Do you know what a NanoLister is, Mister Probin?”
“A very small mouthwash[1]?”
She frowned in confusion and hoped that it came across as benevolent fury rather than kicked puppy. “It’s a unit of motivation, Mister Probin. An entire Lister unit is the amount of effort required to make the laziest known human being to do their job. Thus… the smaller the number, the less concern we have for your future. And, as a senior officer in this establishment, it’s my sad duty to inform you that you can range between ten thousand to almost a million NanoListers on any given day.”
“So?”
“Can you really afford to be unemployed, Mister Probin?”
“Reckon I might have it figured out,” said Mr Probin. “Got some stuff set by. Might join the Hitchhikers. It’s gotta be better than cleaning out vending machines, right?”
And it was always, always the vending machine technicians who scored highly on the Lister scale. “I understand that cleaning a vending machine doesn’t seem to be a very important task…”
“Damn right it isn’t,” said Mr Probin. “And what does a promotion get you? The chance to boss around the people who clean out vending machines. Most of those stress out before they get another promotion, the poor bastards.”
And those who didn’t stress out became the administrators of the people who bossed around the people who cleaned out the vending machines. Nevertheless, she had to tow the company line. “All employees have an equal opportunity for advancement in this establishment, Mr Probin. If you applied yourself–”
“I might become a stock boy for vending machine parts, or even a stock handler!” The sarcasm was strong with this one. “Sorry, miss. But compared to this? Hanging around in filthy spaceports and swapping stories for a lift sounds like heaven.”
“And you have enough stories to suffice?”
Mr Probin grinned. “I make Scheherazade look like a tweenage fanficcer with a thousand and one high school AU’s.”
She upped his motivational score to the MilliLister range[2]. “Well. I shall file your resignation for you. Just to make certain the paperwork is properly done. I wish you every good fortune in your future… career.”
He gave her a lazy -of course- salute and sauntered out of the interview room.
She sighed and reached for the next file. They lost more vending machine technicians this way than she cared to count.
[1] Listerine is the mouthwash.
[2] That’s millions of NanoListers, for those doing the math.
[Muse food remaining: 65. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Complaining to another supernatural being.
“You also rule a world, Morpheus. A world of sleepers and dreamers, of stories. A simple place compared to hell. I envy you. Can you imagine what it was like? Ten billion years providing a place for dead mortals to torture themselves? And like all masochists, they called the shots. ‘Burn me.’ 'Freeze me.’ 'Eat me.’ 'Hurt me.’ And we did. Why do they blame me for all their little failings? They use my name as if I spent my entire day sitting on their shoulders, forcing them to commit acts they would otherwise find repulsive. 'The Devil made me do it.’ I have never made any one of them do anything. Never. They live their own tiny lives. I do not live their lives for them” – RecklessPrudence
(#00447 - A072)
“Have you seen some of the nightmares they come up with?” said Morpheus. “Hells, even the dreams get frightening if you linger to examine them. I had one kid dream that her entire world was rotting away into grey haze[1]. Every dream is their own subconscious trying to tell them something, but they blame me for it all.”
“And it’s not like you can quit, right? They still use your name, so you have to answer the call.”
Morpheus poured himself another generous mug of coffee[2]. “All the work, all the blame, and no pay. You know what we are, Hades?”
“No. What?”
“We’re service industry workers. We provide the service and get none of the thanks.”
“Why’d we even take these shitty jobs?”
“Simple, they called us.”
[1] One of mine.
[2] I love the irony of it, okay?
[Muse food remaining: 66. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00446 - A071: Whoops
Supervisor: Seriously? Are you shitting me?
Computer Tech: I never intentionally released anything into the wild. It was proof of concept. It wasn’t anything particularly sophisticated. Just some script kiddie cut and paste bullshit.
S: What is Rule Number Two of Computer Repair? What is it?
CT: “No, a ‘virus’ didn’t download all of that porn.”
S: Are you telling me you invalidated Rule Number Two?
CT: Well, in my case, it was a virus that would download the results of an unfiltered Google Image Search, then erase all traces of itself, and it would only work on a Windows 98 machine that had never been patched. – RecklessPrudence
“Tidy up the code, they said. Make it work more efficiently, they said,” Henry ranted as the security teams took him away. “Find the source of the system errors, they said. It’s only a five-minute job, they said.”
They said a lot of things, really. Lots of things that, taken in retrospect, should have sent up an entire textile factory’s worth of red flags.
“They didn’t tell me until it was too late,” Henry tried to bargain with the implacable security forces firmly attached to his elbows. “I couldn’t know until I was contractually obligated to fix it.”
They didn’t nod. Nor show empathy. Nor make a sound. Just marched on through the maze of corridors on the inexorable path to the holding cells.
“The entire system’s a virus! It’s a virus! The whole operating system is a field test of weaponised software viruses designed to inter-breed! This whole damn station is a virus!”
Many citizens stared as they moved Henry onwards. Many more looked once, and moved on with their individual lives.
This always happened during the maintenance cycle.
[Muse food remaining: 55. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00445 - A070: A Little More Complicated
Rule Number One of Computer Repair: Reboot it, dumbarse.
Rule One-A: If rebooting fixed the problem and it doesn’t come back, you didn’t really have a problem.
Rule One-B: If I actually had to tell you to reboot, regardless of whether you had a real problem or not, I’m still charging you for my time. – RecklessPrudence
“…error… error… error…”
Scientists clustered around the tic'ing automaton in clear defiance of all instincts for self-preservation.
“Have you tried turning it off and turning it back on again?”
“Percussive maintenance, that’s the ticket! Give it a good whack!”
“Blinker the blighter! Reduce its field of input.”
“Is robutt, not horse, da?”
“So much for your precision instrument of wonder, eh?” Thadeus laughed loud and long.
Peter stood protectively between all of them and Zero Zero One. Stealing glances at the face of the only one who had mattered. The one who was covering her face with her hands and had almost collapsed into paroxysms of helpless laughter.
This was almost as bad as the Giraffe Incident.
“If you gentlemen would please back away, I can restore my automaton to normal function…”
“All machines respond to a hard reboot,” said Cassius.
“This machine has a memory and I’m currently uncertain as to whether forcing a complete shutdown is tantamount to murder,” growled Peter. At least the others had backed respectably off. Leaving him room to get to Zero Zero One’s cogs and find the loop in its Babbage Thinking Engine.
-clikt-
“…err–ooooohhhhh… Oh Pappy, that weren’t nice…” the automaton ran a skeletal-looking hand over its copper skull.
Peter automatically discouraged the sharp fingers from interfering with its own thought processors. “Let me get your plating back on. There’s a good boy.”
The others had Noticed. There was a general murmuring amongst the Cavulcadium.
Thadeus had gone pale. He knew there was no way he could compete with this.
“Hello,” chirped the automaton. “My name is Rabbit. And this is my Pappy! I got a brother at home, but he ain’t done yet.”
Crap! “Rabbit, this is not what we rehearsed…” he murmured.
“Colonel,” said Fortescue, “Is this going to be a repeat of the Frankenstein Event?”
“Yay! Ya bought my squeeze box! You’re the best Pappy ever!”
“The unfortunate Mister Victor Frankenstein had no sense of personal responsibility in regards to his… creation,” Peter defended. “My automatons, on the other hand - have been programmed with empathy in mind.”
“This goes out to a very special little lady,” said Rabbit. And started to play _There’s Only One Girl in the World For Me_. As the only girl in the room attempted to hide within her fan, her hands, her arms and, when it became too much, under her desk.
He knew he should have waited until he had the entire quartet completed.
[Muse food remaining: 55. Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Answering this now because it’s more of a question than a prompt
So the Amalgam verse has those fan-pins for insulters, and you mentioned somewhere that there was a three-badge scale from something like occasional-accidental-insult to has-no-idea-what-social-mores-are-please-educate. What’s the fan level for will-insult-your-entire-family-when-annoyed or the reaction to precisely and deliberately reducing someone to a puddle of crying goo with a few well placed verbal barbs?
The fan pin is for people who are insulting by accident. Most people of the level you describe go pro or are selected for special training by a master.
But the tentative fourth level pin has the mirror ‘blades’ with trim in black, yellow and red. Much like a coral snake.
Challenge #00444 - A069: The Test
SPG in the far-future of your own universe. Because robots + space. – Weirdlet
Rael was ostensibly taking Shayde on a tour of the station’s Ambassadorial Meeting Chamber. What he was covertly doing was testing her. If she really was who she said she had been. If she really had existed on Earth at the time she stated… she would be able to recognise Them.
The Consortium of Steam.
The only artificial intelligences who had been thrown out of the Artificial Intelligence Alliance for being too human. And who viewed that as a compliment.
They always turned up early to sort out who wore the gold sash on their customary black-and-red outfits. By playing ‘Spuds’.
“This will be your desk. Because you don’t technically have a home planet or a population to fight for, you won’t be getting what passes for a formal introduction.”
“'Ere, why’m I Nineteen Eighty-Six when I left in Nineteen Eighty-Seven?”
“Because you didn’t make it all the way *through* Nineteen Eighty-Seven. You can’t have half a year.”
“Ye say that like it’s happened before…”
“We have previously made allowances for the temporally inconvenienced.” After sufficient proof…
And there they came. Four sharply-dressed metal humanoids. One in a dress. Accompanied by the beat of their own drum, and the clank and rattle of gears and the hiss of steam.
Shayde took one look at them and shrieked. It was not the yawp of terror that some would have vented, but the squeal of a fan.
“Omigidomigodomigodomigodomigod… It’s THEM!”
Rael should have won an award for his nonchalant, “Who?”
She grabbed his shoulders and shook him like he should know this was the greatest thing to happen since clootie dumplings[1]. “Colonel Walter’s Steam Man Band! They been knocking’ around the traps since Eighteen Ninety-Eight! Igottagosayhullo!”
She let go of him to drop through her own shadow and leap out of one much closer to the steam-powered Ambassadors. There, she hugged each of them in turn while shrieking, “It’s you! It’s really you! I’m so glad ye made it! It’s you! It'syouit'syouit'syou!”
“It’s us,” said The Jon.
“Do we know you?” said Hatchworth.
Shayde stopped hugging Rabbit. “Hangonasec. I gotta look at ye with real light. I ain’t seen any o’ ye since eighty-two.”
“Which eighty-two?” said The Spine. “We’ve been through more than one.”
Shayde made a complicated gesture over her eyes and shrieked again. “Rabbit! You got RESTOOOOORRRRED!”
“I got restored,” Rabbit smiled. “Refurbished. Reupholstered. And ridiculously gorgeous.”
“Pft! You were always ridiculously gorgeous.” Shayde dismissed. “Who’s the new fella?”
“Hatch-worth,” Hatchworth touched his bowler as he bowed. “I was in a vault be-tween Nine-teen Fif-ty and Two Thou-sand, Thir-teen.”
“Aw ye puir darlin’. Ye need extra hugs. C'mere.”
The Spine, the only Ambassador Shayde hadn’t hugged yet, vented steam in exasperation. “Once again, I wind up feeling like chopped liver…”
“That’s 'cause I’ve been savin’ ye fer last, handsome! Look out!”
It was the first time Rael had ever seen a combination flying tackle, french dip, french kiss, and outright groping session. It was very clear that Shayde was rather over-fond of The Spine and had been so for an extended period of time.
It made a noise like… snog.
She set him back upright with a wicked smirk. “I’ve been saving that one up since Nineteen Eighty-Two.”
“Nineteen Eighty-Two…” said Rabbit. “We were busking, that year…”
“I dinnae expect ye tae remember wee skinny Katie Walker. All blushes and tyin’ myself in knots about a jam?”
“Like this?” said The Jon, and did a scarily accurate imitation of a softly-spoken, shy tweenager about to implode from star-struckedness. He even got the accent, which was thicker when Shayde was emotionally overloaded.
“Aye, ye nailed it. Even the accent. You remember little ole me?”
“We remember everyone,” said The Spine. Still checking his lips to see if they were in one piece. “Do you still have the guitar?”
“Na. I left it at home when I went tae college. Too valuable to me.” She shrugged. “But I got an axe ye can all sign again if ye don’t mind it.” Shayde pulled it out of one of her inter-dimensional pockets.
“On one con-di-tion,” said Hatchworth.
“Aye?”
“You jam with all of us to-night.”
“SOLD!”
Rael sighed and sent a comms message to all debating parties. Shayde recognised CoS. They recognised her by her former name. Temporally Challenged status officially confirmed.
[1] In Rael’s opinion, sliced bread isn’t that much to write anywhere about.
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