Another corallary to Clarke’s Third Law
Any sufficiently advanced psychological warfare is indistinguishable from a hostile paranormal. –RecklessPrudence
(#00292)
It is possible to manufacture bad luck. All that is required are enough inside people. It may also be necessary to have a unified or unifying mythos to attribute such bad luck to.
Take, for example, the retaking of The-Mining-Station-In-The-Fifth-Orbital-Ring-Surrounding-Star-B198Y36SQ3(*) by its original human inhabitants.
The independent evolution of both psychological warfare and technomancy in an isolated environment is miraculous enough, but the fact that this was achieved by a group of children is simply awe-inspiring.
The following account contains shocking breaches of cogniscent rights, child endangerment, property destruction, criminal behaviour, and sleep deprivation. Viewer discretion is advised. Authorities are aware of these transgressions and the offending parties have been appropriately reprimanded.
The human inhabitants of B198Y36SQ3 had long since been conquered by another species and turned into a workforce of manual, unpaid labor. This met with natural objections and backlash expressed in displays of force.
Force that was considered an inconvenience at best by the conquering forces.
An initially small group already inside the facility turned to acts of sabotage, ranging from subtle adjustments to gross theft. Conferences amongst the group resulted in ‘plug and play’ sabotage units that caused certain functions to effect the conquerer elite. Such sabotage was directly attributed to vengeful, supernatural entit(y/ies) and care was taken to ensure that the perpetrators were seemingly blameless.
This instilled an atmosphere of paranoia and trepidation amongst the elite, and sympathy amongst the conquered. The group expanded, and so did its scope of phenomena, up to and including 'miracles’ and 'plagues’ with varying degrees of success. Tying such actions to the human mythology of the area simply added to the paranormal flavour of the events.
Citizens who wish to acquire further knowledge must wait five days from the posting of this report for an uncensored account of said events. We apologize for the inconvenience.
(*) Translated from the nomenclature of the area into GalStand
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Sound advice.
If all else fails, try reading the instructions. – RecklessPrudence
(#00291)
Rael had run out of the regular curses and was busy running through the extensive selection of historical ones.
“I was always fond o’ ‘poo bum wee willy willy tits’, meself.”
He startled and hit his head on the overhead. Of course Shayde found him. She always found him when he was up to his elbows in problems and especially didn’t need a Shayde-shaped one in his periphery.
“I am very busy,” he grated.
“Aye, I can see that…” The distinct clinking sounds of her lining up his tools. “Yer anger aura’s big enough tae start its own star, ye ken.”
“And yet… you came,” he sighed. Extracted himself. Kicked it. “I have tried everything in the book. I’ve rewired it. I scanned the cylinder heads. I retriculated the spline actuator frigit, for flakk’s sake…”
“Turned it off and turned it back on again?”
Glare. “Off is currently its default state.”
“Bugger.”
Hm. That was one he missed. Rael nodded.
Then Shayde said something to make him homicidally cross. “So where’s the manual?”
“FLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKKK!”
One of the first things one learned as a JOAT, and he’d forgotten it.
When in doubt - check the manual.
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A line from Pacific Rim.
“I’ve never believed in the End Times. We are mankind. Our footprints are on the moon. When the last trumpet sounds and the Beast rises from the pit — we will kill it.”
Curious to see what you do with it. – RecklessPrudence
(#00290)
At first, shortly after the Galactic Community realized humans could be occasionally useful, there was a great deal of prejudice.
Which is pretty normal, considering that generations of trepidation had gone into previously avoiding the entire species.
So, inevitably, when it came to territorial war… there was one solution.
“Send the humans. It might help thin them out a bit.”
It was quite a shock that the humans were: (a) not thinned out at all (b) astonishingly and regularly victorious, and © thirsty for more.
Those who did more considered research soon discovered that humans had been warring for millennia with their mortal enemies… other humans. They got good at war through constant practice. The viler and nastier the enemy, the viler and nastier they got in return.
And they came pre-packaged with an overstock of dirty tricks.
Very few species considered torture at all. Fewer used it.
Only the humans turned it into a mating dance.
Which is how the Galactic Community came to its senses and forged the Pax Homo Sapiens. Briefly summarized as: stay peaceful or the humans will get loose again.
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Failure Modes
“Hilarious” is the failure mode for horror; “nonsense” is the failure mode for conspiracy; “stereo instructions” is the failure mode for SF. –RecklessPrudence
(#00289)
Wishing many happy luck fall on your head following purchase of Penumbra 3K Foraging scavenger vessel!
For program of soaring trail, open star tracings jar. Signal loved star arrival.
For vacuuming gather, open eat jar. Signal for eat debris.
For living air, open cloud jar. Signal for atomic cloud love.
*
Hwell desperately flipped the laminated page over. It showed a picture of a stylized dinosaur holding a steering wheel and giving what he surmised to be a friendly gesture. Friendly stars surrounded the figure and the gigantic, happy company logo.
Whoever had written the idiot-proof manual spoke neither GalStand, whatever language those saurians originally spoke, nor idiot.
Flakk.
Axand'l was going to kill him…
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Because science is amazing.
Someone’s comments on this article.
And God said “Let there be light.”
And Man said “Oh I’ve got to figure out how he does that.”
And verily, did Man pull photons out of the screaming abyss.
Seriously, that’s amazing. Any day now I expect someone to march out of CERN wearing their labcoat over a wizard’s robe and announce that it turns out magic is real. – RecklessPrudence
(#00288)
She dreamed about it, sometimes. Often while Hackmeyer was staring down her cleavage as he mis-explained something she had already stated.
First, she would toss and flip a pen. Then she would Lift it for increasing lengths of time. Until it was obviously disobeying the laws of gravity. Then she’d just hold it there while Hackmeyer stared.
Then she’d mutter an incantation and turn it into a dragonfly, fly it around his head a few times, and then back into a pen, catch it, and pretend unknowing innocence when he tried to prove it to anyone else.
That sort of thing, though, she would have to save up for after her first graduation. No sense driving an evil man crazy - or running the risk of becoming institutionalized herself - until after she got the degree that would have her moving up and out and far, far away from Hackmeyer and his filthy tricks.
It was her little secret. Her’s and her baby brother’s.
Magic was real. All it was doing was waiting for science to catch up.
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How I have felt, on occasion.
Critical system Error at WhattheflyingF.exe
Restoring brain from backup. – RecklessPrudence
(#00287)
“You broke him!”
“Nah-uh. You broke him!”
“You’re the one who told him the fifth pun!”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
Billie the Walter Girl sighed and reached for the Number Five hammer. About thirty PSI seemed about right.
{CLANG!}
“Somebody told a pun,” complained The Spine as he rebooted.
“Yeah, your logic circuits can’t take too many of those,” said Billie. “Gentlebots, do try to limit yourselves to no more than three puns per show in future.”
“What happens at the third pun?” asked Rabbit.
“Well,” said The Spine, “I hit you.”
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For when Holy Water just won’t do…
After a series of unfortunate events I need to know where you can get a ballistic missile sanctified. Preferably with no questions asked. – RecklessPrudence
(#00286)
Blemisch looked over the data again. The weapons of science had had little effect on the beast currently corralled in a crevasse. However, science had determined that certain materials with occult significance had had some impact.
Her team was not the Mythbusters - they were busy. However, certain Mythbuster fans were just as good.
If a little… bizarre.
“It had me in its grip,” reported Blaine. “I was trying to use my keys and it flinched and let go when the Sonic touched it.”
Shaniqua Blaine was a fervent Whovian who could not own more episodes of the show unless she flew to Ethiopia and fetched them herself[1]. If there wasn’t some Who-themed article on her person at any given time, then she was either possessed or deathly ill.
“And here was I thinking it was allergic to rabbit,” snarked Shelley, the token male. “Faith has got to be the key.”
“I didn’t do anything yet,” complained Faith Eddings, the team hacker.
“Not you, the belief-faith,” clarified Crystal Lackey. “If we could get someone who really Believes to bless… Idunno… a missile?”
And that was how Blemisch added a descendant of Van Helsing onto the team. You never know when you might need to bless a ballistic missile at short notice with no questions asked.
[1] True facts: They’ve found over one hundred previously lost episodes in Ethiopia. And it may even fill all the gaps.
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Since I know you got started writing DS9 stuff…
(please note, this does not _have_ to be Star Trek, use whatever fits)
Species 8472 could be reasoned with. They could be bargained with. And they sure as hell did not drive one insane with their mere presence,
The Medusans do.
You have to understand, the Federation has one of the ballsiest diplomatic corps in fiction. They’re the guys who have to walk up to Cthulhu and make friends. – RecklessPrudence
(#00285)
There is a saying in Starfleet: There’s plenty of room for cowards on Earth.
The brave… go into space.
The adventurous… get promoted.
But only the inventive, open-minded, resourceful and fearless get Ambassadorial training. And only the best of those join Starfleet’s Corps Diplomatique.
Twyla didn’t exactly know what she did to get herself fast-tracked into SCD, but she still couldn’t help noticing that she was the youngest one there. They certainly hadn’t replicated any uniforms in her size, before. And in her opinion, still hadn’t.
The data pad clutched tightly to her chest was one meant for all the grownups in the room. Half the buttons on it were a mystery she still hadn’t solved. And, true to her colonial roots, she used the one they gave her for just about everything she could.
Like a shield against the slings and arrows of outrageous -invisible- fortune.
The map had said she was supposed to be here. She even had the right floor. But that didn’t stop Twyla from feeling like an impostor. Like she was about to get yelled at for invading grownup space.
The grownups were talking in a cluster. Some sitting. Some standing. One sitting on a console. Their more tailored uniforms and ease of being here made her feel even less confident.
One poked another one, pointed to her, and laughed under his breath.
“Hey, sweetheart,” smiled the pokee. “You lost? Lookin’ for your daddy? Your mommy?”
Her knuckles went white. “I’m… s'posed'a report t’ room… 34D8?” Damnit. The colonial hick-talk spilled out whenever she panicked.
Now all six of them were smiling and poking each other. There were women among them, but Twyla got the feel of a bunch of bullies.
Miles from home and her Hucker Stick. Fighting was against the rules. Twyla had looked them up. Therefore, she had to be… diplomatic.
“I’m to attend Professor Granger’s class on diplomatic resolution and understanding,” she managed far more bravery in her voice than she was feeling, right now. Twyla made herself let go of the padd to offer her hand. “I’m Twyla DeVries.”
Three words, and their attitudes changed in an instant. “The Plaitzar Colony Twyla DeVries?”
“Discoverer of the Maliatt?”
“Ambassador for the Maliatt?”
“Uh.” Twyla reeled her hand back in and clung to her padd. “Yah?”
They were no longer bullies. They were fans.
“Omigod.”
“Holy shit…”
“EEEEEEEEE!” One of the women did an insane little dance.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the parental thing. I had no idea. Obviously.”
“So I’m in the right place?” asked Twyla.
“Sweetie, I’m surprised you aren’t teaching us.”
Everywhere she went -well, almost everywhere- thereafter, those six grownups made themselves her honour guard.
Twyla DeVries. Twelve-year-old ambassador material.
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Challenge #00284: All Things Ridiculous and Human
Squashed Fly Biscuits - the round shortbread ones or garibaldis, whichever is more convenient.
Bonus points if someone is disappointed to find out they don’t contain real flies.
(all the bonus points ever if it involves T'reka, I’ve totally fallen in love with that story, but realistically whoever fits the prompt)
From the Journal of T'reka the Inquisitive:
With exposure, I have been picking up some of the human language. They understand that I am still learning and change their speech modes accordingly. On our return to Toxic Island, and with some help, I helped them understand that they were sharing the planet with my people, and that my people were more comfortable with the humans remaining on Toxic Island for now.
They are currently pleased with this, as colonizing Toxic Island has proven to be difficult. Or, to use a human term, ‘interesting’. They are sharing with me their foods and beverages. Which can be a source of some confusion…
*
Alice watched Trekker as she lit politely on a chair not made for her anatomy. For all her muted colour, she was a pretty bird. Avian life form. As always, her monitors’ lights indicated that she was recording.
As always, her query in English was preceded by mutterings in her native tongue. Alice could pick out a few words, here and there, even if she mangled their pronunciation.
Eventually, Trekker asked/sang, “What you make?”
Alice didn’t think too hard. She was busy measuring and mixing. “Squashed Fly Biscuits.”
Trekker’s eyes lit up. “You insectivorous?”
Oops. “Not this time. Sorry. It is a… wrong name on purpose. A misnomer.”
“No flies?” sang Trekker sadly.
“No flies. Is raisins. Dried grapes.” Alice offered her a spare handful.
Trekker examined them in a very birdlike way. Looking at them with each eye. Twice. Thrice. Gently picked one up in her wing-fingers and tasted it.
“Very grape. Very sugar.”
“Sweet. We say 'sweet’ for sugar taste,” corrected Alice.
“Your talk has many word for same thing,” complained Trekker. “Why you no say 'dry grape biscuits’?”
Ah. They’d had trouble over this, before. “It is funny for us. Raisins look like squashed flies. We do not eat real flies. They are… unclean.” Alice had to stop herself from adopting Trekker’s singsong method of talking. “Make us very sick.”
“Is joke, yes?”
“Yes. Is joke.”
“Is all joke for food? I hear males talk and eat of 'shit on shingle’.”
Alice blushed. “Not all jokes are for food,” she allowed. “Just some. We find many things funny.”
“Why did chicken cross the road? For science?” offered Trekker.
Alice sighed. As far as her version of diplomacy was concerned, this was a massive failure. “Ye-es,” she allowed. “But that is also a joke in bad taste.”
“Bad… taste?”
“Because it makes fun of you.”
Trekker bird-examined her. Looking with each eye. “You… respect science?”
“Yes. Otherwise we’d still be in a cave and hitting each other with rocks.”
“For my people… science is… foolish. I am… used… to being made fun of.” She preened a little. Coming over as nervous and shy. “Curiosity is same word for… idiot.”
Alice sniffed back proto-tears. Never before had she wanted so hard to just grab the alien creature and hug all the bad feeling away. Alas, this was still seen as an attack move by Trekker. “We hold curiosity in great merit,” Alice explained. “For us, stupidity is never asking 'why’.”
Trekker sat a little straighter. Held her head a little higher. “I am start to hold human in great merit,” she sang.
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You overhear the strangest things from public-phone conversations sometimes…
“…well, sir, it was about, oh, a meter or so tall, looked kinda like if someone had stuck bat-ears, a big-lipped face, skinny arms and legs, a ratty wig, and, er, prominent female features on a big lima-bean of some sort and… …No, no sir, I’m not drunk or drugged, I swear it. As I clocked in and went to begin my shift, it - or she, I guess - was sloppily wandering around the central dispatch area in gaudy jewelry, sunglasses, heeled sandals and what looked like a gold bikini, waving an empty glass around and shouting in a heavily-slurred accent that she wanted more booze… …Yes, sir, that’s exactly why I’m resigning - pardon my bluntness, but seeing crazy shit like that while stone-cold sober is proof I’m nowhere even close to cut out for this job.” – Josh
(#00283)
It took a special kind of person to work in Crypto-control. If someone was going to go nuts over a grade three goblin in a Las Vegas state of mind, they clearly didn’t belong. No matter how unflappable the FBI said they were.
Clearly, it was half-past time to look in other areas for recruits. FBI, CIA and the rest of the secret service alphabet were far too ready to throw their hands up and quit at the slightest glimpse of the strange, the bizarre and the unexpected.
Director Blemisch threw her pile of candidate profiles in the nearest trash can and bought up her favourite browser, then her most secure search engine. She tapped her ideal qualifications into the search engine and crossed her fingers.
She needed someone with unique qualifications.
Open minded.
Able to accept strange new circumstances
Physically fit
Capable with most known weapons
Adaptability
Prepared for unexpected events
The search engine’s progress bar crawled at a snail’s pace. Blemisch left to retrieve a snack and a beverage from the empty and desolate break room.
When she came back, the engine said she might find what she was looking for at a place called M5 Industries.
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