Aug 23, 2019 3:39 PM
Aether at Whateley
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I-

He thinks for a moment.

I can't actually dispute that. But it's being pretty nice about it, if so. There's mutations that are literally "be good at science," so I don't think it's trying to discourage us too hard. If mutants are the world fucking with us, I don't mind its style too much.

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What a friendly universe you have.

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It's pretty nice, honestly. He pats the floor. Thanks, universe. You just keep doing what you're doing.

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...It can't hear me, Morty feels the need to clarify. I'm being facetious.

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I figured. So, what gets done with me?

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Morty sobers somewhat. Yes, that. Um, I don't know exactly, but I think you get put back as soon as they can manage, and... I think you get a gift basket of advanced medical technology? Or comparable magical or technological goodies. Except if you'd rather stay they'll let you immigrate and give you a bunch of apology money to start living with. They like to stress the "we're very sorry you got kidnapped, here's free stuff" angle.

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I can't bring medical technology home!

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...How d'you mean?

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My universe isn't as friendly as yours. It doesn't hold with understanding things through the power of science or any of that sci-fantasy wishful thinking. If I bring home science fantasy technology of any kind I will be lucky if the only thing that happens is it all spontaneously melts.

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Morty is speechless. Or, in this case, thoughtless. Although that's nothing new.

He's really mad, though. At what is unclear.

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What?
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Fucking- no science? That is fucked. I wanna punch your universe in the face.

He hops to his feet belligerently and starts pacing, muttering under his breath. Passing his desk, he acquires and begins fiddling with a piece of cardboard angrily.

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I mean, we have a sort of okay standard of living, it's all just magic instead...

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I mean, that works, but it's the- science is like social mobility for an entire species, you know? With enough work you can make everything better, for good, you can win. Like, hey, anybody get polio lately? No? Fuckin' great! That's because we killed polio! With science! And anyone can do science.

He pauses. If they're smart and got a good education and they don't need a real job, I mean. But it's the principle of the thing.

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I'm sure your friendly science fantasy world is very nice.

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It's shitty that you can accurately describe your world as unfriendly, that's what it is. Like, your world actually, literally dislikes you.

A thought occurs. Hey, but you've got options! You could move here! You could live the friendly science fantasy! That'd rock!

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...Well, maybe. I have parents back home... and I was studying subtle arts, which apparently aren't a thing here... but it's very tempting.

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We've got psychics. The principles might carry over? Plus, summoning your family: totally an option, pretty much exactly as easy as getting you home.

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I don't know if they'd want to leave, though, their whole lives are there. And... somehow I think science psychics might not work like subtle artists.

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I mean, you can check, there's like three psis on this floor. Parents not wanting to leave... Maybe somebody could set up a two-way communicator or something? Hell, I could set up a two-way communicator, I'm a mad hypergenius! If I could just figure out the coordinate error, and...

He fiddles somewhat manically with the bit of cardboard, which folds in implausible ways. "Need more cardboard," he mutters.

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She doesn't know nearly enough science to complain that cardboard is not a reasonable material for that. So what's your name? I'm Bella.

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He looks up, burgeoning obsession fading from his eyes. "Morty. I-"

Whoops. Morty. Morty Halliwell. Codename Smokescreen, because my shit blows up all the time. Sixteen. Hi.

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Telepathy is not strictly necessary to tell me your name. Why do you have a code name?

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Everybody with powers has a codename, pretty much. If you're going to go around superheroing or supervillaining you don't want to mix it up with your personal life, and if you aren't, you can still use it for the strength of your brand, or whatever. He scratches his head. Plus, y'know, tradition.

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