Challenge #00271: Rule 9 for Life
The mundane uses of adamantium claws
[AN: For those unfamiliar with Gibbs and his rules, rule 9 is “Never go anywhere without a knife”]
There is a saying that goes, ‘for a man with a hammer, every problem looks like a nail’. For Logan, he always had a knife.
He used them to snag apples from the fruit bowl. To open tricky parcels. To open mail. To shave with. To deal with that horrible shrink wrap that industries put on everything.
And, much to Sara’s disgust, to cut his steaks.
“Something wrong with meat, Tallwater?”
“Something wrong with a clean steak knife?” she countered.
“Don’t need 'em,” smirked Logan. “These are better.”
Sara shuddered. “Do me a favour and never perform field surgery with them?”
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Challenge #00270: Heroic
Bigger brother usually has the spotlight, he’s always the one they call when there’s trouble, and he’s good at what he does. But sometimes, the younger sibling saves the day.
He called himself Pax, an ancient word for peace. Of course, the first time he was noticed as a hero, the headline read, PAX A PUNCH! in typical headliner absence of humor.
He was tall, strong, could fly, very little could harm him and, when he sang, he had an orpheatic influence on everyone around him. He once stopped a riot with a megaphone by singing “Goodnight” by the Beatles.
There was a very obvious reason they didn’t have Karaoke Night any more. Not since he got his powers.
Lila had been his first fan. He could do everything she was just learning to do with such ease. Five years his junior, she knew without a doubt that just about everything Ben got, she would eventually get, too.
Hand-me-downs were a state of being until he got the hero gig.
Lila had been happy to be the ‘detective’ side of things, analyzing, researching, and in some cases, hacking out the truth from the internet of lies. Part of her believed that it was only a matter of time before the hero gene hit her hard.
So she helped out, out of habit. And waited, out of optimism. And hoped, out of insanity.
For five years.
Six.
Eight.
Lila gave up. Mentally relegated herself to the role of sidekick and took time off when Ben/Pax was beating up some big fugly super villain after, of course, luring them away from the city centre so collateral damage was minimized.
Some supers could be so inconsiderate about that.
But it wasn’t a super who blew up a building down the street from her favourite coffee shop. It was just regular, run-of-the-mill white male asshole terrorists who wanted to skew the balance 'properly’ back into their favour.
She knew because they hacked the nearest telebillboard to spread their message of hate and intolerance.
Prioritize.
First, call emergency services. Her fingers had practically done that on automatic. Ben regularly got her to call in lesser emergencies while he was on his way to bigger disasters on the theory that every little bit helped.
“What has your friend seen now?” said the operator. Shanice.
“No, I’m on site for this one. Bunch of assholes calling themselves the Brotherhood for Equality just blew a fuck-off sized hole in the Principality building. You could run a trace on…” she squinted. “Telebillboard rego number #T349Y84209435H. That aughta help catch the bastards.”
“Ma'am, I have you on the corner of fifth and twenty-second. That’s five blocks from from Principality and seven from that billboard. You’d have to be on it to read it.”
“Uh. The zoom function on my tablet’s pretty awesome,” Lila invented. “I can see smoke coming out of Principality. You’re going to have to send fire teams.”
It was a real pity that folks like Time Twister had gone private, keeping wealthy people young and healthy. Someone like that could have easily just run the explosion, deaths and destruction backwards and then defused the bomb.
Everyone chose their own path.
Lila put her phone in her pocket and started running towards the wreckage. She concentrated on moving the wounded to a clear, safe area before looking for survivors inside the building.
Tunnels she made in the smoke told her that she was going faster than she thought she was, so she took extra care at acceleration and deceleration. Didn’t want to kill anyone while trying to save them.
Onwards.
If she moved fast, she could clear tunnels in the smoke and debris. Explore which passageways lead to safety and highlight them for those able to rescue themselves.
Flame could be put out by jogging past it. Her own wind-wake just blew them out.
Ha. She was officially a fast woman. Haha.
She was not as strong as her brother, but speed could be used in multiple ways to solve the same problem. Girder trapping someone? Use one of her hairs to saw it into manageable pieces. Heavy rubble? Tap it into gravel.
When it was over, when everyone was out, that’s when Lila noticed the caveats.
He clothes had burned away from her body - a problem solved by one of the arriving EMT’s with a space blanket - and she was starving-hungry - a problem at least partially solved by the street-vendors-turned-volunteer-helpers.
She rescued her phone and got back inside the space blanket before it had a chance to fall. Heat had melted some of its exterior, but it was still functional enough to make a very important call.
“I’m a little busy…”
“Yeah, I know. Guess who probably set a new land speed record? Aaaaaannnd needs a full change of clothes ASAP…”
Silence. Well. Relative silence. She could hear the villain of the week monologuing in the background.
“Ben?”
“Gimmie a sec, I’ll be right there.” BOOM! “Gotta get 'em when they’re monologuing, remember that.”
“Right,” smiled Lila. “Oh. And it looks like I don’t need my glasses any more.” She peeled a fragment of what had once been a frame off her face. Damn. Friction did a lot of bad things.
“And you just paid for your next years’ subscription, too.”
And then the media swooped. They just got word that she was the hero of the day.
“How long have you been a Super?”
“Uh,” Lila checked the time. “Fifteen minutes?”
“What are you going to call yourself?”
Her smart mouth and otherwise sharp wit got her named, The Streak, that day. Much to her eternal regret.
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Challenge #00269: Vamping it Up
Pierce Opal Silkyoak goes to a swanky vampire party :P
[AN: Smartarse]
She wore black, of course. Black with lots and lots of jet beads that made it shimmered in any available light. A well-selected scattering of diamonds and gold ensured that there would always, always be light.
The rest of the vamps attending the soiree showed various levels of quiet respect. Those who were her enemies backed off. Those who were her allies paid close attention to her every move. The least twitch, sneer or glare meant that someone was out of favour, and therefore out of luck.
Regular vampires were tough enough. It took real fangs and cunning to survive as a vampire in Australia.
Pierce Opal Silkyoak had arrived.
She descended the stairs with grace and poise becoming her station. Selecting a small canapé to nibble on.
It’s true that vampires need to drink the blood of the living to survive. However, that doesn’t mean they only drink the blood of the living. The thing about garlic is true, but not for the reason one might think. A careful observer might notice that there was also no asparagus served at a vampire gathering.
The live music played like automatons. This was due to them being Influenced so that they would not remember anything they saw and heard at the gathering. Fortunately, the co-ordinators had at least picked an act where looking like automatons was part of their routine.
Steam Powered Giraffe. What a name.
“Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Fifty bucks to play something written this century.”
Pierce sighed.
There was always one.
The werewolves had Moon Moon.
She had Meikle Peridot Pine. And since he was her direct descendant in more ways than one, she was under legal obligation to protect him.
“Peridot. Try not to bribe the band. They don’t know you’re there.” She crammed a canapé into his otherwise perpetually flapping mouth. “A blessing I sometimes wish I could bestow upon myself.”
“Howcome I’m–”
“Chew and swallow. It’s been one hundred and twenty years. You think you’d learn basic table manners in that time.”
Chomp chomp chomp gulp. “So howcome I’m Peridot alla the time an’ you’re sometimes Pierce and sometimes Opal and sometimes Dame Silkyoak?”
“Peridot is the only name you possess that carries any inherent respect. Respect is important. I keep telling you this.” Pierce sighed. “And you keep forgetting.”
“…vampirenamesarestoopid…”
“There are no stupid names, dear. Only stupid vampires.”
“Can’t I at least snack on the drummer?”
“He is under my protection. Just like you are. We have plenty of thralls in the bedchambers.”
“Aaaawwww… Thraaaaaaalllls…”
“It’s that or the people-food.”
“How about a roadie?”
“Do not make me use your full name in front of so many.”
“Shuttingup.”
“Good boy.”
Time for some of the real business.
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No, bad dog!
A couple years back, in a fan-driven interview with Evo’s character-designer Steven E. Gordon, one of the more jokey questions was “Does Rahne shed?" His reply, equally jokey, was "Yeah… that’s why they don’t let her sit on the good furniture." I ran across this interview and question, and instantly thought of your work. Make of it whatever your muse spurs you into doing with it, either the question, answer, or both.
(#00268)
Come Springtime, Kurt Wagner carried a small, blue cloth with him and spread it on the furniture before he sat.
Rahne, who was still battling her own theology, got curious enough to ask him about it.
"Springtime,” he said as if in explanation. At her confused look, he added, “Shedding season?”
Light dawned like a nuke going off. In her most secret of hearts, she was glad. Angels sang.
Because she shed, too. Though more between wolf and human forms than anything else. She had been keeping her lycanthropy restrained, but there were times when it was unavoidable.
And “that time of the month” - not the full moon - was one of them.
Discreetly dust-busting the hair out of her bedding had not been fun. Nor, for that matter, was doing so with her pajamas.
“Can I ask a rude question?”
“One,” allowed the blue fuzzy demon-boy.
“How d'ye keep it out o’ yer bedding?”
Which was her introduction to what Kurt called a Snoodle. It was, basically, a light, cotton sleeping bag that could be covertly tucked inside the rest of the bedding. Then, every morning, it could be bought wholesale out to the nearest window, turned inside out, and flapped mostly-clean.
Kurt used it when traveling with the circus, along with his famous “Opa’s brushes”, to keep errant fur under control.
Rahne had purchased a variety of Love Gloves for when she was stuck in-between and left it at that.
She’d never given a thought to living with a fur coat full-time.
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Challenge #00267: Learning the Ropes
“We also also learned that anyone ordering in excess of three tons of tapioca, six conifers, and a goldfish should be arrested immediately, and please, please, please do not ask why.”
Every last Ensign asked, “Why?”
This one asked, “What can you possibly do with tapioca, conifers, and a goldfish?”
Lyr turned on hir. “Have you heard of an area called the Glunk?”
“Uh. No?”
“I’ll send you the map co-ordinates,” she reached into the cache-spot she’d prepared without knowing why, that morning. It had a heavy-duty filter breath-mask and an all-purpose polyvinyl bodysuit. “You’ll need these.”
The Ensign took them with increasing trepidation.
“And yes, before you ask, we were able to rescue the goldfish.”
“Did you use your pre-cog abilities?”
“No. Everyone asks about the goldfish. Oh, and don’t disturb the Cleaners in there. They’re very territorial.”
Ze was going to look, if only to satisfy hir own curiosity. Lyr didn’t need to forsee it. Sooner or later, everyone who heard about the Glunk went to look.
It was, after all, one of the few areas of the station that had it’s own, understandably isolated, ecology. And if things went well, it might even be habitable in another eighty years.
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Challenge #00266: Non-hostile Takeover
What ended the assassination attempts on Fawn Jackson? – Weirdlet
After she bought Main Security, she used a shell company to purchase the competitors. Kept them intact, but rearranged their priorities for the greater good.
Fawn Jackson was beginning to gain a controlling interest.
And the assassins weren’t even getting close.
She was doing almost the exact opposite of what the Executives and Pundits insisted was the correct way to manage large sums. And worse, her actions were stimulating the economy despite the wails and outrage of both.
Andrew Albertson IX was the first. He had been trying to buy his five-year-old daughter a horse, attendants for the horse, and sundry horse accouterments. And, of course, riding lessons. It was there that, for the first time in his life, his purchase was denied.
“I’m sorry, sir, but your bank is saying your credit has been denied.”
“They can’t deny it, it’s my bank!” He dug out his phone and told his broker to sell enough shares to cover the expense. He’d get them back, before long.
He always got them back.
“Sir. You have no more shares to sell.”
“I always have shares. What are you talking about?”
“Sir… over the passage of two months, you have sold all of your shares.”
“But… you get them back for me. You always get them back for me.”
“I don’t know what else to tell you, sir. ‘Always’ is over. The company that bought your shares is not selling anything.”
“Fine. Sell the old yacht.”
“You did that last week.”
“Fine. Fine. What about the new yacht?”
“You also sold that to finance your wife’s dinner party, last week.”
“Get rid of some of my residential holdings, then.”
“Uhm. Sir? Your only remaining residential holding is your house.”
Oh. Can’t get rid of that. “What about the business holdings?”
“Sir, you sold all your shares. There are no businesses that have holdings to sell.”
“No, you idiot. The non-residential buildings.”
“Those were owned by the corporations you sold, sir.”
“So how the hell am I supposed to buy my daughter her horse? I only need a million, for crying out loud.”
“For that, you would have to evaluate your personal assets, sir.”
Which would take weeks. Chablis was not going to be happy about waiting weeks for her horse. He put a hold on his purchase and hurried home to assess a few things, himself.
His wife, Diamond, and her parties had waged attrition on the cellars. It hadn’t mattered, before today. Today, it mattered beyond belief. All his vintage assets were down to some mismatched bottles and those of historical significance that had probably turned into vinegar.
He loaded up on the vintage ones and arranged some discrete auctions. With luck, he could have the money for Chablis’ horse in a few days.
*
Nobody met the reserves. He was forced to make a deal with the vinters’ museum, for less than an eighth of their value and a percentage of ticket sales.
And, by then, the bills were coming in. Bills he’d never had to worry about, before.
He sold Diamond’s jewelry. He sold the more high-ticket items of Chablis’ toys. He sold most of his suits and all of his jewelry. He sold all of the decorative items in his home. He sold most of his cars.
He was forced to learn how to drive so he could downsize his chauffeur.
He had to sell his jet.
And, finally, he had to sell everything.
And move.
To the tumbledown slums he used to sneer at.
Chablis was not happy. Diamond was even less happy. All of her friends abandoned her. None of the single quillionaires wanted to know her, since she was a fading 'cougar’.
And they were all discovering how expensive it was to be poor.
Andrew’s friends, too, distanced themselves. At least, they did so while they still had assets.
Once they were rendered broke, too… they were after him for advice. How to cope. How to deal with (shudder) public schooling. How to influence the local security teams in ones’ teenaged heir’s favour. And repeated explanations of how that wasn’t possible when one was poor. Poor people, they had always held, deserved their criminal records for being poor.
It was a sharp shock to suddenly be the group of people one had always looked down on. With criminals for children and horrible money skills and living in squalor and addicted to anything that would take the misery away for a handful of minutes.
Diamond became addicted to a street drug that Andrew had a hand in developing. The called it Angel, because it felt like being lifted up by one. And while they felt uplifted, the rest of the body slowly rotted from within.
And they couldn’t afford the help she needed to get off it, let alone the help she needed to last for very long.
When Diamond finally passed, it was more a relief than a tragedy.
Chablis learned and adapted fast. She dropped being a brat like a hot stone, started calling herself 'Shaz’, and began a girl gang dedicated to policing the halls of her school for proto-crime. And growing rooftop gardens. And helping senior citizens. She never got her horse, but a friend made her a Pillow Pony, and that became her only, and best-loved toy.
Andrew didn’t have it as easy. He only knew how to be an Executive, and no company hired Executives. He had to go with unskilled labor, which never paid well.
He could, with enough tiring and thankless work, scrape together just enough to keep going for another week.
On beans and rice and a little bit of spice.
*
Fawn had a checklist. It contained the Executives who did the most damage to the working person. One by one, she bought their companies, puchased their holdings, and otherwise took over their sources of wealth. Until they had no wealth, any more.
And when another wicked Executive stepped into their shoes… she did the same.
One by one, the people who funded the assassins found themselves without funds. The Pundits, too, suffered. Without their Executive cronies to pay for their campaigns, they also faded into obscurity.
And without trying, Fawn wound up in control.
She never lived in any mansions she owned. She turned them all into hotels, hostels and hospitals. She even turned a few into schools. One, she ploughed under to become an organic garden. Just to see what would happen.
What happened was the exact opposite of what the pundits said would happen.
Things improved for everyone.
Different cities, different continents, started demanding the Fawn Jackson Treatment.
By the time she was done, they renamed the planet after her. Fawnregis.
And she still lived in her old flat.
And she still ate beans and rice with a little bit of spice.
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Challenge #00265: Pour Encourager Les Autres.
What finally prompted the start of assassination attempts on Fawn Jackson? – Wierdlet
“Sooner or later,” they said, “she is going to mess up.”
“The lure of wealthy living,” they said, “will make her one of us.”
“She can’t possibly rework the system with what little she has,” they said, “she’s going to crash and burn.”
And on the off chance that she might not act according to their sneering predictions, they put the regular obstacles in her way.
Two years later, she owned two mega-corporations and a significant portion of the largest continent on Greater Deregulation. She did not own a car. She did not own a mansion. What she did own was a large number of residential flats, which she had gathered incrementally, and used to make her next purchase. (Alongside fixing what was wrong with the buildings and lowering the rent.)
This time, it was an offer on Main Transit.
“If she buys Main Transit,” they said, “she could soon own us!”
They sent the first assassin the following week.
How dare she work to make everyones’ lives better! That just wasn’t the Deregulation Way.
Unfortunately for them, she had also purchased Main Security.
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Challenge #00264: Getting (Gender)Bent
A (relatively speaking, since we’re dealing with mutant hero teens here) typical day in the life of the Evo!X-Men. The twist? Everyone’s the opposite sex. Cue guest cameos by Magneto and the Acolytes and/or Mystique and the Bro– er, Sisterhood. –Josh
Kit Pryde learned to keep his head down around certain times of the month. He, and the other boys in the mansion - Oro, Gene and Rogue - kept on their best behaviour.
Because a houseful of cranky ladies was one thing, but a house full of cranky mutant ladies was a whole ‘nother basket of fish.
He and Rogue put together the sacrificial offering - a virtual mountain of chocolate-chip chocolate muffins - while Oro did the desperate and obsessive tidying up.
At least being a weather warlock had its perks.
{BAMF!}
Mari[1] Wagner was the first down, grabbing a muffin in each hand, one tail, and one foot. “Gruss Gott, I needed these. Danke…”
Rogue got that stunned look that came from telepathic possession and put together a nice tray - with tea - for the Professor. Being a telepath in a house full of PMS-ing mutants was not fun.
It was one of the reasons Gene went camping in the West Wood once a month.
Scotia Summers stumbled into the kitchen, wearing a long shirt and not much else. “Choc'lit 'n’ coffee…”
Rogue dived for the coffee maker. Kit offered the muffin.
“Nmmmf. 'ank 'oo.” Thin spots on the back of her nightshirt betrayed the fact that something had leaked in the night. Which meant that she had had a rough one.
Which meant that her roomie was none too pleased, either. Kit readied another muffin.
Just in time. Eva Daniels in her frumpy flanno’s and some serious crabbiness. “Girl. Just use some damn Diva cups. For the love of sanity.”
“They’re icky,” said Scotia around a mouthful.
“Yeah and leaking every night isn’t?”
Kit, the vegetarian, gagged behind his hand. Such open discussion of monthly bleeding habits and other girl-related TMI was not the sort of thing he was used to. Or wanted. At all.
And, true to form, Ms. Logan marched in with arms bloody and full of fresh meat. She fired up the grille and started things sizzling. “Regain what'cha lost, girls. Ain’t nothin’ better than fresh, rare steak.”
O God, somebody make it stop…
The earth shook. Wait. No. She didn’t mean it like that.
The Sisterhood was attacking. Vivian Tolenski. Pietra Maximova. Frieda Dukes. And Gabrielle Alvers. His sometime girlfriend.
And -yes- they had also bought their psychotic leader Mystique along.
Fabulous.
Just what he needed to top off the morning.
“Give us the chocolate and nobody gets hurt,” hollered Gabrielle.
Those were fighting words.
[1] Mari Wagner being the German equivalent of Jane Smith.
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Challenge #00263: Moebius Repair
“We already fixed that”
“Wait, we fixed it too”
“We did it last night”
“How many times has it been fixed?”
*someone tallies the numbers*
“11 times, in the last 2 months”
Job #2984QEW8: Rattle in the air duct at Left Topsy-Turvy Town.
Rael’s Finder app had flagged it because it included a box of chocolates as a bonus payment. Nobody else had tagged it as theirs, so he leaped on the opportunity.
Not that he needed chocolate, strictly speaking, but tiny parcels of calories never really went amiss. That, and he appreciated the finer things in life.
He took his Everywhere toolkit with him, as rattles could have any cause, up to and including deceased rodents tangled in cables.
The Cleaners, efficient though they were, didn’t get everything. It was a little factlet to which he owed his existence. Literally.
“Heading to East Topsy-Turvy Town?” said a fellow JOAT on the same platform. Of course they were a human. They were love with rhetorical questions.
“Rattle in the vents. Time plus chocolate.”
“Ugh,” said the human. “Do yourself a favour and run away now.”
Wait. What?
Rael deliberately got on a different carriage on the tram. After that, it was tourist-dodging until he got to the right address.
Loose cable. Easily fixed with a bit of ductape.
Less than a minute, including the time it took to remove and replace the vent cover.
The chocolates were the good kind. Naturally sourced, not printed from chemical simulations. Experts said that no-one should be able to tell the difference, but experts were wrong on that one.
People took their indulgences seriously.
*
Job #2984RBZ9: Slow fan at Left Jarbingville. Time plus 1 doz. doughnuts. Repairer picks doughnuts.
Hm. Two stops further down the tramline and a short trip relative-up by Veet. Worth a dozen iced and cream-filled. Ooo, or maybe with custard.
There was the same human JOAT at the tram station. “Slow fan at Left Jarbingville?”
“…yes?”
“Hah. Then it’s a hum at Lower Erkins, then a buzz at Upper Elemeno, and finally a glonk in Windy Passage. Then it’s back to the rattle in Left Topsy-Turvy Town. On the upside, you’re paid for life. On the downside, your rep takes a sucker-punch and you’re doing the same thing forever. It’s a Moebius repair. Run. Now.”
Rael took note, but he also kept his distance. Human insanity could easily catch. And he’d never heard of any job being flagged as a Moebius repair.
The slow fan needed a little boost to its engine. Just a little tweak and he was done. And enjoying the wickedest doughnuts ever produced by the caring hands of a Gyiik.
*
Job #2983SZC0: Annoying hum at Lower Erkins. Time plus home-cooked meal.
It was the first job he’d seen with a menu choice. But, sadly, the crazy human had called it.
This warranted some deep investigation…
*
The cable that caused the rattle powered a moving part. Directly. Stilling the cable stilled the part. Which slowed the fan. Amping the fan created the hum. Muting the hum created the buzz. Stilling the buzz created the glonk and, finally, eliminating the glonk freed the cable and started off the rattle again.
Rael undid all of the incremental repairs and wrapped some soft foam around the cable.
Moebius repair, he noted on the JOATnet, is code for “look deeper”.
It was the best flakking home-cooked meal of his life.
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Challenge #00262: One Fine Afternoon at the Student Labs of Transylvania Polygnostic University
“Pull the lever, ____!”
“Wrong Lever!”
“Reanimation, of course, is a touchy subject. Unauthorised, unwanted reanimation has been the source of many problems. Of course, it’s easier with a construct, which is why we have our projects on the electrified slabs, today.”
Professor Kransky stoked the Lightning Engine and started the turbines. “NOW!” She shouted over the noise. “PULL THE LEVER!”
Oklitov, of course, reached for the wrong one and incinerated his construct.
“WRONG LEVER, OKLITOV! GO FETCH THE SPARE!”
The rest of the class was right to laugh at him.
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