Challenge #00233: Tenpool Lottery

Poverty matures, affluence retrogrades.

You had to be in it to win it. Ten were chosen, nine of whom walked away with a modest prize and entered again and again like everyone else living in poverty on Greater Deregulation.

Only one really won, becoming an Executive, a Celebrity and sometimes even a Pundit, all at the same time. Lives of the winners were followed almost as religiously as the poor bought tickets.

Fawn could only ever afford one a week. She kept them for the audition week, in case they had a re-draw, and then turned them in for the pittance that the paper was worth at the recyc’ centre. She made a little bit more from sorting, cleaning, and recycling her trash, and the trash of anyone else who just left it lying around.

It all went on little emergencies, like medicine for the last time she had a cold, but she kept afloat and that was more than some managed. And every night, she watched the Tenpool Lottery show to see who’d washed out and who was still playing. She always rooted for the one who made the smartest decisions, even though they rarely won.

And every night, they announced one of the next winners of Tenpool.

“And tonights’ winner is… FAWN JACKSON!”

Fawn stared at her own face. That was her ID photo. Those were her fingerprints. That was her address. That was one of her ticket numbers. The cameras would be coming tomorrow. She knew from watching the show. They only showed TV-spycam footage if the winner freaked out or did something hilarious, but Fawn just sat and stared.

Well. First thing she had to do was get her trash out of the house. She kept it sorted, stacked and filed in separate bins after washing, and usually only turned it all in when they were full. She started with the bigger loads and walked twenty blocks between her flat and the pokey recyc’ centre she usually saw.

There was no time to wait for the bus, and everyone was inside watching the Tenpool Lottery After-show. Which made her walk eerie for the absence of people. Streets should be crowded. There should be at least one guy hanging out of his friends’ car and hollering to her about her ass or her tits or her hair or whatever turned him on. Or hanging out of the passing busses filled with other folks desperate to earn their keep.

She felt guilty for turning in her thin hauls, in comparison to the stuff she saved up, and she warned the people running the recyc’ centre that she was making many more trips, tonight, before the cameras came and filmed her house full of garbage.

She put the change in her jar on the counter, like she always did, and walked the silent streets back for another run. Again and again until her feet felt like they were all blister. Until all her containers were empty, washed, dried and put away. Neat and clean.

*

The cameras followed her everywhere. She was barely getting used to it. They followed her at work. They followed her on the bus. They followed her in her home. About the only places they didn’t follow her were into assorted bathrooms, and only then because there wasn’t enough room for three guys and their equipment.

Half of their footage in her home was of her cleaning up their mess! It’s like their mommas never taught them how to pick up after herself.

They even filmed her hearing about how Tenpool Lottery ran the footage of her recycling everything. How they got footage from all the securicams of her walking with bags and bags of trash, to and from the recyc’ centre. How hilarious it was to watch that funny, clockwork march she used to cover a lot of distance in a little time.

Then the limo came, and whisked her away to TV-land.

They gave her the Pink Suite, where everything looked so delicate and breakable. When it didn’t look like it was made out of candy. They gave her three stylists. Hair, makeup, and clothing.

Fawn felt sorry for the poor, thin creature who had to dress her ample frame. Fawn could never afford the things that looked good, and the things that looked great never came in her size.

They knew from footage that she preferred to walk when there wasn’t a bus. So of course one of the first things they asked her was what she ate.

“Beans, rice and a little spice,” she answered honestly. “It’s all I can afford, so it’s all I get. Sure, it’s boring, but I do what I can to mix it up. One time? When I was really rich? I rented a mochi machine and made bean-rice bread-balls. That was a fun week.”

She learned, after that, not to watch the show. They made fun of her weight. They made fun of her walk. They made fun of the way she spoke. They way she dressed herself. The way she had her hair.

If she wasn’t careful, they would have made fun of the way she talked, too.

They did make her sit and listen to audience reviews of her. Just to film her reaction. She sat as proud as she could with the hate streaming over her and kept her face still. Despite the fact that they filmed every meal, and showed the results on the show, everyone thought she must be eating every speck of food in her whole district.

The first weeks’ challenges were all exercise related. Fawn paced herself and just kept going. She out-endured her fellow competitors and won the first round.

And one thousand dollars’ spending money.

The first thing she took care of was all of her debts. She invested in a life-pass, which got her transit anywhere, on any transport, for the rest of her life. That took care of most of it. Even if she lost, the next round, she would save on going back to work.

*

Fawn played smart, but she never played any of her competitors against each other. She stayed honest. And every week, she tried to maintain sensibility with the money she won.

Second round: ten thousand dollars.

Third round: one hundred thousand dollars.

Fourth round: one million dollars.

The other five were splurging, Fawn could tell. They had spent all their winnings on useless things and animals and bling. They were buying themselves all the pretty things they’d pined for or the next stupid thing they saw on the infomercial channel on the TVs in their suites.

Fawn had only really watched one show. Now she was in it, she couldn’t bear to watch any more. She expected to lose, so she didn’t get involved in cable she could not afford when she was back to the grind.

They told her that washouts never kept the money they won.

It just made Fawn think harder about what to do with it all. So that she would be set up for the long haul.

She did, however, buy herself a mochi machine. A nice, robust one with a big warranty. And indoor garden units, so she could have a little variation with her beans and rice.

And, when they gave her ten million dollars on the next round, she became her own landlord and paid for fixes for everything everyone complained about, without raising the rent one cent.

They had her doing all kinds of ridiculous stuff for money that she couldn’t keep. May as well do something useful with it.

Her competitors on the other hand, bought limos, bought drivers, bought entourages. They bought stupid haircuts and tattoos and lived the life they had only dreamed about.

They expected to win.

And every week, somehow, Fawn did not wash out.

It was the guy who bought a pack of llamas. It was the girl who invested in an all-monkey circus. It was the man who built himself a dollhouse and played at being a big baby in it.

And then it was just her and Steve. The final round. How would they invest their grand prize.

Steve chose a new skyscraper for his new lifestyle. Fawn chose a whole-subway overhaul, replete with extra overland transits for the folks who were inconvenienced by the overhaul.

Steve presented interior designs for each floor in the skyscraper. Fawn presented detailed business plans with stages, deadlines, and a budget.

Both sat and watched the survey results, hypnotized by the coloured pie charts and what the segments meant. Steve spent half his time talking about his new life as a celebrity, and the other half dissing Fawn and her sensible decisions.

Executives never made sensible decisions, he said. Look at what they’ve done to the planet, he said. You’re a stupid fat whore, he said. Nobody’s going to vote to have a stupid fat whore on their magazines, he said.

Fawn kept reading her graph.

You’re a fat fucking frigid whore, he said. It’s all you ever were and it’s all you’ll ever be, he said. You’re so stupid you pay your johns to fuck you, he said. You’re so fat, nobody wants to fuck you, he said.

The positive responses were in shades of green. The negative in shades of red. Fawn’s gaze flicked over to Steve’s graph for comparison. His red side was growing. Every time he dissed her, his red side was growing.

Forty-five percent of people phoning in for the survey were saying, Shut the fuck up, Steve.

And he wasn’t paying any attention.

Steve was focussed solely on making Fawn cry, before his -to him- inevitable victory.

Her own green pie segments were creeping past fifty percent. The more Steve talked, the more people hated him. The more she stayed resolute, the more people liked her.

I killed a fat buck on my hunting trip to planet Elysium, he said. It wasn’t nearly as fat as you, you fat fuck, he said. I’m getting it stuffed, he said. You wanna know the difference, he asked. The difference is, when you stuff a deer, people can tell, he said.

Fawn snapped. “All o’ that meat could'a fed some folks as were starving.”

“You are just too stupid,” said Steve.

In two minutes, the gap between filming and broadcasting, Steve’s green segment jumped down by half, while hers jumped up the same amount. Steve had shot himself in the foot in five words.

Fawn was winning. As time dragged on, Fawn was winning by a landslide.

Just like winning a chance, Fawn didn’t initially believe she’d won the whole thing. By staying sensible and making sound choices. And not speaking out loud, her opinion of anyone else.

She didn’t have to go back to her pokey flat in the middle of urbanized nowhere. She could sell it, fully furnished. Or rent it out like all the others. She was, after all, the landlord.

And five seconds after the director yelled ‘cut’, the welcoming Executives turned savage.

Don’t expect to stay in the limelight long, they said. You’ll never be really popular, they said. A build like yours doesn’t get ratings, they said. A build like yours doesn’t sell magazines, they said.

It was the 'fat stupid fucking whore’ speech all over again. Only with better words.

“Well,” she said, “I’d better make a difference while I can.”

It took them ten years before they started sending the assassins.

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Challenge #00232: A Lake Appeared in Winsome Valley

The forest is completely submerged. The tops of the tallest trees are easily 50 feet below the surface. Nobody knows how the trees are still alive, but they are, and sometimes, when the water is clear, you can see flickers of movement down below the canopy…

[AN: Please keep in mind that I’ve only heard two episodes of WTNV]

There has been a lot of buzz about the lake that spontaneously appeared in Winsome Valley, just outside the outskirts of town, today. The lake appears to have it’s surface three feet above the lowest point in Winsome Valley, but its bottom is far, far deeper than that.

Most citizens have been concerned about what to name it. Personally, I think that ‘greenwood lake’ suits it perfectly.

You know, since there’s a forest in it.

The forest is completely submerged. The tops of the tallest trees are easily fifty feet below the surface. Nobody knows how the trees are still alive, but they are, and sometimes, when the water is clear, you can see flickers of movement down below the canopy. The sheriff’s secret police advise us not to go fishing in the lake.

Do not swim in the lake.

Do not go boating in the lake.

Do not engage in water-related activities in or near the lake.

And above all, do not release pet goldfish into the lake. Goldfish are an invasive species and their presence may anger whatever lives in the forest. After all, we want to be nice to whatever’s down there.

It may yet be nice to us in return.

In unrelated news, all the coyotes previously inhabiting Winsome Valley have vanished without a trace. All their tracks stop as if they stepped into another world. The sheriff’s secret police assure us that this is completely unrelated news. The disappearance of the coyotes has absolutely nothing to do with the appearance of greenwood lake.

The hooded figures in the dog park briefly disappeared from there and appeared by the shores of greenwood lake, for an hour, at exactly noon. We do not look at the hooded figures, but they nevertheless appeared very agitated. We wish them further agitation. Some of us want to play in the dog park.

And now, the weather…

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Challenge #00231: We’re Mostly Harmless, I Swear!

In case you missed it, this post happened: http://aaceofhearts.tumblr.com/post/57693374988/untitled-jazuthevulcanprincess-bogleech-its-funny

*falls to knees* I will worship you and give you my super secret world’s most awesome and diet-breaking brownie recipe if you will write anything at all inspired by this.

(I am totally serious about the brownie recipe, or any other cake recipe since I can’t deliver to your house. I do healthy food too sometimes) 

[AN: I’m saving the rest of this for a book. Keep a weather eye open]

Before humans were insane…. they were dangerous.

Excerpt from the Galactic Core Manual of Hazardous Entities, prior to Planet Amity Incident:

[Pictured: Humans in their own warning message]

Species name: Human [h'yoo-mun]
Planet: Terra
Star: Sol

Details: Humans are bipedal mammals occupying all the land masses of the planet Terra. Data from their transmissions indicates that they are extremely hostile. Despite the fact that they are constantly killing other humans, they are breeding at an exponential rate.

The human female is capable of carrying as many as three live young in internal gestation and successfully birthing them live. Humans can also reproduce once every 360-day cycle. However, single and double births are far more common than triple.

Humans are capable of a maximum foot speed of 12 Distance Units per second, and a jumping height of 2 Distance Units, which exceeds their own height.

Humans are omnivorous in the extreme. They can devour toxic levels of capsaicin, and involve themselves in challenges where they expose their sense organs to the same toxic chemical [Reference File: Pepper Challenge. Not safe for minors].

Humans can withstand temperatures below the freezing point of water and up to the boiling point of water. With armor, they can go beyond those extremes.

Humans can survive dismemberment. If you encounter a human in an attack posture (bipedal figure on left) do not remove the limbs! Humans can not survive brain stem disruption. Destroy the head to render the human harmless.

Humans use and devour assorted acids, alkalis, toxins and controlled substances [Reference File: Cooking With Marie. Not safe for minors]. They engage in recreational activities in which bludgeoning an opponent is a primary goal [Reference Files: Boxing, Wrestling. Not safe for minors]. Other human recreational activities show they have little regard for personal safety [Reference Files: freehand rock climbing, base jumping, hang gliding, diving, parachuting. Not safe for minors].

Despite needing a nitrogen/Oxygen atmosphere to survive, they insist on entering hostile environments without sufficient survival equipment [Reference Files: Jaques Cousteau, Early Space Program. Not safe for minors].

Humans are hazardous for any environment they occupy. Humans will adapt their environment to suit themselves and push out or otherwise endanger other species [Reference File: World Wildlife Fund. Not safe for minors or cogniscents of a sensitive nature].

Humans are highly adaptable and can turn any object into a weapon [Reference File: Jackie Chan. Not safe for minors] and when without weapons, will use their bodies as a weapon [Reference File: Chuck Norris. Not safe for minors].

Humans can adapt to low-light conditions. Their eyes may be their primary sense organs, but they can navigate and orient also by sound and touch. Eliminating light or blinding a human can only temporarily incapacitate them.

HUMAN BITES ARE FATAL. The human jaw can exert pressures of 54 weight units, and the human mouth is a cesspool of bacteria and acidic fluids. If you are bitten by a human, seek immediate medical attention. Do not waste time killing the human. Allow others to do so for you. If you act immediately, you may survive a human bite.

Humans are intelligent. If placed in an unfamiliar environment, they can reason and experiment their way out [Reference File: The Cube. Not safe for minors]. Experiments conducted by brave explorers indicate that humans can navigate through structures alien to their initial range of experience [Reference File: The Abduction Files. Not safe for minors or cogniscents of a sensitive nature. Seek medical advice on sedatives to assist sleep following viewing].

Humans are inventive. They have travelled to their native satellite and sent machines beyond their solar system [Reference File: Pioneer. Parental guidance necessary for minors]. Evidence indicates that they have/will initiate deep-time colonies.

AVOID AT ALL COSTS. HIGHLY DANGEROUS.

*

There were precautions, and all of them had been taken. However, there was always a gap between probe data and actual colonization. And even then, it was a risk.

Planets once infested by humans were disaster zones, at best. At worst, they were still infested by humans.

T'reka adjusted her lifecorder and checked the signal strength. Good. Base camp was getting everything she was seeing, hearing, smelling and tasting. They were getting data from her handheld analyzer. And, most important, they were getting any vocalized notes she uttered on her expedition.

This island was teeming with toxic life. Potentially hazardous, yes, but also potentially beneficial. Science had proven that interesting biological toxins could have equally interesting medical properties. Under proper supervision. In controlled environments. With volunteers desperate enough to try something that was kill-or-cure.

T'reka’s job was to find new things on their new home that might advance the status of Numidid medical science during their long wait to catch up with the rest of the galaxy. Thus, she recorded everything.

If she hadn’t been indoctrinated in the dangerous philosophies of science, it might have ended differently.

But it began with an unfamiliar voice and an unfamiliar language. And a human hand petting her arm-feathers.

“Pretty birdie.”

T'reka froze. She’d been so involved with the local insects and trying to capture them that she hadn’t noticed the larger wildlife until it was literally on top of her.

Carefully. Slowly. Observer, analyze, record. For posterity.

This human had not attacked, yet. Therefore, it might not. This may yet be a breakthrough for science. And since she was a scientist, she was already doomed for an early death.

This human was not almost two Distance Units tall. It barely made it to one Distance Unit. It wore clothes, according to the transmission files, but no shoes or hat. It was in the middle of a toxic jungle with only pants and a shirt to protect it from the environment.

And, evidently, fascinated by T'reka’s arm feathers.

“Hello, pretty birdie,” said the human.

T'reka turned. Slowly, so as not to alarm the human. “This must be one of the human young,” she said into her vocorder. She kept her voice low, almost inaudible. “It indicates that there may be humans nearby.” T'reka set her audio pickup to maximum.

Humans used sound waves to communicate. If she was lucky, the computers could filter out some of their language. It wouldn’t be enough to create translations, but any knowledge was more. More knowledge was always worth the sacrifice.

The human turned away, listening to something T'reka couldn’t hear, and vanished into the undergrowth with a loud, “COMING MOM!”

T'reka crept along on the same vector.

Yes! There was a colony. Humans, building structures. Humans, digging in the soil. Humans doing things that looked like things that her own people were doing on a much safer continent.

And none of them were attacking each other.

“Fascinating,” she whispered. “Co-operative effort for the group. No hostile moves.”

One human did the attack posture to another. The other returned the gesture. No battle ensued.

“We may have been wrong about their hostility levels…” Even this brief observation told her that the source material was wrong on very many levels. It told her that humans did not do all of the things, or even a scant few of the things in the warning files, all the time.

Many humans she observed were not doing anything inherently hazardous.

“I will observe them from concealment,” she decided. “This warrants further study.”

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Aftereffects of Tequila

Kitty and Rogue have shared their first night partying and drinking… and now they also share the hangover and brain-fog that results.  But that’s not all, they discover they also now share something else - ornate tattoos of each others’ names on their butts, and no memory of getting them.

(#00230)

“…ow…”

“Quiet, I’m dying.”

“Oooh, my hair hurts. How can hair hurt?”

“I said, shuddup, I’m dying.” Kitty rolled over and buried her head under her pillow. This did not improve things.

“What did we do last night?” Rogue moaned. “Feels like somethin’ crawled into my mouth an’ up an’ died.”

“Mine reanimated for a zombie party,” Kitty moaned. She readjusted her position and flinched. “OW!”

Rogue whimpered. “…quietly…?”

“My ass hurts.”

“Mine too, just complain quietly.” Rogue struggled free of her bedding. “Why’m Ah in a corset ‘n’ stockings?”

Kitty evicted something from underneath her midriff. “Why do I got a cop’s hat?”

“Where inna hell’d we get traffic cones?” Rogue picked up the one immediately in her way and tossed it somewhere soft. She staggered uncertainly towards the bathroom they shared. “…ow…”

“Hey,” said Kitty. “Y'got somethin’ sticking to your ass.”

“Yours too,” noted Rogue. “Argue later. Pee now.”

Both winced at the sounds of pouring liquid.

“…o God that stinks…”

Kitty made it upright. “Dunno if I wanna pee or ralph worst.”

“Do both, save time.”

“Oooh, what did we do last night?” She managed to empty her bladder without throwing up, and inspected the medical bandage on her butt-cheek. Peeled a careful corner off.

“I GOT A TATTOO?!”

“…owwwww…”

“Rogue, I got a tattoo on my ass!” Kitty lunged at Rogue’s bandage, tearing it off.

“Ow!”

“You got a tattoo on your ass!” Kitty crumpled from the exertion. “Of my name.”

Rogue peeked. “You got mah name. And it’s spelled right for a change.”

“How the hell–?”

“Tequila,” groaned Rogue. “That’s how the hell.”

“Summon…” Kitty managed.

“Uh?”

“Summon left a lotta bottle water,” Kitty croaked.

“Oh good,” sighed Rogue. “Drink half each and we might start to feel human.”

Kitty snagged two, handed one over. “It’s a start. Meantime, I’m'a hide from th’ sun.”

“Goo’ plan…”

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Challenge #00229: The Morning Show with Patty

A cooking show gone horribly wrong

“And here’s our surprise chef for this morning, Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Good morning!”

“Good morning, Patty,” said the tall, handsome man in the fine suit.

“Now, I understand you’re a psychiatrist?”

“That’s correct,” said Hannibal. “However, I am a forensic psychiatrist. I delve into the mind of the serial criminal, and I often don’t get to meet them until after they’ve been captured.”

“Wow, that is so-o-o-o spooky,” chirped Patty. “I don’t suppose you could find out who keeps stealing my chocolate stash when we’re off-air? Haha.”

“Haha,” Hannibal dutifully echoed. “I’m afraid I’d have to charge.”

Patty giggled and changed the subject. “So, what are we cooking, today, Doctor?”

“Today I bought some fresh, long pork ribs,” he displayed a neat tray, “and I’ll be sharing my grandmother’s famous rib roast sauce recipe.”

“Those are a lot of ribs,” said Patty. “There goes my diet!”

Up in the command centre, someone dutifully typed Long Pork Rib Roast. for the subtitle on the screen. It took ten minutes before the phones started ringing. By that time, Patty was dutifully massaging the famous sauce into her selection of ribs.

By the time the police were on their way, Patty was sharing around some that Hannibal had prepared earlier.

They found the producer, or the majority of what was left of him, neatly parceled and packaged in his office refrigerator. The bones, his head, and all the major organs were also neatly parceled, but in the trash.

Long pork, they learned that day, is a euphemism for human flesh.

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Challenge #00228: Ancient Terran Tradition

TOGA TIME!

Of course it happened during Silly Season, the quasi-annual event where all humans just spontaneously went more crazy than normal. Or what passed for normal amongst humans.

Rael, of course, expected some blame. Somehow, being attached as chief translator to a being like Shayde on a strictly working basis meant that he was also capable of controlling her actions.

Sherlock, at least, understood that someone like Shayde was not in the least bit controllable and should have been registered as a cogniscent force of nature. But he still wanted explanations.

For all of his research and fascination with humans and their conflicting histories of conflict… Rael still had no idea how to explain a human or anything they did.

Especially during Silly Season.

But nevertheless, Sherlock persisted.

He pointed to the images on one of the larger monitors. “What the flying hells are they doing?”

Rael stared. Humans, of course. Surrounded at a respectful and safe distance by tourists taking images. The difference between this and an average Silly Season gathering was that this time, the humans were wearing bedsheets and very little else.

“I… think they’re recreating a bacchanal…” Wait. No. There went Hwell barrow swinging on a liana. He was almost naked, but for a pair of what Shayde insisted were ‘tighty whities’. A faint yodel carried through the muted audio.

And there she was. Her bedsheet managed to fit better, and there were glimpses of a bikini underneath, but she, too, was involved. And dancing. And apparently inebriated without imbibing.

“My records show that she started it,” supplied Sherlock. “With a chant of, 'toe-gah, toe-gah, toe-gah’… Do you have any idea what that means?”

“Not in context,” Rael allowed. “A toga is a garment worn by the ancient Terran greek or roman factions, though judging by the head foliage, I would guess this might be roman-influenced. What it has to do with Silly Season, I can only guess.”

Finally, Sherlock got to the meat of the problem. “Are we going to expect property damage?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“…damn…”

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Challenge #00227: On the Disposal of Sex Aids

“I don’t know why you thought this was such a good idea!”

They sat in Hwell’s personal space like the ancient mariner’s albatross. Everywhere they went, everyone knew what they were for. And renting a kitchen to experiment was not in his budget.

He managed to sell a few, anyway. Mostly for their original purpose by shy creatures who spoke in low voices and urgently shoved money in his hands before running away with their merchandise.

He needed to rebrand the bloody things. Or experiment on his own, somehow…

Hwell Barrow smiled to himself. He could plausibly build a toaster-oven out of the junk they were hauling between worlds right now. It’s not as if they’d miss any, it was all destined for a scrap furnace anyway.

The first cheese waffle was delicious. After a week or three of almost solid tinkering. He even managed to serve one to Ax'and'l before the Saurian noticed the familiar and embarrassing pattern.

“Yes, of course I washed it. What do you think I am, anyway?”

“I know you’re a crazy mammal. I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Say ‘hi’ to the wife and kids, next time you’re home,” prompted Hwell. When they had met, Ax'and'l was an overworked, underpaid freighter captain with no sense of trade, trying to earn enough to win the permanent attention of his lady-love. Their first adventure had lead to an enormous profit and -indirectly- Ax'and'l’s wedded bliss.

Glare. “You’re infuriating.”

“You’re welcome.” He munched casually on his own cheese waffle. “I can’t do anything about the samples I already have, but I’m thinking maybe I should go after the Gyiiks. They’re always willing to do something new with edibles.”

“Have you been at your still, again?”

Safe assumption, with humans. “Strictly for cooking purposes, I swear. Besides, this batch is the best grease-stripper available.” He got back on topic. “So I cook some up before we hit port, send out a Seekerbot, and then go hunting my new clientele. One per potential customer and keep them out of their original packing, sort of thing.”

The original packing had definitely made their intended purpose clear to one and all. And Hwell had had enough of staring at avian porn in his chambers.

“All you had to do was stay out of trouble,” growled Ax'and'l, “and stay in your room and not touch anything. And stay out of the liquor! Bored and drunk is an unprofitable combination, and you never remember that.”

“So next time we’re in a port where they don’t like mammals, buy me a toy,” jibed Hwell. “There’s only so many times a man can play with balls, you know.”

Ax'and'l went through the standard range of facial tics that happened whenever the Saurian captain was unsure as to whether Hwell had just made a lewd joke, or was expecting one. “Just… talk to me the next time you have a… 'brain fart’. Eugh. Humans…” He shook his head. “I don’t know why you thought this was such a good idea…”

“Same reason I think anything is a good idea. I was bored and drunk.” He shrugged. “Trust me. Find the right market, and these will sell.”

Another glare. A mutter of, “Must not kill and eat the profitable mammal.” And finally, resignation. “Do not get that bored and drunk ever again.”

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Challenge #00226: Wonderlust

The pier at the end of the world

There was no more east left. Somewhere, beyond the sunrise, past an invisible line known only to cartographers, it circled round to being west again.

El stood on the easternmost edge of the easternmost pier, whenever she could do so. She watched the gulls and the ships and the ocean that went all the way around the world while she was stuck in place.

Trapped in Portsmouth Bay. A crowded town huddled in the space between the sea and the cliffs, where masonry was chipped out of the stone spine and elaborate buildings sometimes carved into it. Where the kings’ palace had yet to see a mote of sunshine. Where windows were either too much bother or too expensive, and the less affluent houses were designed to float away during the big storms.

East had been the direction to go, once. And here in Portsmouth Bay, they had run out of east to go.

El could still feel the need to go east. It pushed. It pulled. It drew her here to the easternmost pier and made her cling with her toes and lean into the wind coming west. It helped her gain a fix of air that had been more east by sniffing deeply of the ocean scent. Made her dream of going… anywhere but Portsmouth Bay.

And on days when a beast of a wooden ship blocked her view, she would perch on one of the boathouses or a handy roof, or somewhere else tall enough and watch the crew and the cargo cycle in and out. And seethe in resentment as it sailed away again.

Her feet wanted to go, to take her away. Her heart yearned to travel. Unfortunately, they were all stuck to a body that wasn’t allowed on a vessel without special precautions.

Women and seamen don’t mix, went the old joke between bawdy fishwives, but that’s not what they say when they come to port!

Every time El asked about that one, she got her ears cuffed for her trouble, and nothing resembling an answer. Or an explanation as to why it was so funny.

She had tried to work out what the rules were, once. One ear still rang from asking about it, whenever she got a cold. Women were allowed on houseboats because they were houses more than boats. Yes, even when they were washed out to sea by a storm and found their way back to a different place.

Boats were not houses even when men lived their entire lives on them and that was that. And stop asking about what makes them different, brat!

Today, another ship was blocking her perch, so she watched it in jealous fascination from the eves of a warehouse. Her knees tucked up under her skirt and her arms wrapped tight around them. It was almost time for Boss Joss to get her new winter gear, so everything she had to wear was both short and thin.

“Ho, little sparrow,” called one of the officers of the ship. “Why don’t you sing?”

Sparrows were poor girls meant for ‘a bad end’ because they hung around the docks and sang for pennies. Asking how that was bad got another drubbing, but El had not earned such punishment, this time. She’d just watched it happen to someone else.

“Voice like a crow,” El called down. “Ain’t nobody’s bird nohow.”

“You’re four stories up,” he noted. “Aren’t you feared of heights?”

El shrugged. “Cliff’s taller,” she said. “Boss Joss sends me up it for ingredients.” Squab and cliff-shrooms and eggs and some moss that made an interesting tea for the right kind of affluent clientele. She had to wear special gloves just to get it. And use a special bag.

“Bare-hand and bare-foot?”

“Yeh…” El frowned at the man. “Why?”

“You’re wasted as a girl,” said the officer. He shook his head and went on his way.

El thought no more of it until it was time to go back to work at Boss Joss’. The officer was there and haggling with Boss Joss over the price of a girl. Joss had never rented neither Sparrow nor soiled Dove, so the argument about selling one made no sense to El.

She just got on with getting on with things. Up and down the flues before the fire-set, unclogging the grease-trap, rinsing herself off before scrubbing the baths, the kettles, the sinks and the pots. Washing anything else always got the rest of her clean to Boss Joss’ satisfaction, so she left the cleaning until she was properly filthy.

She was finishing up on the floor - every Friday, whether it needed it or not - when her progress was stopped by the officer’s boots.

“Hello, El,” he said. “How would you like to be a boy on my ship?”

El stopped to boggle at him. “Can’t exactly grow a pizzle for you…”

The man smiled and opened his coat, then his shirt. Revealing a bound swell of breast. “Pizzles aren’t necessary,” he whispered. “Talent is.”

The next dawn found her high in the crows’ nest, breathing deep the exhilarating air of freedom as the ship sailed away from port. An entire ship full of women! Who could have thought it?

She was one of Hen’s Hags, now!

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It’s not easy being us…

Mystique has a chance encounter with (a somewhat older than Evo-time, say 17-21) Wolfsbane, while both are enjoying a day “off duty” from their respective roles of villain and hero - idle conversation takes a turn toward venting about teammates, and an odd sort of mutual respect comes about, due to their shared connection; namely, both of them understanding the frustrations and aggravations and perks and benefits that are unique to being a shapeshifter (even if one’s forms are limited like Wolfsbane’s), especially the sort related to dealing with those around you who are not.

(#00225)

It was supposed to be her day off. She needed self-time as much as any other being in the world and had literally won the entitlement in combat.

It made the cheesecake and coffee all that much better for the winning, but really, Raven did not appreciate having to fight for basic human rights. If all else failed, she could vanish for the time she needed, but that sort of thing never ended well.

“Aw… fook…”

Raven turned just far enough to identify the speaker as her almost-opposite number. Wolfsbane. The X-man named Rahne Sinclair. The younger woman was looking very much alarmed to be parked with a cheesecake, coffee, and an inhibiting swathe of shopping bags just a table away from a potential fight.

Raven turned enough to face her politely. “Easy. I’m trying to take a day off.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that right away,” said the scot.

“I’m here for the same reason you are,” said Raven. “This cheesecake is fucking awesome.”

“Damn straight. An’ I’m not gonna pick a fight and risk wrecking the only place that does it, neither.”

“Same here,” said Raven. “So. In the spirit of mutually enlightened selfishness, let’s call it a truce.”

“In the name o’ fookain awesome cheesecake, then.”

They sealed the pact with an appreciative mouthful, and relaxed their guard a little.

“Does it never seem to ye that sometimes we fight jus’ because we’re used to it?” mused Rahne. “It’s like a trained reflex or somethin’. Even if we got the same goal, we gotta go an’ have a big bloody battle all over the place.”

“True,” Raven allowed. “But even if we have the same goal, the difference lies in accomplishing it.”

“Sometimes I reckon you and the Brotherhood are way ahead of yourselves. You’re fighting fer liberation before they even had a chance to put the chains on. We’re just after recognition and representation. Then we’ll be lookin’ at liberation.”

“A step ahead of ourselves, or just you?” Raven found herself smiling. “Humans can barely cope with people with a different shade of skin. And that variation ranges from beige to black. You have no idea how reflexive their hate is when they encounter someone blue.”

“I’ve spent my time as a ‘demon’,” said Rahne. “It gets muckle awful when religion gets into it.”

“Peaches and cream little you? A demon?”

“Aye. When my power came in I could'nae control it. All my fears helped with the whole mess and created a big tangle o’ triggers.”

“And I thought growing up as a sideshow attraction was awful.”

“Let me guess, the word 'alive’ was in large print?”

“And 'freak’.”

Rahne rolled her eyes, as if that didn’t need saying. “There, but for the grace of God and a really big lycanthropy-fuelled freak-out go I…”

“Fucking Amos goddamn Jardine,” Raven growled.

“Ee! That’s the same feller as tried to buy me. I was almost glad of the opportunity, when he came. Except for the chains and all. Same numbskull tried to buy Kurt’s circus, once upon a time.”

“Centaurs and all, no doubt.”

“Oh, especially the centaurs.” Rahne sipped her coffee. “If he wasnae already dead, I’d get it in me head to track the bugger down.”

“You’re welcome,” smiled Raven.

Rahne tried to look horrified, but couldn’t muster the emotion well enough. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, then.”

They toasted the sentiment with their coffees.

“So…” Rahne began. “Why’re you wearin’ Principle Darkholme, after so long?”

“Call it a default state, if you want,” Raven allowed. “Back when I was starting to hold a shape, I modeled myself after my mother. The features were close enough and all I had to do was change colours, really. Stealing one of the really good biomimetic suits helped a lot. Later on.”

“They’re still lookin’ fer that one,” said Rahne.

“They can take it off me when I don’t need it any more.”

A reverential pause for cheesecake.

“D'you blame her? Your mum?”

“She was trapped between a rock and a hard place. Jardine at least offered some protection. He had a vested interest in my survival, after all. The military… had no such limits.”

“Mine had a normal little girl until the demon took over. Reverend Craig had the whole town in a fluff when it started. He was always after the 'demon within’ and then he got one.”

Raven considered what a hell her life must have become. “I could arrange an… 'accident’.”

“Na. He can’t learn if he’s dead. All 'is kids are mutants. Every last one. The whole towns turned against his own rhetoric since he’s a father of demons. Means he has to be one, too, dunnit?”

Hm. Pickling in a broth of his own making. That was almost… poetic. “Do you sit back and watch?”

“I get news from home now and then. Me brothers send letters when they can get away with it. I send more back. The miserable old fart lives alone and only has a few die-hard loyalists on his side. Everyone else ignores 'em, now. It helps that there’s a special clinic in the next valley over.”

Raven had never kept ties. She ran and changed and ran some more. Never looking back. Rarely keeping friends. She had no roots and she liked it that way. Most of the time.

Jardine had died by her hand. Raven at least had made sure her mother went peaceably and without pain, masquerading as a chipper and cheery volunteer who always had time to chat about anything. Where she found the strength to forgive the old woman, she never knew.

“Must be nice to have your family back,” Raven offered.

“It’s rocky, still. Da doesn’t like it. He’s one of the loyalists I talked about, see. He reckons all this mutant stuff is the devils’ work.” A shrug. “People like Warren are deceptions from the devil an’ people like Kurt just prove his point. Ye cannae reason with 'im.”

Raven just had an expressive eye-roll at that. “Can’t live with them, not enough time to wipe them all out…”

“Ah, ye make more trouble that way. There’s always a relative or a friend willin’ to hate a mutie 'cause they went and killed a right bastard. Best tae let 'em stew in their own mess. Keep tryin’ tae show the world we’re just like them.”

“Have you seen what humans have been doing to this world? Being just like them is reaching too low.”

“Aye. But how is trying to conquer 'em bein’ any different?”

Raven had no argument to that, and the cheesecake and coffee were almost gone. “Next time we’re both after the same thing…” she offered, “perhaps we can call a truce in the name of cheesecake.”

“Work out which is really the best? Sounds like a plan, then.”

Raven finished her last forkful as she watched the staff at the cafe. They had no idea their dessert could change a world’s path through history. Probably better that they never knew. That sort of thing went straight to the ego.

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Challenge #00224: Tea and Scales

Ever read the Patricia Wrede’s Enchanted Forest books, starring Princess Cimorene and Kazul the Dragon?

Cimorene and Sara seem very similar people, I bet they’d get along like a house on fire. *hint hint*

[AN: more books on my to-read list. I still have yet to get through The Ocean at the End of the Lane]

“Ah, hello,” said a wall. “Would I be in trouble if I came out of hiding?”

Cimorene paused in her cooking. She was just poking at the stew to see if it needed anything, and suddenly the walls were talking to her.

No. Not quite the walls. Something very close to the walls and attempting them to use them to hide. And, since the hider was on the civil side, Cimorene was prepared to not reach for her knife. Yet. “You’d certainly be in less trouble if you remained hidden,” she offered.

Part of the wall revealed itself as a young woman with not very much in the way of clothing. She was covered in greenish-blue scales where she wasn’t covered in an awful khaki thing that hardly covered anything at all. A mop of unruly, short, brown hair made Cimorene suspect that someone had happened to her.

“Thank you,” said the green girl. “Only I faded in and there was this dragon, see…”

“Yes, that’s Kazul. I work for her.”

“Ah. Well. Generally, I’ve found that caution is advised with dragons. Thought it best to make sure.” She offered a hand. “Sara Louise Adrien, not from this dimension.”

The princess met her gesture. “Cimorene. Princess and Dragons’ assistant. You’re… not some wizard trick?”

“You expect an honest answer to that question?” said Sara. “And I’m not familiar with the burden of proof in this realm. Do you have technology here? Electricity? Computers?”

She shook her head. “Those last two words made very little sense…”

“Damn. Conceptualizing multiple realities usually goes hand-in-hand with electronica. Nevermind. For everything we can imagine, there is an equal reality where it actually happens. And the world goes on even if the story finishes.”

Cimorene thought about some of her favourite books. About what life must be like for the poor people trapped in that kind of reality. “That’s horrible.”

Sara shrugged. “To some extent, yes. For all I know, I’m the fictitious pet of some mad creature fueled entirely by theobromine. One who gets bored a lot, I imagine.”

“Sorry, but this is making my head hurt. Why are you here?”

“I was a guinea pig in a trans-dimensional experiment and none of us have been able to make it stop,” said Sahra. “I usually fade back after an hour or so. If I have everything I came in with. Which can be a bother when people mistake me for a demon, a goblin, an orc, a thief, or, in extremis, lunch.”

“Well Kazul’s fine unless you wake her from her nap.”

Sara pointed. “See? That’s why caution is advised around dragons. They’re quick to anger and humans are tasty with apple sauce.”

Cimorene boggled.

“Not personal experience. Promise. Let’s just leave it at ‘someone with authority on the matter’, shall we?”

“I’ll still pass it on to Kazul. She might laugh.”

“Nice to know there’s at least one dragon with a sense of humor…”

“You know other dragons?”

“One little one. Lockheed. He’s Kitty’s dragon. Or she’s his human, it’s not exactly that clear. Plus he’s not that coherent. Intelligent, yes. But communicative… we’re working on it.”

They had tea and a chat over the most interesting things. Sara had quite the labyrinthine chain of topic association when she got going.

And it was so nice to spend some time with someone who didn’t have an agenda.

It was almost a shame to see her go.

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