Challenge #00282: The Kindness of Strangers
In the bottom of one of the many pockets of the bag, forgotten but apparently not for that long, was a slightly battered perfectly pink apple. It had been on many journeys, and was remarkably unscathed considering how easily apples usually succumb to bumping about in a bag full of other odds and ends.
There was a face on it. A happy face made of two small circles and a larger arc. Cut into the skin by someone else’s knife.
It also smelled sweet. And made Tia’s stomach rumble.
Tia bought it closer to her mouth.
And gasped in shock as a gnarled old hand snapped onto her wrist. “That’s not yours, young lady.”
His eyes were older than the rest of him. And full of so very much pain.
Tia didn’t let it go. “You gonna eat it?”
“No.”
“You gonna let it rot?” she made a face.
“It won’t rot,” said the old man. “It’s… a memory. From an old friend.”
Tia’s stomach rumbled some more. “I’m hungry. Got anything edible?”
“Edible is a big word for a little girl.”
“Not really. It only has six letters. If you want a big word, try ‘condescending’.”
A warm smile. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He dipped into his coat pockets and presented a banana like a man pulling a rabbit out of his hat. “I don’t often have my bag of memories out. Here. This one’s edible.”
Tia swapped it for the apple. She watched the old man kiss the stylized face and slip it back into the bag from whence it came.
The banana was delicious. It filled the empty places, but not quite all of them. “That bag’s bigger than it looks. You got lots of stuff, mister.”
“Doctor,” said the old man.
“You don’t look like a doctor.”
Now the smile reached all the way into the eyes. Masked some of the pain. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”
Tia sighed. “Pity. Folks keep getting sick in the tumbledowns.”
“Don’t they have doctors for you?”
“Not the good kind. Doctor for the tumbledowns make people vanish. Underfolk don’t like those doctors.”
“Of course not,” said the old man. “So. Anything… special… about this illness?”
“Folks turn blue and go… strange. Then the doctors come and vanish them.” Tia licked banana off her fingers. “And it’s never the folks as aught to get sick. Like older folks or the littlies. It’s all the fit folks. The young folks. Everyone as should stay healthy.”
“Interesting,” said the old man. “All right. I think I should have a look. But I do have a few rules.”
Tia groaned and rolled her eyes. “Go on.”
“Don’t wander off. When I say run, run. Do not pull any levers, press any buttons or otherwise fiddle with things you don’t understand. And never. Ever. Try to touch anything strange.”
Somehow, the old man made the bag vanish on the way to the tumbledowns. He had a magic wand that he flicked around at random. Whatever it told him, Tia couldn’t figure out. Yet.
It took him ten minutes to find the monsters.
Two hours to defeat them.
After that, Tia didn’t want to quit running with the Doctor.
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See where this bit of commenting takes you…
“I feel like I am just footsteps away from either screaming in fury or breaking down into body-shaking tears… and I’m not sure which. But you’d never tell it by looking at me. I’m good at bottling things up and repressing my reactions. For a while anyway; every bottle breaks eventually, no matter how sturdy its glass. I don’t know when I began this habit, or why I keep doing it, but I do. Better than flying into raging or sobbing at the drop of a hat, I guess… isn’t it?” – Josh
(#00280)
Anything is better than being assumed to be unreasonable. Unstable. Unreliable. In brief, everything that people like me are expected to be.
I fought for everything I have. The way things are, those who are less in social standing have to do twice as much to get half as good. At the bare minimum.
To prevent dangerous cracks in the public eye, I have to vent in extreme private.
There’s a little cupboard well away from walls I share with my neighbours. I line the walls with as much fabric as I can squeeze into the space I don’t need to exist in there. Then, with the help of a pillow, I scream and cry until those cracks are -however temporarily- secure.
Every time I go out, I can feel the world’s eyes on me. Watching. Waiting. Wanting me to fail. It weighs heavily on the cracks in my bottle.
Every day is the same. Only little details change. The faces of the people who squeeze me out of my seat on the train. The sharpness of the elbows that find reasons to pummel me. The slurs dropped from lips with the pretense of innocence. The shoes on the feet that try to trip me. The coats on the backs of the people who cut me off in queues. The bluntness of the shoulders that collide with me when I try to get into doorways.
The voices that apologize and never mean it, when I am passed over for employment.
But then… I suppose it’s what I deserve. For the sins of my ancestors. For the sins of others exactly like me.
White men did so much to ruin the world.
It’s only fair that the world exacts its revenge.
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Challenge #00279: Welcome Walter’s Metal Men
Steam Powered Giraffe are in the x-verse, only they’re really mechanical men (made by someone with Forge-like skill) or living-metal mutants (similar to Colossus). Your choice.
“Sara… What the hell?”
“Dun ma'e me smi'e…” Sara said, drawing on her face with metallic paint. She was wearing, amongst other things, a corset, a frilly skirt, striped stockings, and accessories apparently made of gears.
“You know you can just program your holographic emitter to do whatever, don’t you?” criticized Jean.
“Or train myself to make my skin do all the makeup work, yes,” said Sara. “But that’s cheating.”
Jean rolled her eyes and groaned.
“This, on the other hand, is art.” She changed brushes from bronze makeup to silver makeup. There was also verdigris greens and blues, black, and assorted powders. And also some mysterious plastic parts and theatrical glue. “I have a white coat and a blue wig if you want to come along…”
“As…?”
“A Walter Girl. Minimal makeup involvement. Most freshman fans turn up as Walter Girls and Boys.”
“Fans of what?”
“Steam Powered Giraffe, of course.”
Jean almost broke a synapse trying to figure out what reality Sara was speaking from. “I’m coming along, but only to keep an eye on you.”
“Funny, that’s just what Mr Logan said…”
*
“LA DA DA DA DA! LA DA DA DA DA!”
Logan had already installed his own earplugs. The fact that he already owned a vintage outfit was only slightly disturbing in comparison to the fact that the ‘robots’ on the stage were actually metal people.
They’d put a lot of work into seeming to be people dressed up as robots, but they had no telepathic presence.
They were things.
True, actual, vintage robots.
Whoever Colonel Walter was, he was a Forge-level genius.
Jean barely had any advance warning of the attempted robbers, and was just able to warn every organic life-form in the room to duck.
Bullets ricochetted harmlessly off of the three robots on stage.
“That wasn’t very nice,” said Rabbit.
“That wasn’t very nice at all,” agreed Hatchworth.
“Shall I -uh- take 'em down, gentlebots?” offered The Spine.
“Let’s get 'em together,” said Hatchworth.
“One,” said The Spine.
“Two,” added Hatchworth.
“Threeeeeee!” Rabbit cackled.
Their website story had said they also contained weapons. That was not a lie. For all their technological seniority, they had precision aim and deliberately fired to incapacitate.
The crowd went wild.
Jean boggled. “You knew?”
“Of course we knew. They only pretend to be organic for the newbies in the audience.” Sara smiled. “Guess who had a hand in making them their flesh suits?”
Of course. The only mutant in the room with experience in shedding her own skin. “So you’re the one who made Bunny a girl?”
“No, she specifically requested it. She’s always been a girl. It’s just that she hasn’t had her chassis upgraded yet. Or is it returned to original specs? There’s a long story involving a theft of the original plans and trying to raise the funds to go find them. These 'bots are still paying off their refurbishment by Waltercorp.”
“That’s a real thing?”
“Ask Tony Stark. Or Forge.” Sara twirled away to dance with the other 'fanbots’ in the audience.
The night was only starting to get weird.
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Challenge #00278: Den of Iniquity
Jacqui, the blackie, the lackey named Pertwee (and yes I know she’s a she! :P) and the almost comical bond formed watching the terrorist let loose in a crafts store.
[AN: Can we not have racist (or any –ist) words in submissions, please? No matter how cute it might be that it rhymes, it is not a nice word.]
John Smith had come to catch the mutant out. He still suspected that Scott Summers was somehow cheating, even after all this unexpected familiarity with mutant-kind. Even after finding out that no matter how mutant a mutant was, physically, they were still human, mentally.
Though Sara was a matter of some debate. Primarily because she had rarely been human in her mind before she became a ‘fully fledged’ mutant.
And speaking of Sara…
There was Mrs Adrien. High-powered socialite and unexpected advocate for mutant rights including the right to be treated like any other human being. Wearing a shade of blue that looked very fetching, rather than her trademark strawberry-pink power suit, or - Smith realized - her post-mutant-daughter purple.
Sharing leaning-space on the square column was none other than Agent Jane Pertwee. Trying to look menacing whilst also simultaneously leaning on a column and being damn near bored to death.
Come to think of it, his feet kind of hurt, too.
“This place needs courtesy couches.”
“There’s a kiddies’ zone in the far east corner,” said Jacqui. “Rubber jigsaw mats in various stages of decay, sadly. And the Smurfs cartoon series on an endless loop.”
Smith vomited in his mouth a little. “Ugh. Thanks but no thanks. I didn’t know you shopped here.”
“I’m don’t,” said Jacqui. “Sara’s insisting on becoming a 'fanbot’ for some something-punk band and can’t find the right kind of wig. Or makeup. Or items of flair. To be very strictly honest, I’ve lost track.”
“At least yours walks around,” griped Pertwee. “Mine’s been up and down the yarn aisles five times. And he’s picking up that same fucking ball of wool again!”
Smith could understand. He’d been allowing Summers to lead at increasing distances until the column looked like a very nice place to lean.
There was a distant crow of, “Yes! Gears!” from somewhere in the craft-themed labyrinth.
Jacqui remained rooted to her spot.
“I think your daughter’s found everything she’s looking for,” prompted Smith.
Jacqui leveled a glare at him. “You obviously have limited experience with craftspeople.”
“I’m picking up some of the lingo,” Smith confessed.
“Six times,” muttered Pertwee. “Ooo. He’s decided to take the fucking ball of wool. How excitement.”
“Sara’s culching,” explained Jacqui. “Whatever she comes to the checkouts with, it may not all be used for her current project, but it might come in handy.”
“OoooOOOOOoooo…” came the faint coo of Sara. Evidently, she had found something cool.
Jacqui rolled her eyes. “I really should look at some comfortable shoes,” she noted. “Or a portable chair.”
“I can recommend FitFlops,” deadpanned Pertwee. “They’re made for people who get sore feet. And ensure that they don’t.”
“No,” agonized Pertwee. “Don’t go looking at the crochet hooks again…”
“I take it some are more fussy about their sources than others?” Smith enquired.
“No,” said Jacqui in a dead, flat voice. “They’re all like that.”
“Sometimes?” said Pertwee, “We have to get rounded up by store security at the end of the day.” Her mad smile had nothing to do with finding anything funny.
“Been there, done that, got a dozen tee shirts,” said Jacqui.
Somehow, Smith got the idea that he would not be finding any mutant cheating, today. He would, however, be finding sore feet and the little cafe around the corner that made its keep from bored co-customers like him and Jacqui.
Pertwee, unfortunately for her, was not allowed to leave her post.
Smith bought her coffee anyway.
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“Awwwww!!!”
Good idea, wrong innovator. Bonus if you can use a member of the new recruits not normally given a starring role. Details please.
(#00277)
{trickle trickle trickle trickle DOONK}
Jamie leaned back in appreciation. He made it work! He made something work! And it was beautiful.
“What the hell, Squirt?”
“It’s an office meditation toy,” he announced. Sure, this one was made out of whatever he could scrounge, but the finished product… was going to be awesome.
The pipe set just so under the recirculating water tipped with a {DOONK} noise.
“That sorta thing’s for gardens, Squirt. You’d never get anyone to set that thing up in their office. Too distracting. Too annoying. Too big.”
“Aawwwwww…”
*
Three weeks later, someone else had a similar idea on the shelves. Albeit, briefly on the shelves before an eager customer nabbed it and paid twice what Jamie had imagined he could sell it for.
Jamie stared in red-faced fury at the display poster and wished he could get away with kicking Mister Logan.
“Hey, Squirt, we’re headin’…” Logan stopped. He, too, had connected the dots.
Jamie, meanwhile, was fighting back tears.
“Too big, you said,” he managed. “Too annoying.” Sniff. “I coulda made a whole bunch'a money…”
Logan was shaking his head and whispering unprintable things about stupid people. “Tell ya what, kid. Next time you have a dumb idea, I’ll back it.”
“He-ey…”
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Challenge #00276: Peck of Dust, Dust, Dust…
Dust.
People tend to think about the big things, when it comes to the perils of space travel. Meteors. Solar flares. Stresses on the air tanks. Sparks in unwanted places.
Few ever ponder that a crew might encounter trouble with their own epithelial cloud.
Five year missions were the maximum, after the trouble had been discovered, of course. People who got dandruff either had to shave (carefully!), vacuum, or pass on the idea of going into space in the first place.
Filters could only do so much, and by the end of that five-year cruise, the entire crew were wearing filter masks to escape the choking miasma.
Kale was on Dust Duty, pretty much permanently. The reward for a job well done was not promotion, in her case. Her reward for a job well done was to keep doing it unto perpetuity.
Or so she thought.
This scavenger crew came back with smiles, a distinct absence of coughs, and a definitive lack of filters stuck to their faces.
No rheumy eyes. No puffy faces. Even Dan Dander had let his hair grow.
“What the shit?” Kale complained. “Did you guys just sit around and fart for five years?”
“Nope,” smiled the captain. “We found us some bau-bubbles.”
“Baubles?”
“No, bau-bubbles.”
“Bubbles?”
“I’ll say it slowly. Bau-bubbles. Little, living bubble-bauble-squid lookin’ things. Some old archive on board called ‘em Fhitts. Onomatopoea,” he shrugged. “I like bau-bubbles better. It’s classier.”
“It won’t catch on,” Kale took a shot at his enthusiasm. “The lizards go with first identification and don’t listen to us.” She stared at one as it drifted through the air on jets of its own making.
It was iridescent, like a soap bubble, but without the swirling caused by the motion of liquid. Making it look almost like a Christmas bauble had escaped its mother tree.
Then Kale saw the tentacles.
“They EAT dust!” Dan Dander whooped. “Aren’t they just beautiful?”
On the upside, once these were in every ship, they didn’t need to worry about dust any more. And she could do anything else other than Dust Duty.
Things were starting to look up.
*
They bred like freaking cockroaches. They sometimes ate the freaking cockroaches, too, which was a minor plus point, but they were everywhere.
Pro: There was no such thing as Dust Duty andy more. Con: There was now Fhitt Scraping Detail.
Little bastards got into the filters and died there.
It was almost a relief, two years later, when a different scavenger crew came in with the Fhitt-eating spiders.
Almost.
Kale had a hard time making up her mind which was worse: hairy, ten-legged spiders in the face, Fhitt Scraping Detail, or Dust Duty.
There had to be a better way.
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Challenge #00275: On the Folly of Tailored Worlds
When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s a bore. Eh?
Worlds can not be built. That sort of thing takes millions of years, and no known cogniscents are willing to wait that long.
They can, however, be tailored.
The most famous group for doing this are the Archivaas. A human-descended cult of collecting, collating, storing and sorting records and information of all kinds. As a preventative measure against data loss, post Shattering, much akin to guarding the vault after a theft.
These obsessive-compulsive hoarders turn entire planetary systems into libraries.
But they are not the silliest example of planet-tailoring.
That award goes to Polyxicon IV, a planet owned by one of the wealthiest heirs of North Quarter Greater Deregulation. Once the planet’s surface had been groomed to his expectations, he was quite upset that the planet did not have a romantic moon.
The solution, since he also despised ocean noise, was to install a faux moon that orbited on demand at a satisfactory level above most buildings. It was made of a Control Operated Levitation unit with a rudimentary AI and coated in thick layers of sponge.
This turned out to be an advantageous construction choice.
The moon’s AI got bored, after a few human generations, and began deliberately bumping in to romance-inclined couples for its own entertainment.
For serial monogamists, this soon became a factor of irritation.
And the rebirth -and re-wording- of an old Terran song.
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Challenge #00274: Anomalous Behavior
21 years ago there was a container spilt at sea containing thousands of bright yellow rubber duckies as well as frogs and turtles. Scientists are still using the data from where they are found to make better charts of ocean currents and point out anomalies and there were notices posted on loads of beaches of a number to call and where to find the duck’s serial number to make sure it was from the spill.
Most have been recovered, but every year a few more wash up.
With that background out of the way, may we see more of the bird-alien from the “humans are scary” prompt? Either encountering a rubber ducky in the wild, or observing a child finding one on the beach. Squeakiness of rubber ducky optional.
[AN: I DID mention that this is happening on a freshly-colonized planet. This is going to be tricky]
T'reka settled herself in the underbrush. The humans came along this path to gather fish and pumice stones. How would they react to her own anomalous find on the beach?
It was a Water Chick. A toy from her culture, to encourage the little ones to bathe. Some had spilled from a supply drone after it crashed into the ocean, and they were turning up in unexpected places.
Like this island, where everything was toxic, poisonous, venomous, or merely capable of ripping a living body to pieces.
There some were. Fascinating creatures. Evidently, this was a family group. Two parents and three smaller children, the latter group spent all of their time running from point of interest to point of interest. Some were poking at things with sticks.
The littlest, fastest child ran over and picked up the toy. “Mamamamamamamama! It'sayellowrubberduckie! Looklooklooklook!”
‘Mama’ came over and took it from the child. Turned her back on T'reka’s hiding spot.
Adult humans had been turning their backs towards her a lot, lately.
*
“Don’t look now, our little friend is back.”
“Grey Chicken? Yeah, I spotted 'em.”
“This… isn’t a rubber duckie.”
It looked a lot like one, but some details were definitely off. Ducks, for example, did not have pointed beaks. Or blue crests. Or writing on the bottom unlike anything known to earth.
Dave gave it an experimental squeeze. It made a sad noise like a deflating balloon.
“Heylookthere'sanotherone!” Tim raced off and held a second one high. Jumping up and down and waving it in the air.
Bea took out her datacorder and started mapping co-ordinates. “With some data on water flows, we could track these back to their source.”
“Think Grey Chicken isn’t alone?”
“No-one goes down a one-way wormhole alone, Dave.”
“They’re obviously not out to get us. Maybe we can come to an arrangement.”
“Yeah, but they’re skittish. Two more steps her way and Grey Chicken is out of there.”
“We don’t even know where or how she lives.”
“Yeah, but we can work out where these rubber duckies are coming from.”
“They look more like rubber chickies, though.”
“Argue later. Let’s see if we can’t get some more data points.”
*
Journal, Toxic Island. Month seven, day 28.
The humans have taken to combing the beaches, finding all the Water Chick toys that they can. There is extreme interest in their camps surrounding their presence.
Some have taken to constructing a large vessel on the eastern side of the island. It is too big to be a proper boat, and the building materials will surely sink.
Nobody can build a boat out of metal!
*
Journal, Toxic island. Month eight, day fifteen.
It FLOATS!
Against the advice of the elders, I am concealing myself aboard to observe the humans’ behavior.
*
Journal, Metal boat. Month one, day thirty.
I keep finding food at convenient times. I think they know I’m here. Why do they provide for me?
The humans continue to track the Water Chicks. Collecting and cataloguing them.
I think they’re learning where the Water Chicks are coming from. Something we were never able to find out, on our own. They are relentless in pursuit of prey. Even when that prey is inanimate.
*
Journal, Metal boat. Month two, day twelve.
One saw me. They were waiting by the convenient food. In a place I would not initially see them.
It was a young female. Not yet mature enough to be an adult, but no longer completely a child.
It had some of my favourite fruit in one hand.
*
“Here, chick chick?”
T'reka froze. Seen! Humans killed anything they saw as the Other, and none was more Other than herself.
Every instinct told her to flee and hide. But T'reka had been trained to overcome her instincts. To analyze the situation and make new choices.
She rose from her huddle, slowly, and tapped her collarbone. “T'reka.”
A many-toothed smile. “Wila.” A copy of the gesture T'reka had made.
They learned fast, these humans.
T'reka showed her empty hands. The human did the same, but still offered the fruit with one.
Step by step, T'rek approached the most dangerous being known to all cogniscents. And took food from its hand.
The human gently stroked her wing-feathers. “So soft…”
*
Journal, Metal boat. Month two, day thirteen.
The humans are friendly.
Who knew?
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Mundane Utility: The Sequel
Expanding on the previous challenge, why not show how some other mutants with fantastic superhuman powers use their incredible abilities for decidedly non-incredible things? Pick at least two. Oh, but not obvious/overdone stuff like Jean using her TK as an extra hand - be creative. – Josh
(#00273)
“This is my popcorn,” Lance protested. “You want some, go make your own.”
“But I’m hungry now,” protested Freddy.
Todd used his prehensile tongue to snag a lions’ share in one, large {da-gloomp}. “Yo, how ‘bout you make popcorn for alla’ us?”
“Gyah. Dammit!” Lance shoved the remainder at Fred and stomped back towards the kitchen.
*
Kitty looked both ways before pushing her fingers inside her locker padlock. She had never received a combination or, if she had, she’d quickly lost it or forgotten it and hadn’t really been bothered. Besides, this was good practice for focused phasing and unphasing.
{klik-tik, ta-snak!} the litte combination lock sprung open and Kitty could get to her textbooks.
*
“Tell me, Ms Adrien,” said the very severe-looking FBI agent across the table from her. “How is it that you can 'feel the difference’ in counterfeit bills with one hundred percent accuracy when it takes our criminal forensics labs weeks to identify them?”
Sara, still in her Cleanup Fairy uniform (her client had been too cheap to pay her to remove the wings) and half her hazmat gear, grinned nervously. “It’s a long and complicated story, really.”
“Precis it for us.”
“Uh. How do you feel about mutants?”
“They’re just like everyone else, in the end. Which means an equal likelihood of being heroes or villains. Which are you?”
“Chaotic good?” Sara’ optimistic smile faded the longer she stared at the agent’s disapproving face. “Watch carefully.” A deep breath. Forced relaxation. And her pink skin turned into a dazzling array of aqua scales.
“You’re green!”
“I prefer to think of myself as a little bit blue-ish.” She held a single finger forward. The scales were much smaller on the palm side of her hand. If you could imagine a mosaic made of millions of pinheads, all coloured unique shades of aqua, you might come close to the overall effect. “They’re not scales, but chromatophores. I can take on the colour and texture of anything in my immediate environment to effectively disappear. But, in order to do so, each chromatophore also contains a rudimentary eye, and some other senses.”
The FBI agent boggled at her.
“I can 'see’ more details with my hands than my eyes. So I naturally notice when something is 'off’ with the money I handle. If there’s a file on me–”
“You better believe there’s a file on you.”
“Good. Then you’ll note that my first enquiry contained separated samples, including genuine cash from the US mint.”
She went to the copious folder at her elbow. Double-checking. Telling that that entry was two-thirds of the way through.
“See, I’m new to this skin. Shedding is horrid, let me assure you of that. So I couldn’t be certain which ones were which. Once you sent the normal money back, I could -pardon the pun- get my hand in.”
Flip. Flip flip flip. Flip. “And,” flip flip, “thereafter you only sent us the 'funny money’”
“Catalogued by source,” added Sara. “I thought it might be helpful.”
The FBI agent got up, taking the file, and left.
Sara wriggled free of the cuffs so she could scratch an itch, then wriggled back into them again. There was quite the extensive argument going on, behind the mirror. Those rooms were not nearly as sound-proof as they thought.
The temptation was so very strong to write a message on the mirror -backwards, so they could read it- to keep the noise down.
Sara pulled her ankles up and entered the Lotus Pose(adapted, of course, to accomodate the cuffs). Calm. Regulate breathing. Let all come to the centre, and the centre will hold.
“How are you doing that?”
“I told you,” said Sara without looking, “chromatophores. I blend in with the scenery. There’s also a sub-telepathic 'ignore me’ field going on, but that usually happens when I’m stressed.” She opened her eyes. “I take it that there’s some debate with regards to hiring me as a consultant.”
“What? Are you a telepath, too?”
“No, I just do an eerie impersonation of one. You’re a very loud debater, Agent Brooks.” Sara made her skin relax back to its natural state. “And, to my credit, I never once perpetuated a crime portrayed in any of my films or animations.”
“We also have your 'perfect murder’ files.”
“Well… I was working on a game… Didn’t pan out. I guess I’ll have to save those for mystery writing.”
“There’s one in there to kill the President!”
“And notable other public figures. So far, the only one worth any of the bother is Tony Abbot. And I can’t afford the air fare.”
“Who the hell is Tony Abbot?”
“Too soon,” said Sara. She cleared her throat. “Look. Have I actually committed any crime?”
“None that we can prove. Or prosecute.”
“And nothing decodable in my journals is any real threat?”
“It’s the encoded stuff that bothers us.”
“Now you share the joy at reading redacted documents. Welcome to Karma.” Another itch bothered her and she did the cuff trick again, without thinking. “If consultant is too high up the ladder, perhaps informant might make you feel more comfortable? Is there anything lower than informant?”
“Yeah. Perp.”
“Then informant will have to do. Parade me through the security check of your choice. I’m willing to co-operate.”
Brooks was staring at her wrists. “So I see.’
Ooops. "Sorry. They itch. Isn’t the fact that I put them back on proof that I’m an amenable person?”
“No, it proves you’re willing to mess with our heads.”
“What must I do to prove to you I’m not a mutant terrorist threat?”
“Decode your journals.”
“Hm. Surrender all privacy.” Sara thought hard about it. The FBI liked having all the information, but did not like sharing. “There’s some coded information in some journals that should never be used by anyone alive today. It’s just that dangerous.”
“How dangerous?”
“A power source that could, in the wrong hands, blow the planet in half.”
“And you thought that up.”
“And encoded it so it would take several someones a few thousand years to decode it. Even using the monkey-typewriter model.” A shrug. “I get ideas like some folks get dandruff. The only way to make them stop is to write them down. Even when they’re capital-D dangerous.”
She left again. Another argument ensued behind the window.
This was getting tiresome.
“Fine,” said Brooks on her return. She handed over a piece of paper. “You turn up at this address every Tuesday morning at eight sharp. You do not talk to anyone not wearing FBI ID. You stay inside, under guard, and you do not pull that blending-into-the-walls bullshit. And you definitely do not escape any more cuffs, no matter how itchy you are. Any questions?”
“Is there a dress code?”
“Since it’s you, I’d say 'neon’.”
“You have some very nice paper. A grade or three up from common A4. Who’s your supplier?”
There was no answer from Brooks. Just two burly guards to escort her roughly into the black van that had picked her up from her job.
“Do I get my phone back? I have to rearrange my calendar!”
The following Tuesday, she turned up in neon rainbows. Brooks had to get very specific with the dress code, after that.
[Muse food remaining: 4 (fic war prompts, 0). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
Challenge #00272: So sharp…
Realising that Wolverine rarely, if ever, actually washes his claws
or
Wolverine getting a hand cleaning the claws, because it’s fiddly when both sets are out and he can’t put them away until all the bits of zombie/dirt/stuff are gone
[AN: Since it’s my birthday, today, you get both.]
“Whaddaya mean, don’t ‘perform field surgery’?”
“What is up with you?” demanded Scott.
Sara looked around at their stunned faces. “None of you noticed?”
“Noticed what?” asked Kitty.
“Logan’s claws can cut anything, but they’ve never gone through soap and water?” Sara prompted.
More blank stares.
“He never washes them!”
One by one, the collective pennies dropped. All stared in horror at a man cutting steak with knives he put away inside his body.
“What? said Logan. ”I never got sick.“
====
The instant the fighting was down to an easily-mopped-up few, Sara started running towards Logan. He was in the thick of the fight, or the thick of what was left of the fight. Enjoying himself.
"Logan!”
“Yeh?”
“It’s vitally important that you do NOT retract your claws after you down the last one.”
“Yeh?”
“Yes. Blood-borne pathogens. They’ll get into you via your claws and the cuts they make.”
The look of horror as he smashed the last one’s brains was almost poetic.
His adamantium talons were coated in assorted ichors from tip to root.
“That’s why you passed out these helmets.”
“Spatter plus orifii equals infection,” said Sara. She got on her team comm. “Kurt? I need you to bamf back to the X-jet and fetch the big blue bag with Zombie Preparedness on it.”
“The TARDIS bag?”
“That’s the one.”
“Seriously?” interjected Kitty. “You prepared for zombies?”
“Where do you think all the helmets and machetes came from?”
“Like, I do not know if you’re crazy-prepared or just plain crazy…”
“Well, I could have just thought of myself and made it a much smaller bag,” said Sara.
“Shuttingup.”
“OOF!” Teutonic cursing came through the comms. “What do you have in here? A portable forensics lab?”
“Amongst other things, yes.”
“Unglaublich…” Static as he teleported. From the sound of things, it was a series of shorter hops than his initial trip to the Blackbird. When he arrived, he was out of breath and perspiring.
Sara immediately dug out the ration bars. “Here. Max calories in minimum packaging.”
Kurt almost inhaled three before he noticed that the taste was not that great. “Gott! These are those awful fruity oat bars you got me to test…”
“You’re welcome,” snarked Sara. She cleared a level space and set up the lab. Took several swabs of ichor from Logan’s claws. Inserted them in test tubes with fluid from numbered bottles.
Kurt had been going through the rest of it. “Since when do you need laminated instructions?”
“In case I get infected, dear. So someone else knows how to use it.” She absent-mindedly set up a small macroscope and began flicking tube contents under the analyzer whilst staring at the screen. “Mmm. Lysol. Clorox… And good old Dettol.”
A wicked grin spread across Sara’s face.
“Tallwater…” warned Logan.
“Wire brush and Dettol!” Sara cackled in Billy Connolly’s voice. A notepad and paper. “Right. Kurt, dear? Here’s your looting list. Try to be quick and careful?”
“Ja.” {BAMF!}
Sara, meanwhile, emptied half the contents of three bottles into a bowl and swished them around with what turned out to be a vacuum-packed sponge. “Let’s do what we can…”
There were no wire brushes, so the team had to resort to steel wool and chemical-soaked paper towels. Two worked on each hand - carefully, of course - to ensure that every last nanometer of adamantium talon was spotless.
Logan grimaced and winced at the steel wool.
“It shouldn’t hurt,” noted Sara.
“No,” squeaked Logan. “It tickles.”
“And done,” said Jean.
Sara took out a very small flamethrower. “Not quite.”
They also burned the sponges and steel wool.
“I didn’t know you could burn metal,” said Kurt.
“With enough heat, you can burn anything,” said Sara. She waved vaguely at the sun. “QED.”
Logan was staring at his claws like a man seeing them for the first time. They were no longer cherry-red from the heat, but they were still too hot to retract properly. “You win,” he said. “You figure out a way for me to wash 'em, and I’ll wash 'em. Regularly.”
“You do care!” Sara chirped. “All we really need to do is install lever-controls on all the taps. That way, you can operate them with your elbow.”
“You like, totally think of everything.”
“Thank you,” said Sara.
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