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Oneshot Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – and Merry! Christmas 2019 Oneshot

The podium was envied – not because it was a position of power, or of attention, or of control. That’s usually the person behind the podium, but in this case nobody envied Glenn – his job actually had responsibility, and as we all know that is to be shunned at every opportunity.

No, the podium was envied for the simple fact that as a construction of wood, wiring and glass it couldn’t and didn’t have to deal with the bullshit that was currently going down. Said bullshit was, of course, the ChristmaHanukKwanzStice party planning meeting. Last Year’s processing of skippers was on-par in terms of metrics; both in quantity of humans sent to the stars and quality/originality of complaints levied against staff. The resulting pre and post-flashbang Holiday Cards were printed and shipped out to various family members, government offices and fellow Zephyr Stations, and the almost unanimous feedback was “eh, pretty decent. I’ve seen worse.”

After said feedback (and the regrowing of his retinas no less than 5 times) Glenn was determined to do better this year.

“-And so, with the professionals hired this year we will not have a raffle for Santa or his helpers.” Glenn “Silk” Abramson said, taking a sip out of his ‘this might not just be coffee’ mug, pressing the indicator on his podium to move to the next slide. “-however, you are all free to dress up as you see fit-”

A wave of hands went up.

“-as long as it’s holiday themed-”

A few hands went down.

“-winter holiday themed-”

A few more hands went down, and Glenn eyed the remaining troublemakers.

“-a federally recognized winter holiday-”

A few more hands went down with audible pouting. Good, good. Now to kill the creativity and holiday spirit in the rest.

“-without sexual innuendo-”

Almost all the rest of the hands went down. All but one – but it belonged to Mike, so Glenn decided to head it off at the pass.

“-save for Mike, who will wear last year’s costume.”

The chorus of gasps and verbal outrage washed over Glenn “The warp is taking me” Abramson, warming his soul more than the half-drunk cup of ‘hot whiskey’ brand coffee ever could. He leaned back slightly, gripping the podium as he dared to let a smile break across his stubble-laden face.

The red indicator light he saw through his closed eyes caused him to instantly frown. Looking up he locked eyes with the Jornissian … cohort, the viewscreen bolted to the back of the amphitheater showing a writhing mass of scales and tails, every so often the writhing mass was intermittently broken up with the garish colors of hand-picked terrible christmas sweaters. A couple-dozen eyes stared at him intently, furiously boring a hole into his being as they pressed the button as one, in unison, dozens and dozens of fingers methodically pumping up and down and-

Glenn shook his head, knocking the mental image just loose enough so his hind-brain monkey could rip it out of the wall and throw it into the void. He still had phantom muscle soreness from last year’s New Years party, and the memories never truly faded…

“Hashtag Team Pinchpot, what.” Glenn said, tapping the indicator light to turn it off and let the Jornissians have their say.

“[Stationmaster Glenn, will you allow us to participate in this year’s festivities?]” A Blue-sweatered Jornissian said, lowering it’s head to stare more intently at the shared camera.

“You don’t even know what we’re doing-”

“[…so?]” Bluesweater Longbody said, looking at their colleagues. “[Is… is that a problem?]”

“Just. No. Just. So Management got together and figured out an office Stealing Santa-”

Indicator Light.

With a sigh born out of years of longing for a government pension to finally fully vest, Glenn clicked the indicator, the Dorarizin screen finally unmuting much to the rippling growls of everyone present at that particular remote part of the station. A muzzle popped up from the apparently communal desk, and for a brief moment Glenn pondered what that particular Dorarizin was doing under the others.

His brain-monkey, with an animalistic shriek, launched itself at that particular memory and beat it into submission.

The body-less muzzle split it’s lips with grinning teeth, “[Stationmaster, you just said that there would be no amateur Holiday Alpha. If that is not the case, we vote for you aga-]”

“NO.” Glenn said, a little too loudly into the mic, the pop of feedback causing the Humans to jump a bit. “No. Not again – I still owe Lenscrafters back pay on my new eyes.” He said, aggressively pointing at the Dorarizin screen. “And I only get the shitty 20/20 base rejuv plan. Look. Stealing Santa is a gift exchange on the 24th, nothing more. No Dress-ups. No Moose Horns. No children.”

The speaking-muzzle paused for a moment, a broad tongue sticking out in a blep before rows of rippling teeth pulled it back in. “[-but it is the Holiday Alpha.]”

“No. It’s just about the holid- It’s. Santa – fuck you should know this by now.” Glenn ‘Did nobody read the pamphlets anymore’ Abramson said, growling into his cup.

“Aww, but we want storytime-”

“Mike your elf costume is now your standard work outfit.”

Mike cut his mockery short, quickly looking around his local group. “He can’t do that… he can’t do that, right? Right?”

Shrugs were all that he received, and Glenn continued. “Santa gives gifts to all the good boys, girls and attack helicopters across the Solar System-”

The third indicator light flicked on, but Glenn ignored it. “-and so the gift exchange takes it’s name from that legend. On the 24th of this month, Management is going to provide gifts-”

The third indicator light somehow turned on brighter, and yet was still ignored. “-and everyone will pick a random one, and then we’ll do a round of trading-”

The third indicator light turned off, which immediately gave Glenn chills. Looking up, he saw the Karnakian flock looking incredibly happy about something. A cold pit of fear opened up in Glenn’s gut as the unmute indicator somehow turned off by itself. “[Hello Brother Stationmaster Glenn~!]”

“How… how did you do that? You shouldn’t be able to un-mute yourself at all from over there.” Glenn murmured in confusion as a touk-wearing Karnakian got a little too close to the camera.

“[It is a Holidaysmas Miracle!]”

“That – that’s not how this works, that’s not how-”

“[Then the stars are in alignment! Bretheren, can we participate by providing the gifts ourselves?]”

Glenn shook his head no as hard as he could, individual vertebrae popping with the motion. “Absolutely-”

The vid screen muted again, the Karnakian delegation getting unreasonably animated over the cutoff answer, individual touk-poms wiggling in excitement.

“-NOT. Fuckdamnit!” Glenn growled, angrily fingering his button-

His brain-monkey screeched as it launched itself at yet another memory with zealous fervor.

-but to seemingly no avail. “Listen. LISTEN. We’ve picked out some nice approved gifts, they don’t go over a 20GRC limit, you can’t just-”

“[Stationmaster, if the Karnakian delegation is planning on giving your staff gifts could we participate as well?]”

Glenn continued to aggressively finger his podium, upper body shaking with the effort. “Listen here team constantly beeping, you can’t do this to me I have diplomatic immunity-

“[I mean that’s not a no-]” Hashtag Team Pinchpot said, musing out loud.

“[Oooh, do you think [Asuka] would mind sharing? That’s a lot of vigor-]” An unknown Dorarizin female said, before with the crackling of wood and the breaking of glass, Glenn’s whole fist went through the top of the podium.

The podium’s controls were utterly destroyed, and with the pop of broken circuits the vidscreens shut off.

It’s problems were over now.

It was still envied.

= = = = =

For the Xenos, getting the actual list of gifts and participants was the easy part; Human encryption was almost at-par with the galactic community once standards were shared, but the inexorable momentum of forcing password changes once every 30 days caused some very obvious permutations of “password12345”, and biometric locks were passed with frightening ease considering that their species left bits of themselves, well, everywhere. The target Humans were divvied up by lottery, and in the end each “lucky” soul on Zephyr Station 8 had a group of 3-5 xenos pooling their resources together to get them something nice from the list of approved gifts. Well. Nicer.

The list was really a guideline, after all.

When this was made known to the “lucky” souls on Zephyr Station 8, they started to drop some very pointed hints for their alien friends as to what makes a good gift, what size of diamond-studded sequin jacket would fit them, and the fact that Disco was never coming back so you may as well not buy those floating sparkleballs and instead invest in something more useful, like desert-pattern-camo automatic underwater basket weavers.

None of this was lost on Stationmaster Glenn ‘Why, God’ Abramson, who at every turn attempted to assert his official authority over a voluntary non-work function and reign in some of the enthusiasm, backroom dealing and outright material theft.

This went about as well as you’d expect.

= = = = =

The 24th was greeted with anticipation, joy and wonderment by many Humans of many ages, most of which were on Earth or one of her colonies and far away from the radiating dread that was pouring from Glenn ‘My Ancestors weep’ Abramson. The fact that what should have been a bunch of minor holiday parties with a manager and his or her subordinates had turned into an all-hands, station-wide Festival that took up the entire ballroom of Deck Q-25 and at least half of the neighboring Aggrograg training summit and Arblebees’ Deli was not lost on him, nor was the fact that he had utterly lost control of how the day would go and who would start off with what gift.

His concerns had been ignored for the past few days, and so it seemed that he was the only one to comprehend two things:

  1) Not breaking this party up into smaller, cohesive groups meant that there were well over 200 gifts to exchange. And steal. At once. Multiple times.

  2) The station was going to be totally run by automated subroutines and xenos volunteers, which really meant that they were all replaceable and that his suffering was for naught. That this was a strand-type career-

“[Good morning, [Glenn]! How are you doing today?]” Rgrezneh-of-Hrzgarenm / Sheila said, far too happily.

“All is lost.”

“[Aaah, it is Tuesday.]” The Dorarizin nodded slightly, tilting her head as she did so. “[I was hoping to run into you before we started – I wanted to thank you for [Mike]’s costume. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed-]”

“You are the only one who has thoroughly enjoyed anything about that man or his body, and I would appreciate it if you kept those dark memories to yourself.” Glenn grumpily replied, stepping around the massive xenos to make his way to one of the double-door entrances to the ballroom. “I’m already dreading… this…”

The doors slid open on silent hinges showing a wide-open ballroom. Arranged throughout the ballroom floor were little islands of presents, surrounded by multiple human-appropriate snack and drink tables. Seating was provided around each gift island, and even that was colored in festive reds, whites and greens. Milling about were a majority of the remaining Human staff, weaving in and out of their corresponding gift-giving xenos “santas”. Hanging from the ceiling were the corresponding and appropriate banners in multiple human and xenos languages – all of them wishing a Happy Festive Season and/or the return of Sun, the Sun, to these darkened lands.

Glenn squinted at the last one… one of the Norwegians must’ve got time at the printer. He turned to Sheila, who was unfortunately still talking. “This seems normal.” He interrupted.

“[Oh? We did do some research – Myself and [Starburst] and [OHGODWHY].” As Sheila said each name, the corresponding Jornissian and Karnakian turned and waved, making their way over to the entrance. “[It’s good news to know that the instructions we reviewed were-]”

“No. I mean. Nothing’s on fire.” Glenn said, tentatively sticking his head fully into the room to look around. “There’s… nothing wrong.”

“[Is there supposed to be?]” Sheila said, crouching down to properly speak to someone of Glenn’s height.

“I don’t…know anymore. I just don’t know.”

“[What don’t you know, Station-Patron? Is it a riddle? I love riddles-]OHGODWHY / Tr’Grakz the Karnakian said, starting to get reasonably unreasonably happy as his bullet-train of thought left the station and made a hard left on a straight track.

“[Is everything to his liking?]” Starburst, nee Shpressnrek said, clasping her hands together in mild concern. “[He’s doing that thing with the full-body shaking-]”

“It’s fine. Fine. It’s just a nervous disor- tic, is all.” Glenn said, straightening up and walking forward, checking the artificial christmas trees as he went for the PAVN. “It’ll be fine, it’s just like the kessel run back home.”

“YO!”

Glenn turned to see Jessica standing up on her tiptoes, her hand waving enthusiastically over the body of a ducking Karnakian. “OVER HERE~”

Glenn looked to his escort, who seemed to be encouraging him over to that location. With a mental shrug he walked over to one of the many, many piles of identically-wrapped presents, each individual box or orb seeming to blend into the ones beside it with a dizzying, shifting pattern of hard-light “wrapping paper”. As he got closer he realized he had to avert his eyes or be mesmerized; a few of his other colleagues had fallen prey to whatever siren song would have claimed him, much to the mild-and-growing concern of the xenos nearby. Holding a hand up to act as a blinder he made his way to Jessica, who was wearing incredibly festive sunglasses at night so she could so she could not watch the weave of lies that the mesmerizing presents were beaming to everybody present.

“Ayy this is fuckin’ awesome, isn’t it?” The American said, grinning from ear to ear. “Free swag, good food, time off-”

“Technically this is off the clock,” Glenn said, flinching as the memetic hazard of wrapping paper splashed into his vision every so often as the crowd around him shifted, “So there’s no pay-”

“Bah. Stop being Scrooge! We were just waiting for you to get in, so we’re gonna start soon I think!” Jessica said, as a ripple of commands worked it’s way through the implants of the xenos present. Before he could protest further, Glenn found himself being ushered to one of the nearby seats that at first, second or third glance absolutely did not fit him at all.

“Um.” He said, as Starburst coiled herself up loosely infront of him. “Where… am I sitting?”

The Jornissian opened her arms and Glenn exhaled, deep and slow.

Of course.

“I’ll stand.”

“[No you won’t!]” OHGODWHY said, gently pushing him forward with his bodyweight. “[You’ll block out the cameras-]”

“Wait, cameras-”

“[Not important!]” Tr’Grakz said, smiling with pure joy and anticipation as Glenn lost balance, tipping over into the waiting arms of the Jornissian, who was soon joined by the Dorarizin in an impromptu “sit on my lap of infinite length” seating arrangement. “[I’m running the festivities today-]”

“OHGODWHY-”

“[Yes? Anyway, as Stationmaster you get the honor of opening the first gift!]” Tr’Grakz crowed, camera drones suddenly zooming in from various hidden positions to focus on Glenn and Glenn alone.

“No, Listen I neeuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhh-” Glenn droned as a hefty present was thrust into his lap, the pulsating and rippling effects of the Hard-Light wrapping paper unwillingly hijacking his train of thought, mesmerizing him utterly. The colors, the patterns – what did they mean, Mason? He started to see, to know, as the lotus of all knowledge bloomed before him, the galaxy unfolding in his very mind-

There was a clawed tap and the light turned off. Glenn’s eyes refocused and he scrunched his face up, his brain rebooting.

“…What.”

“[Next year, not so many Holiday Lights.]” Starburst stage-whispered to OHGODWHY, the Karnakian nodding sagely. With a frown he pressed a very obvious button on the container, the numetal shrinking and warping to reveal-

“-Um. Thank you?” Glenn said, holding up a solid lead crystal tumbler set, inlaid with gold, precious gems and alloys. There was what seemed to be engraved filigree at points, whole interlocking plates of metal studded and ordained with details upon details. Depictions from various human stories littered every inch of every open crystal fragment, and as the light caught them they blazed with inner fire.

It was the most thoughtful gift he’d ever gotten. It was the most expensive one, too. He sat there, a bit dumbfounded, as Tr’Grakz began to dance in place nervously.

“[Ah… ah… NEXT!]” He said, quickly picking up and thrusting another present into another human’s hands. The process continued, but Glenn could not tell you how long he remained in a stupor – the gift, this gift, was incredible, and as he got lost in admiring it, a small, hairy, extraordinarily old and ape-like part of his brain gently tapped on his shoulder and whispered an indisputable fact into his ear:

He was not worthy of this gift.

‘Oh hello guilt, nice to meet you again.’ Glenn thought as he held his gift in his lap, looking up for the first time in many minutes to lock eyes with his other crewmates. The same look was plastered on their faces – yes, jokingly asking for a Faberge-egg back massager was fun, but to actually get one is… is…

It’s too much. It’s wrong.

“I uh-” Glenn started, looking around questioningly. The monkey part of his brain, grown strong from yeeting thoughts into the void, had assumed direct control. The important thing was not that he got a gift, no, it was that he got rid of the gift-that-he-was-not-worthy-to-have. Cause if he kept it then the other monkey who most definitely did exist and was worthy of the gift would take it from him and then that would be bad. He locked eyes with Jessica who was gently caressing a perfect faux-mahogany stock Gyrojet, every bit of it carved with intricate designs. Her hands didn’t really touch the weapon; they shook with the timidity of a master holding something of legend and realizing they were not worthy, giving it the hoverhand treatment all nerds give their prom dates when they’re 16.

However, Glenn didn’t have that problem; he was not a gun aficionado. He nodded at her.

She nodded back.

He nodded more insistently.

She nodded back –

Damnit, she didn’t have ESP.

“G-give.” Glenn said, lifting up his own drink set. Jessica looked at him, confusedly, letting out a low-pitched and defensive reeee as she clutched the rifle.

“[Stationmaster, is there a problem with your gift?]” OHGODWHY said, leaning in far too closely for anyone’s comfort. Starburst shifted under him, and he used the momentum to wobble to his feet. “I… I steal from you!” He said, loudly and in the silence of an echoing ballroom.

“B-but-”

“[Stationmaster, that is not necess-]”

Glenn rounded on the Karnakian, crazy and desperate fury in his eyes. “This is Stealing Santa, and I can’t be caught with this-

With determination he stepped through the coils of his seat, holding the probably-as-costly-as-his-yearly-salary drink set out to the American. “I’m stealing your gun.”

“SHALL FUCKING NOT-”

Prison Rules, Bitch.” Glenn hissed, slav-squatting before the technician and her xenos-group-santa-seating who were giving him very sour looks. “And no stealbacks-”

“This- MUH RIGHTS-” Jessica cried as the drink set was placed in her lap, the weapon (after a little bit of wrestling) was wrested from her grip. With a growl she stood up, cradling the expensive set in her arms. “You CUNT. Fine, uh…-”

There was a look in her eyes as Glenn stepped back, the ape in his brain admiring his handywork.

That look was not one to see what gift they wanted, no. That look was the look of the ape in her mind, looking for the perfect target. The person who had a gift that was perfect for them. The person who would cherish it for the rest of their days.

The person to hurt.

“O-OI! YOU!” Jessica crowed, pointing to one of the interns who was holding out an incredibly fancy robe. “I’M STEALING THAT.”

The intern let out a low-pitched reeee noise that only got louder as Jessica stomped over, wielding the crystal drink tumbler set less as a family heirloom and more like a set of clubs to perform a beatdown with.

Glenn nodded in approval, up until the point that the gun was slowly tugged from his grip.

= = = = =

Shpressnrek did not approve of this Festival custom. And sure, that might have made her sound “speciest” in some circles of the galnet, but the honest truth was that in every culture there are some things that you respect as theirs, some things that you ignore, and some things that you wholesale steal and make your own. It took multiple days of designing, 3 trips to 5 different nanofabricators and a favor to get a few things quantum-shipped to complete this drink set for their resident functioning alcoholic, and he just… he just stole something that Shpressnrek was almost certain he didn’t want and didn’t care for. The point was that each one of the warm-cuddles would get something custom-made for them as an appreciation for having a mostly professional work environment, and then they’d all have snacks.

Shpressnrek wanted to have snacks.

Shpressnrek did not want to have what was currently going on, which seemed to be a rippling, low-decibel screech that was passing from warm-cuddle to warm-cuddle as perfect gifts were exchanged for… less than perfect ones. This would, of course, not do – so after a few minutes of implant-to-implant conversation, it was decided by democratic vote (the best kind of vote) that if theft was the name of the game, then they would steal from the warm-cuddles.

Just for tonight. Just to re-wrap and re-gift them again.

And so Shpressnrek found herself gently tugging on the antique weapon that was stolen from Eagle-screm by Astral-projecting-out-of-his-body-because-he’s-done-with-everything, with the goal of reuniting it with Eagle-screm’s group of species for damage-repair, re-wrapping and regifting.

“[Hey! NO. I NEED THIS.]” Astral-projecting-out-of-his-body-because-he’s- yanno what, let’s just go with Glenn – said, gripping the rifle in all the ways that gun safety disapproves of, but Kobain thought was pretty cool.

“<No, no->” Shpressnrek cooed, softly, trying to turn the barrel away from the warm-cuddle. “<Let’s not, ok? You’re safe, don’t worry->”

“[That’s what they want you to think-]” Glenn hissed, wrapping his legs around Shpressnrek’s arm and torso as he attempted to wrestle the firearm out of her grip. “[But then you’re in Manitoba and the trees start speaking first nation and-]”

Whatever he was going to say was lost, as with a thak the apparently chambered weapon went off, the gyojet micromissile exiting the rifle and slamming into a digital christmas “tree”, causing it to spark and pop as it exploded in a beautiful, vibrant, blinding but ultimately harmless light show.

“[GUN GRABBER!]” The hypocrite-formerly-known-as-Glenn yelled as he was shaken a little too firmly loose from his grip, landing with an audible oof on the cold metallic floor.

“[THREE PERCENT!]” Someone else yelled from across the ballroom, as all hell broke loose.

= = = = =

‘<The problem,>’ mused Shpressnrek as she ducked behind an overturned table, her colleagues lobbing chunks of fruitcake at problem warm-cuddles as they assaulted her position, ‘<is that war has changed.>’

She dared to peek her head over the barricade as the current wave of thralls died down, trying to eye the battlefield and come up with a plan. Once the tree exploded some warm-cuddles thought they were under attack, some thought that their trees just did that and wanted to recreate it, and some of the more prescient ones apparently realized “it” was beginning, whatever it was, and started to exacerbate the situation. Shell in coil, striding across the ballroom-battlefield was a warm-cuddle instigator with an omni-directional pool noodle atop a robot ‘[unicorn]’, penta-monocle flipping through various visible spectrums as his self-replenishing caffeine drip gave him a manageable overdose of their aqua vitae. The fact that he had single-handedly stopped 4 separate waves of senate gift-teams was not the real issue, no.

The real issue was that he was in an elf costume the entire time. He radiated a powerful chaotic energy, and Shpressnrek ducked before they made eye contact.

Astral-Projecting Glenn had snapped out of whatever issue had possessed him to steal a gift during such a festive occasion and had joined the resistance, muttering something about ‘establishing dominance’, taking a little perverse glee in winging a ball of hardened [stollen] or [christmas] cake at anyone who came nearby, especially ‘that intern asok’ which seemed to be everyone. His zeal was burning through their ammunition, and according to the comms chatter not only were the other senate-gift giving teams pinned down by holiday cheer, but station security had deemed this little incident “within acceptable parameters”.

Shpressnrek made a note to never let a computer program manage security ever again in lieu of a sapient.

“<So, I’m out of ideas. Anyone?>” Shpressnrek shrugged, tossing another balled lump of confectionary to Rgrezneh, who performed a gentle underhand toss against a human wearing a trashcan as some sort of armor, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to fall on his back.

“[Nah. I for one like what’s going on – he’s just becoming so dominant, yanno? I didn’t know he had this in him, but after getting serious about his career and now establishing a micro-empire~]” Rgrezneh made the Dorarizin equivalent of a sensual purr, which gave every human within earshot the absolute piss-shivers.

“[Micro-empires are illegal, [Rgrezneh]. You know this-]” Tr’Grakz chided, rolling a Holiday Ham like a bowling ball, knocking a human down at the legs with flavor.

“[I know, I know. It’s more that he’s taking initiative than anything else -]”

“<Please.>” Shpressnrek sighed exasperatedly, Pinching and stroking the side of her hood in a self-soothing gesture as she made a mental note of the time. “<We’ve been at war for the past 5 hours. This has gone on long enough, this ballroom suddenly is a battlefield->”

“[Wait.]”

“<Absolutely ignoring you, you started this.>” Shpressnrek stated matter-of-factly as Glenn suddenly turned towards the Jornissian, red eyes wide in realization.

“[Say that again.]” He said.

“<What, that the ballroom is a battlefield?>”

“[Yeah. Yeah! YEAH yeah yeah -]”

And Glenn stood up as he pointed at Mike the TurboElf, because he had a sudden epiphany.

But He was the man in the back, and yelled “[EVERYONE ATTACK]”, and it turned into a ballroom blitz.

And the Dorarizin in the corner, well very few ignored her, cause she’s attracted to the passionate one.

And the elf on the horses back was ready to crack and he raised his noodle to the sky

And the she-wolf in the corner really couldn’t get any hornier-

– She did some things to that elf that’d make you blush if you tried.

And now you have that song stuck in your head just like me.

That’s my gift to you.

Merry Christmas.

Categories
Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – Badguys, Boxes and Boops: Barhopping, Book-keeping and Bettings

“Can I go now?” Nate complained as his body was tugged firmly to the right, the safety strap on his suit being fastened down a bit too roughly. Captain Sassafras, unamused, stared unblinking at him, wordlessly pulling her hood back.

“Okaaaaay, I’m sorry. Really, truly, I am.” Nate reached forward and tried to pat his captain’s head, only to miss her snoot and wiff the empty air. With a frustrated sigh, he went back to T-posing, letting Sassafras fuss over him before, ostensibly, letting him and his chaperons out into the station. The usual precautions of a honeycomb-lattice re-enforced suit had been replaced with something very heavy-duty, and the internal connections to his limited implant suite seemed to splay over his helmet visor data ranging from his heartbeat to galactic north to the calorie count of the emergency food bar in his pocket. It was disorienting, getting tugged this way and that while space-ABBA randomly started to play, and that was the point. He had been hazed in this manner before back in Sol, and it was one of the oldest tricks in the book – put the rookie in the most complicated thing you can, make sure he can’t actually kill himself, then kick him out an airlock and go for lunch.

“It’s been three daaaayyyyysyssssssuuuuhhhh~” Nate groaned as he was bent forward, his ‘emergency carry handle’ tested by one of his crewmates picking him up and placing him down on the floor of the hangar, before being lifted again. And again.

“[3…4…5… switch arms-]”

I am not a weight set, Drongo!” Nate cried as he flailed his limbs, his tormentor switching arms and beginning the ‘test’ once again.

The male Dorarizin grinned and shared a look with the Captain before responding. “[Well you’re as heavy as one… two, three-]”

“You have terrible form and you’ll never catch Lilybean ‘mirin.”

“[Mmm, you say that, but you just wish she’d notice you and your pencil-thin yet somehow flabby frame.]” Drongo said, placing Nate on the ground for the final time.

You may not like it, but this is what peak human performance looks like, you plebian.” Nate retorted, rolling onto his side and resting in his best ‘draw me like one of your french girls’ pose. He was rewarded with a forceful nudge and a dismissive bark by his larger companion, rolling along the deck floor with exaggerated force.

“Let me goooooo alreadyyyyy. I said I was sorry! Isn’t that enough?”

“[This time, no.]” Sassafras said, her eyes elsewhere as she answered some notification from her implant. “[It took two whole days to clear out the landing zone and disembarking terminal, and the entire crew – the entire crew, Nate – have been pulling stowaway/boarder duty as well.]”

“I mean, so what? We’ve got a few curious scamps who tried to hitch a ride; we’ve had that happen before-”

Sassafras frowned. “[Nate, when I say boarders, I mean boarders. We’ve had to repel a couple concerned mobs – thankfully without too much bloodshed – and even a contingent of station security, which has given me nothing but paperwork for the past 15 hours.]”

“Oh.”

“[Yeah, ‘Oh.’.]” Sassafras sighed. “[Thankfully that’s not going to become any more of an issue since I was able to work out a deal with the stationmaster-]”

“Is that like a deal-” Nate said, shaking hands with himself, “-or a deal-deal” Nate said, making an incredibly lewd gesture, “-because you might not be the most gent-AAAH”

With very little forewarning Sassafras lunged forward, gripping Nate’s side with significant force. The two of them paused there, in that moment, before Sassafras began to roll Nate along the ground while she continued to talk. “[I have some choice recordings that say otherwise, you rotten little [Hr’sseth].]” Sassafras chided over Nate’s protests and flailing, successfully making a turn to roll Nate back from whence he came. “[Like I was saying, it’s been two whole days of beating people off of this ship with a stick and trying to unload our cargo. And we would have had a long rest-] at this Sassafras stopped rolling him forward and just started to full-body shake him back and forth against the ground, her captive wailing in slight disgruntlement before a growing number of the crew. “[-but now we’re probably going to have to cut it short due to the administrative and logistical burden you’ve put us under!]”

At this the surrounding crew let out half-serious cries of dissent, a few playful insults, and a couple semi-plausible punishment ideas that would have either crippled him outright or shattered his pelvis in ways that his ancestors could have only dreamed of.

“Alalalalalalright~! Alright alright alright!” Nate said, breathing heavily as he tried to stop his head from spinning, raising his arms to the sky in utter defeat. “Ok! Ok! Just… alright. But. Ah. But.” He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to center himself. Nate propped himself up on his elbows, looking slightly cross-eyed into the still frowning face of Sassafras.

“Alright. But. How’s the take?”

Sassafras stared at him for a moment, almost attempting to stare him down …before ever so slightly looking away.

“AHA!”

“[Harsak damn it-]” Sassafras leaned back and groaned as Nate let out a hoot, laughing.

“It’s good, isn’t it?! Come on, spill it!” Nate grunted as he sat up, the nausea and slight bruising from earlier being forgotten in the rush of the con. “What are we at? Come on. Base is what-” Nate snapped his gloved fingers to a weak effect, pointing his finger at Drongo as he thought hard. “What, 40%? 60% markup? Not counting photo ops and gifts, so. How we doing?”

“[Effectively, and I hate this so much, Nate.]” Sassafras said, reaching into her molle-analog vest to pull out a tablet, turning it on with a thought. “[Tiki playfully said 3x-]”

Wait. Three hundred percent markup?!”

“[-and that apparently was assumed to be the floor, so when Toko started the standard markup-]”

“Oh. Oh uh.” Nate started to run the numbers in his head, his face loosing a bit of it’s color. “Oh. That’s…”

“[-averaging between 420% and 690% markup, not counting ‘gifts’-]”

Nate tried to hold his head in his hands as the sheer amount of money started to be rattled off by his Captain. “That’s… that’s too much.”

Sassafras wiggle-nodded, nervously looking over the funds transfer history. “[Yeah. I think we’re going to have to have some straight losses for the next few runs or else we’re going to attract the auditors and I really don’t want to be dealing with those pencil pushers.]”

Nate grunted as he attempted to stand, falling to a knee as his inner ear tried to right itself. “Well. Can’t we just buy-”

“[Free.]”

“What.”

“[We’re… not being charged. Not on anything.]” Sassafras deadpanned, as a murmur went through the crew. “[I didn’t want to share that little fact until we figured out a plan, because we cannot loot an entire station. Gifts, fine. Discounts, sure. Upcharges – we can call that negotiation, that’s fine as well. But this-]” Sassafras said, waving her tablet at anyone paying attention, “[-this gives us attention we cannot afford if we’re going to keep doing this for the next few years.]”

The ripple of conversation afterwards among the crew ebbed and flowed, with discussions on how they could somehow bleed money – or barring that how to show paper losses, or barring that how they were going to somehow fanagle, jostle, shred, bake and cook the books to make it look like their cargo of basic sundries and various necessary elemental imports did not net them a profit that would have paid for The Perfect twice over.

“[I don’t like this idea.]” Toko said, fussing over Nate’s straps to undo the damage his sibling did to his rigging as they waited for the airlock to cycle.

“Look, it’ll be fine.”

“[Statistically,]” Tiki said, fussing over Nate’s straps to undo the damage her sibling did to his rigging as the airlock chimed. “[It has been ‘fine’ exactly one time out of four hundred and thirty eight.]”

“So then I’m on a roll!” Nate beamed, as he attempted to somehow unfuck his molle webbing that his two Karnakian minders had turned into a constricting mobius strip. “Look, we’ve already got the blessings of station security, most of the curious stationmates are out and about so crowds will be low, and I’ve got you two to protect me.”

“[Well yes-]”

  “[Be that as it may-]”

“So what I’m saying,” Nate smiled, reaching up to pat the shoulders of his chaperones, “is that it’s going to be fine. We go in to the closest bar to the ship, I gamble away far too much on the company card on whatever is the local game of choice, you two ‘find me’ at your leisure, I get written up, we done. In, out, 20 minute adventure.”

The twins shifted uneasily, almost eerily in unison. Before either of them could start and finish each other’s thoughts, the door opened…

…to basically no one. Sure, there were a few cleaning droids (that Nate cheerfully greeted as the trio stepped off the gantry) but outside of that, no living beings seemed to pay them any attention. For Tiki and Toko, this was a welcome if concerning development.

For Nate, it was Tuesday.

“So where’s the joint?” Nate said, clapping his gloved hands together.

“[Ah! First.]” Tiki massaged a joint in Nate’s suit, an indicator light turning on in the inside of his helmet. “[Tracking.]”

“Fair point.”

“[Second,]” Toko said, tilting his head to the right. “[About 400 meters away is a terminal Bar. Overpriced food, drink, and connections to this system’s betting network. You have your card?]”

Nate patted his chest pocket. “Yep. Let’s knock this out and get out of here – you can have too much success, and I don’t want to push our luck.” With that, the trio fell in to their best powerwalking-without-looking-like-they’re-rushing state, with Nate breaking out into a light jog as the Karnakians made their way down the concourse with purpose. At first, nobody seemed to notice, but as they passed their first stall the double-take of the vendor gave everything away.

“[Oh! OH! Hey, are-]”

“[Nothing to see here-]”

  “[You are mistaken ma’am I’m sorry-]”

       “I’m not real!”

Toko wrinkled his nose while Tiki scrunched hers, as without skipping a beat Nate continued to jog forward. The siblings matched his pace, doing their best to look as menacing as possible to the growing trail of passers-by that started to follow them. By the time they made the relatively short distance, their trio had grown into roughly two-dozen interested and curious parties, some of which were still nursing seemingly fresh wounds. Nate paid no one any mind; he was on a singular mission and had a single focus – pressing his hands against the doors he ‘opened’ them, moving his limbs in concert with the automatic sliding entrance.

“Alright, which one of you degenerates likes handholding?!”

“[Nate!]”

  “[WRONG SCRIPT.]”

Flinching at the realization, he shrunk back into his chaperone’s protection, nervously trying to vocally backtrack. “Ah, and by handholding I mean, um. Holding the hand of lady luck! And… um. And a drink! Drinks are good too and we call them hands where I’m from and-”

Toko gently pulled down Nate’s helmet’s solar shield. It did nothing to muffle his rambling, but it did seem to have a calming effect on the man, who was quickly ushered to an interactive booth. His Karnakian chaperons took up very defensive positions, with Tiki pressing herself against her smaller crewmate in a motherly, defensive way and Toko…

Well Toko just dropped his incredibly illegal service pistol on the table.

“I can’t see.”

“[We can order for you.]” Tiki said, pulling up Nate’s Solar shield. “[What do you want from the menu?]”

“I can’t eat.”

“[Don’t be picky.]” Toko chided, staring intently at the suddenly-disinterested mob that had followed the group into the bar.

“No I mean, I can’t eat. I’d have to remove the helmet and everything.” Nate said, sighing. “Let’s just… let me just gain access to their local net, place some bullshit bets, and be done.”

“[Sounds like a plan. Do you mind if-]”

Nate waved his hand dismissively as he pulled out a very robust tablet, dropping it on the table with a heavy thonk. “By all means, order everything you want – it’s on the company dime.”

Tiki trilled playfully as she wrapped an arm around the Human. “[Big talk over free food, isn’t it?]”

“[Eh. I’ll leave the total bill as a tip – and if they don’t take tips, then I’ll just ship something nice to the bar once we hit the next station.]” Nate reached up and pushed a feather out of his view, his tablet beeping happily as he logged into the star system’s network. “[Anyway. What here has the absolute worst odds…]”

And so the trio passed the time, doing their best to ignore the camera drones, the loudly-asked-to-no-one questions, the quiet jostling in the booths nearby, and the growing frustration of the Bar owner as dozens of people started to pack his establishment without paying for a damn thing. It was normal, in a way, and so it was comforting – as this scenario, or something like it, played out as it had a dozen times before. Truly, it was fine

…All until Nate felt the call of nature.

Categories
Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – Boxes, Bad Guys and Boops: Chapter 1

On a trading route, near a comet, was a ship called Perfect.

The ship itself was one of those utilitarian, multi-species hauler ships that you would find anywhere in the Galaxy; universal parts, dummy thicc armor plating, reliable engines and drives, sturdy bolted-down tables in the mess hall – The Perfect would not win any awards for luxury or speed, or even innovation, but there are few classes and types of ships that can take a nickel-iron meteor impact at full in-system cruise speed and shrug it off.

In fact, that’s why the ship was just called Perfect; not because it could shrug off in-system debris, but because the painting scheme on the outside of the ship had been blasted off on one side by such a meteor strike that it only left the first half (or was it last half? Middle?) of the ships’ name visible. The Captain loved the new change and had the other side of the ship damaged to “even things out” – and the dockyards didn’t mind as long as the IFF signals didn’t change. One of the crew’s hazing rituals was to pester the new hire about what the ship’s full name was, and then playfully tease them for being incorrect. I mean, what kind of person would agree to serve on a ship they didn’t even know the name to?!

Speaking of the ship’s crew, two troublemakers – though that may be a bit too harsh of a word to call what they did to each other and everyone around them on a consistent basis – were hunched over a shared screen on the great ship Perfect, their feathers ruffling each other in that annoying yet comforting way that only siblings could manage. Add to the fact that they were from the same clutch and the same egg means that not only could they finish each other’s thoughts, but they were able to absolutely infuriate each other.

“|Mmmoooovvvveeeeeee~|” Whined the eldest sister of the twins, Tr’’r’ikii, as she attempted to shove her fatter brother out of the chair that he totally just stole from her.

“|Ugh, no! You also type slow, let me figure this out.|” Growled the eldest brother of the twins, Tr’’ro’koi, as he attempted to push against the force of his fatter sister trying to dethrone him from his rightfully-stolen chair, his hands gripping the terminal desk in front of him. “|Look, I’m just trying to find out what our little-needs-protecting decided to send, and then I’m done! Ju-ACK~|”

Tr’’ro’koi clawed at his sister’s, well, claws, as they covered his eyes and scratched somewhat-not-so-playfully at his face. “|If that’s the case why are you checking my recent contacts you blind idiot king-|”

“|AAah!|” Tr’’ro’koi cried out, gripping his sisters’ wrists and prying her hands away from his face. “|It is an elder brother’s duty to chaperone his younger siblings through life, as the scriptures fraaaAAAAOOW|”

Tr’’ro’koi flinched and ducked his head, turning with a frown as his sister leaned back, a smile on her face. “|Oh, sorry, was that a primary? Your feathers are so dull and small, I thought it was just loose down.|”

The two siblings stared daggers at each other, feathers and body language shifting rapidly from “are you done yet?” to “let’s fucking gooooooooooooo”, until a notification pip from Tr’’r’ikii’s monitor snapped them out of their rivalry. The two of them pressed their cheeks together, trying to both see the whole screen at the same time.

“|Ah! What did little-needs-protecting wiggle-nap choose-|”

  “|Can you just move a bit it looks like he picked a tragic drama-|”

“|Hmm.|” Tr’’ro’koi mused, leaning back in his seat, a claw scratching underneath his chin as he gazed into the middle distance. “|I wonder wh-UHN.|” Tr’’ro’koi grunted as his sister apparently pushed his off-balance body from the chair and reclaimed his rightful throne, landing him flat on his back. He didn’t change his pose, of course – that would be admitting defeat, and we can’t have that.

“|What made him decide to do that?|” Tr’’r’ikii mused mostly to herself, reading the transmission report as she finished her brother’s sentence. “|I don’t know either – usually we just broadcast feel-good movies to work up the crowd. What in th- OH NO. IT’S THE LONG GRAY.|”

Tr’’ro’koi didn’t even respond to his sister; they shared that weird sibling connection, so just the tone of voice was enough to flip him back on his feet and get him sprinting out the door. His sister caught up to him a few seconds later, and the two of them – still jockeying for position within the long, straight hallways of the ship – raced to the meeting room.

This was bad.

There was only one meeting room aboard the Perfect, and quite honestly that’s all that was needed. It doubled as a rest stop and vending machine outlet, and was used for anything from temporary storage to impromptu nap shelter. Originally it was decked out in perfect, orderly rows of tables and seats with a slightly-raised dais on one end for the presenter to stand and give briefings, but over the years some tables had been moved out, the official chairs were swapped for things the crew found more comfortable, and the addition of a few potted plants helped liven up the space. No one knew if the projector even worked, the thing being fired up only a handful of times in the couple hundred years the Perfect has been in service.

“[-So we can all agree: All dangerous chemicals will now be held in minimum 200lb grip-force containers.]” Captain Sassafras said, her tail flicking bemusedly behind her as she coiled on the dais. She looked up from her tablet to see her crew – a healthy mix of all established species, nodding lightly at the new announcement.

All save for one.

“This is speciesism and I’m going to talk to HR about this.” Nate Callaway said, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back in one of the few human-only chairs on the ship. “What if I need to open something? Huh? What if my life depends on it?!”

The Captain sighed, resting the tablet against her chest as she attempted to adopt a ‘motherly’ tone, lowering herself slightly in the proper manner of speaking to someone shorter than you. “[Nate, that type of concern might have worked on me the first dozen times, but it’s not going to work on me now.]” Capt. Sassafras said, smiling in a quite charming way. “[My top goal is the safety of every person on this ship, and I’m more than happy to change any of our standard operating procedures to do so-]”

“You’re basically making it physically impossible for me to open up half of the stuff in this ship!” Nate yelled, throwing his arms up exasperatedly. “It’s not like anyone else here is even impacted by this, so you’re very obviously singling me out!”

“[Two things, Nate.]” The ship Medic and HR department Drz’grn-of-Arhref rumbled behind the human, rocking his chair up and down playfully. “[One, this new SOP does not single out any person or species on this ship – and I will take this time to now remind you of the physical labor waiver that you signed before you boarded our ship.]”

“Drongo, I had to in order to g-”

“[And two-]” Drongo said, rocking Nate’s chair a bit more playfully, “[-this is all your fault for getting into the coolant anyway-]”

Nate hissed, spinning around in his captive chair to swipe futilely at the furred arm of his tormentor. “That isn’t even real coolant! It’s made out of fructose and tastes like cinnamon apple cotton candy-

Drongo rolled his eyes as Nate battled his arm, the human making feral attack noises as he fought a knowingly-lost battle. “[I did not enjoy pumping your stomach, Nate, and I’d rather not do it again.]”

“You don’t know, it could’ve been perfectly fine for me!” Nate said, trying to pry a single finger off of the backrest of his chair with mixed success. “You didn’t even let me try the other flavors-”

“[Those were industrial chemicals, Nate.]” Capt. Sassafras sighed, the rest of the crew rippling with both mirth and slight concern. “[And I commend Drongo for rescuing you from what would have most certainly been your untimely death.]”

Nate crossed his arms again, letting himself get rocked. “You don’t know.”

“[They wouldn’t have given you superpowers, Nate.]” Drongo sighed, stopping his rocking and patting Nate on the head once. “[But you can try your luck on the movers and filers? Wouldn’t that sound fun?]”

“What’s the point of a robot army without superpowers, Drongo?” Nate sighed, slumping dramatically in his chair. The rest of the crew paid him little to no mind; to have a human on board – especially one who took to the particular culture of the ship like a duck to water – meant that you weathered both his bright ideas and their silly little fits.

“[Well, with that out of the way.]” Captain Sassafras said, changing the subject over the protests of her human crewmate, “[As you all know we dropped out of warp into Sweetwater. After broadcasting all of our information-]”

“What’s the name~” Nate called out of both habit and curiosity.

“[-you’re the idiot that signed the paperwork without reading it-]” The Captain said without missing a beat, “[-we should be entering port 72 within the next day or so; apparently there’s a bit of a backlog from some ore ships, so once that’s cleared and cleaned we should have a free dock.]” Sassafras smiled again, almost beaming at this point. “[So, our plan remains unchanged, and everyone knows the drill. Check your maps and vendors, make up your hit list for when we get to the station, we’ll probably have a full week to pick and choose, and then we’re off back to the hub. We’ll do our traditional rotation, starting with Licorice in the back. Any questions?]”

What is the name of the ship you overgrown orange creamsicle-

“[Oh Nate, I didn’t know you couldn’t read, buddy.]” Drongo said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “[Tell you what, we’ll download some speak-n-spell books and work on that tonight.]”

Nate turned around in his chair once more and attempted to give his best puppy-dog eye impression. “D-does this mean we can read your diary to the crew, d-dad?”

Drongo pursed his lips and covered Nate’s face with a large paw, pushing him away. “[I denied to your mother that you were mine and I’ll do it again.]”

“Yeah that’s not what your wife said la-”

Nate never got to finish that thought as two Karnakian troublemaking twins burst through the open doorway, deftly and swiftly dodging the other crewmates to absorb Nate in what could best be described as a “fear/concern straightjacket of feathers”. Now all the crew had been trained on proper human handling, and Nate – after serving on this ship for well over 2 years – trusted these people with his life. In fact, most of the crew didn’t even react to the kerfuffle, and on Nate’s part, he didn’t have the reaction time to.

It also didn’t help that the experience of going from 0-100 in .05 seconds wasn’t absolutely terrifying.

“HHHHFFFFFFFFFFFHFHH~” Nate screamed through the sibling’s hug, his inner ear telling him he was being picked up and possibly turned on his side. After a few moments the warm darkness gave way back to the meeting room, save for the fact that he was on the slightly-raised dais with the captain… and was being held by the twins.

“I admit to no crime!” Nate barked triumphant into the concerned faces of the twins. “Tiki is lying! Toko was paid off! I was blackmailed for those photos-

“[Nate.]” Tiki – Tr’’r’ikii, said, squatting so she was eye-level with the human. “[Nate. Why did you transmit The Long Gray to the station?]”

Immediately as Tiki said those words the entire meeting room erupted in a cacophony of noise, and none of it was pleasant.

The gig should have worked like this: The Perfect warps into system, gets scanned, sends manifests, metadata, IFF, route information – and most importantly, crew information. Flagged as a Human-carrying vessel under a Senate-approved internship program, The Perfect would then (more than likely) be allowed to have priority access to gates, to fuel, to lodging and a lot of other things. Humans, even though they had a mixed extra-solar colony and were in the middle of a population boom at this point, were still a rarity and in very high demand. More often than not things went swimmingly once the system in question knew they had such an adorable visitor, and the red carpet was rolled out, so to speak.

Then one day Nate had the bright idea to start transmitting “semi-approved” human media to the station with that initial blast of information. If they were caught by the OIH or some other body, plausible deniability: The Captain could say she was just teaching him how to work the transmission, Nate could say he was confused, there’s dozens of ways around the law as it was written. Better yet, the media in question wasn’t illegal, per se; it was modern and not yet had the rubber stamp of approval from the wonks in the high tower. It was better to think of it less like sharing banned media and more like leaking the new human movie a few months/years early. The transmitted media would, of course, stir up immediate interest, and kind of magnify the celebrity halo effect once they actually did hit the station. With this clout, Sassafras and the rest of the crew could use Nate as an incredible once-in-a-lifetime bargaining chip, and negotiate some real sweetheart deals.

No harm, No foul, No fuss, No muss. The station and dock crew got to take pictures with a real live human(tm) and the crew got to make money hand over fist.

That’s how the gig should have worked.

Unfortunately, and knowingly on Nate’s part, instead of transmitting a Rom-com or an action movie like usual, he transmitted the movie The Long Gray. Clocking in at roughly 2 hours, it followed the story of an elderly concert pianist as she went through her day to day life. As the movie progressed, it was obvious to the viewer that there was a bit of an unreliable narrator problem, until near the end the bombshell hit: She had dementia, and her world was unraveling at the seams. The final scene, the old lady humming the half-remembered melody of her favorite song as she’s wheeled away to destinations unknown, is the only memory she has left.

She repeats the melody halfway, and off tune. Incorrectly. Even that little thing, the only thing she has left, is leaving her… and then the world fades to gray.

It’s a real tearjerker, something that most humans wept at, and some xenos even went into depressive episodes over.

It’s also been broadcast to every living sapient on Station 72, a single day’s ride away.

Categories
Stories They are Smol

They are Smol Doctors at Large, Epilogue (Part 1?): The Alternative is Medicine

2200AD. 4 Weeks after Field Trip.

*tsk*

The televisions in the human wing didn’t need to make sounds when they changed the channel; it was simply programmed in as a cultural quirk.

*tsk*

“[…returning to normalcy. PDF outposts have been put on highest alert to stamp down on illegal spawning fires, specifically to alleviate the spread and prevalence of Dust, which has affected our human allies-]”

The furry paw clicked the room remote once more.

*tsk*

A gray-suited Jornissian calmly sat coiled behind a desk, making his case to a nodding, bejeweled Karnakian host. “[-derstanding that there must be communication between our two governments. I can understand wanting to keep secrets out of fear, but they need to learn to trust us, especially in times of need. If we had kno-]”

*tsk*

The channel switched again, this time to something random. Tipo was … well, bored wasn’t the right word for it, but. An analogy rose to top of mind; His tiny-chomper friends had told him about hurricanes, giant weather phenomena found on gas giants and habitable planets with the proper geography that had storm-walls miles wide.

“[-ices and dices!]” The smiling Dorarizin host said, her teeth clicking forcefully as she oozed vitality. “[It also mulches anything from yard compost to leftovers, and it’s able to chemically separate the ruffage into it’s constituent elements with minimal processing, making it pay for itself in raw material fabricator sales – or personal use – within 5 years. If-]”

*tsk*

When you hit the storm-wall, the wind was at it’s fiercest. Once you passed through, it was silence. Black sky turned to clear blue, the sun shone, everything was quiet and still. That’s what Tipo felt like – there was the rush of tiny-chompers coming in, the rapid intubations and emergency protocol, the… whatever that was with MEDIBOT, the field trip with repressed musical memories, and now

*tsk*

“[-should not be allowed on any planet, period. If anything this has proven that humans are too fragile to be left on any environment that’s not built from the ground-up to support their lifestyles!]”

Tipo groaned and muted the protester. Now he was in the middle of the storm, and everything was oddly quiet. The rest of the world was up in arms, there were treaties and laws and his wife was now on call at all hours going every which way doing all sorts of things that he wasn’t allowed to know about, and everyone was pulling out their collective tails over this and he?

Absentmindedly he licked his long-since-fixed tooth-gap spot, fresh and healthy teeth greeting his probing tongue.

He was sitting in the human lounge after putting his kids into daycare, waiting for one of his colleagues to teach him how to recover the tiny-chompers from a Dust infection. As soon as they made landfall back at the hospital all of the human staff were whisked away in sleek, black transports – save for Dr. Robot-Nick, who was hit with a net-gun as he tried to escape and air-lifted out. The goal was triage, but in the opposite direction – get medical professionals back up and healthy, then get VIPs, then the general populace. Tipo could only imagine that his friends had been working long, double-shifts for the past few weeks, so getting some help in Dust recovery would be a welcome event.

His ears perked up as the door opened. ‘Speak of good news and it will appear,he thought, as he stood to warmly greet James.

“{Hey there, friend. It’s been a while!}” Tipo said warmly, and was greeted with a soft smile and a gentle pat on the arm.

“[Yeah, it sure has been. You holding’ down the fort?]” James yawned, stretching. “[Sorry, caught a red-eye… eer. Late flight? I don’t know, the day/night cycle here still fucks me up. My body is saying it’s early morning.]”

Tipo cooed softly, gently brushing James’ hair back. “{Well. Do you need to rest? We can always come back to this.}”

“[No, nope. Timetables and everything.]” James said, frowning. “[It just… it hurts, Tipo.]”

“{What does?! Are you injured-}”

“[No, no. You’ll… you’ll see. Maybe. Maybe you’ll miss it – come on. We’re going to start with the more intensive cases and work our way out from there.]”

Room 12B was only a few minutes’ walk from the welcome center, and it was done in relative silence. Any probing questions ventured by Tipo were deflected, given a non-committal answer, or outright ignored. Whatever had happened, whatever Laverne learned that caused her to stare off silently into the distance for half a day, Tipo would not learn about it until it was absolutely necessary, and even then, only to perform the duty before him.

At least, that’s what he assumed, when James remained silent outside of reading the vitals of the female tiny-chomper before him. Sarah Connor, 29 Dirt-years old. Incredibly young, incredibly infected – but the goal was to use her as an example because her youth would lead to a speedy recovery, and any accident born out of procedural variance could be mitigated.

“Hello, everyone.” Dr. Silver – now more man than machine – flatly stated, brushing aside the curtain as he walked in. His body had regained it’s former shape and color, and the scar tissue had mostly healed; the only discernible difference between his pre-entombment and post-entombment in the Iron Robot was his habitual and continued use of homemade purity seals.

Some of them had scripture. Others were just cursing.

“Hey doc. I’ve got everything ready to go, we’re starting the thaw procedure now.” James said, motioning to a wheeled cart sitting squat beside the already-low bed. “Tipo, can you please stand opposite me so you can have a full view of the procedure?”

“[Um, sure. Are you certain this is ok?]” Tipo mumbled nervously, hunching over the slowly-warming human.

“To be honest? No. None of this is ok. Just… pay attention.” Dr. Silver said, sighing heavily. “We are going to begin administering the PINGAS treatment. James?”

Listlessly James Wilson pulled the covering off of the wheeled cart, showing a myriad of what looked like… well. Tipo had honestly no idea, but none of it looked like standard medical equipment. Case in point, James picked up a cloth-bound circle with an intricate string design running through the open gap. He held it out, and it took Tipo a few seconds to realize James was holding it out for him.

“[Thank… you?]” Tipo said, cradling the string-circle in his hands gently.

“This is a dreamcatcher. This was created and used by native peoples on the North American continent of Earth to…” James sighed. “…catch bad thoughts before they entered your sleeping mind. Please place it over the face of Ms. Connor here.”

Tipo furrowed his brow, but did as he was ordered. As he did so, James pulled out a small, conical device, handing it to Dr. Silver who turned it on and placed it on the locker at the foot of the bed. “This is a Lavender essential oil diffuser-”

“[Essential oils being…?]” Tipo ventured.

“Bullshit-”

Being oils essential to the plant.” James spoke over Nick, looking at the now-warm patient. “Now…” James screwed his eyes shut, his body physically tensing and relaxing before he continued. Reaching back to the cart, he pulled out what looked like a long, very thin copper chain, on the end of which hung a quartz crystal.

“This.” James said, through now-gritting teeth. “Is a positive ion copper chain and a neutral field quartz crystal. Please intubate the patient with it – slide it down her nose into her lungs.”

With a clenched fist James handed the crystal-and-chain, with visible hatred, to Tipo. Knowing better to ask questions, with the utmost delicate care, he performed the medical procedure – running it down the nasal passageway to the clogged and inflamed lungs.

“[Procedure completed, Doctor.]”

“Just fantastic, Tipo, thanks.” Dr. Silver said with uncharacteristic venom, pulling up the covers at the base of the bed. “So now, because, we’re going to apply some peppermint essential oils to the bottom of her feet.” Dr. Silver fumed, upending a bottle of incredibly pungent oil before slathering it haphazardly on the woman’s feet, ankles, and bedding. “GREAT. Now h-hand me those~” Dr. Silver seemed to writhe in place as he outstretched his arm, making grabby-hands at RN. James Wilson. “~NnnnnNNNNnn Far infrared anion anti-toxin footpads.” The pads in question were slapped aggressively into the doctor’s hands, and he applied them angrily to the sleeping woman’s feet.

And almost as if on cue, the patient began to stir. From a comatose state, she moaned softly, attempting to move in her drug-and-sickness sleep.

“TIPO. HNNG. P-please restrain the patient with the supplied bedding straps.” Dr. Silver fumed, attempting to keep himself together. Tipo, not knowing what was going on but knowing enough to let his training take over, reached to the side of the bed closest to James and pulled the integrated strap, gently-but-firmly binding the patient down. He repeated this process about 5 other times, holding the patient firmly against the bedding without impeding breathing.

“[Done… doctor.]”

Just fucking great, Tipo.” Dr. Silver growled, shouldering his way next to the incredibly confused and concerned nurse. “Nurse, if you’d be so kind as to give me the fucking Himalayan singing bowl, and then fucking kill me, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“I hate this so much. I hate this so goddamned much.” James sighed, producing an intricate copper bowl. The two of them placed the bowl on the patient’s chest, draping the other end of the copper wire into it. “T-tipo, this will… ohforfuck’ssake, this will harmonize the resonance of the positive ion crystal, I can’t I just fucking can’t Nick, goddamnit.”

Nurse Wilson unceremoniously smacked the far side of the bowl with a cloth-covered stick, letting out a beautiful and clear B-flat. The effect was immediate and vigorous, as Ms. Connor began to cough – not dryly, but wetly. With practiced precision and ease the two medical professionals pulled out the crystal through the nose, and attached to it – like some weird, red-gray lattice, were the dust lesions.

“Quickly now! James?!” Dr. Silver said, letting the current pressing medical concern outweigh whatever existential rage-crisis he was going through. He pulled the crystal out and dunked it in a solution of (what Tipo would eventually find out was) triple-distilled homeopathic water, the lesions dissolving into the solution effortlessly. James leaned forward and uncapped a petroleum product, taking a liberal amount and smearing it over the tiny-chomper’s chest and neck.

The smell was incredibly pungent. “[What is that?]” Tipo balked, nose wrinkling.

“Vick’s Vaporub. Don’t… just don’t.” James said, frowning. “I almost felt normal there for a moment.”

The process was repeated multiple times – insert crystal, harmonize with the universe, pull out the problem children and wave the vapor-rub towards the face. On the 5th or 6th application, the patient opened her eyes, the Life-Vest working overtime to bring her vitals back to something resembling normal.

“Oh.. Mn. H?” Sarah Conner said, eyes unfocusing on the middle distance.

“Good morning, welcome to Caring Touch Hospital, P-please… drink this ginger ale.” James said, almost holding it out until the end. A small cup with a squiggly straw was presented, and the patient – half out of her mind – began to drink, her breathing normalizing and the inflammation signals in her body beginning to calm down.

“[Incredible.]” Tipo murmured, only to be interrupted by Dr. Silver’s foot slamming into the locker at the base of the bed in anything but an accident.

I would not use those words.” He hissed ferally, staring with both anger and pride at resurrecting his patient. “I-in 15 minutes we’ll give her some activated charcoal pills with a dose of colloidal silver.” He screeched, body wracked with psychic pain.

“[Wait, I don’t. I don’t understand.]” Tipo said, warmly watching the tiny-chomper be revived before his eyes. “[This is a medical miracle – Dr. Silver, isn’t this medicine?]”

“NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOHHHH, GOD, WHY DID I LIVE TO SEE THIS DAY.” Dr. Silver roared, as he, slightly foaming at the mouth, flailed his way out of the patient’s room to collapse in the hallway.

So all in all, a now-typical Tuesday.

“It’s Jim.” The man in the pit said to the Jornissian, who hummed curiously.

“[Very well, Jim.]” Persimmon said, smiling softly. “[So tell me why you want me to push through an emergency declaration that would trample on everyone’s basic right to free speech?]”

Jim sighed, rubbing his temples. “Because the CDC is furious over this … ‘cure’ actually working, and it’s going to have every single homeopathic snake-oil salesmaaa… eer.”

“Smooth.” His female colleague said, chuckling into her drink.

“[These words aren’t translating properly. Water-Medicine? Slippy-steppy-oil?]” Persimmon mused. “[What’s the actual problem here?]”

“Okay. Are you familiar with … con artists who will intentionally sell products that are useless?”

“[I too watch daytime television, Jim.]” Persimmon said, tapping his desk with a chuckle. “[But I’m assuming this has more negative connotations than normal?]”

“Yes, because it has to do with health and medicine. These people will sell ‘cures’ to both specific and non-specific diseases, and people will buy them as opposed to going through the actual medical establishment-”

Persimmon held up a hand. “[Ah, I get it. So what’s the actual problem here though – surely your population is smart enough to see through the ruse?]”

“The problem here is that none of these ‘remedies’ worked back home. It’s only here, in this new ecosystem, that it apparently seems to be doing anything.”

“[Well that’s good!]” Persimmon said, clapping his hands once in joy. “[At least you know why your other medicine works, and this can now be field-tested and added to that scientific body of – why are you looking at me like that?]” The Jornissian administrator said, leaning towards the camera. “[I know that look and I don’t like it.]”

“Eesh. He’s good at reading faces.” His female colleague mused, and was rewarded with a non-committal grunt. “That, or I’m just too tired and letting it get to me. To answer your question, Persimmon. Our… body of medicine isn’t exactly based on Scientific Proof.”

“[I’m sorry what.]”

“It’s… I mean, look, a lot of studies we could do to provide Scientific proof are unethical to do – poison, LD50s, etc – so uh, about 10% of our body of knowledge is actually Scientific Proof. The other 90% is just casual inference.”

There was a long pause as the Jornissian stuck out his tongue in a mixture of thought and disbelief. “[You… do realize you’ve had quantum supercomputers for a generation now, as well as suitable organ cloning technology – you could just simulate tests, experiment on actual loads. Why… why haven’t your people done this yet?]”

“Oh! That’s what those were? Well damn.” Jim said, head looking up in thought. “That’s actually a really good idea. We’ve been using those computers to figure out gold farming techniques in Gaia WoW Online because we lost the manuals. That’s actually a really good idea – I’ll pass it along.”

Persimmon closed his eyes tightly, and just hurt for a moment.

Categories
Stories They are Smol

They are Smol Doctors at Large – Chapter 24: CHUNGUS fears only one thing.

Laverne was seated by herself – well, her and the couple dozen Jornissian infants clinging to her body – on a bench seat along a very human table. The mess hall kitchen hadn’t had a good workout in weeks, and to those of a gastronomical persuasion, that was a travesty. Laverne knew better than to argue with someone who was putting out food – not only was it incredibly rude to do so, but you also had to acknowledge and admire the hours, and sometimes days of work that went into each dish.

And admire she did as the serving-robots made their way out from the kitchen’s double-doors, placing plates of piled-high Arepas, Plantanos, Tequenos, Paella – the good kind, with the bottom-crust from the pan, Taquitos de Pollo Dorado, Tacos al Pastor – fresh, mind you, fist-thick Tortas de Carne Asada, Arroz Morado (apparently someone had fun with the new rice cooker), hand-pressed and simple Tacos de Queso (with queso blanco made on-farm that day, of course), Jicama con limon y chile, dulce de tamarindo and two 5-gallon pitchers of agua fresca de mango and cinnamon horchata.

All in all, it was roughly 1,800,000 calories. Hot, fresh, and of course there were second helpings still in the kitchen.

Isabella took her time sitting down across from the visitor and her charges, smiling softly once she had settled into a semi-permanent sitting posture. “Please! It was nothing.” Isabella lied, the quality and quantity of the food spread before her visitors speaking to this effort being anything but little. Laverne smiled, and the Jornissian infants, out of youthful exuberance, dove head-first into whatever was within body’s reach. Mouths attempted to swallow tortas in one go, Tacos de Queso were pulled apart and put back together with rapt attention, and at least one infant surfaced out of the Paella like the great Shai-Hulud, may his passing cleanse the world… or barring that, may he at least make a happy plate.

“And you too!” Isabella said, nodding at the still-suited Laverne. “It’s not good for you to go so long without something to eat.”

“Oh, ah.” Laverne smiled, shaking her head, as the tet a tet began. “I’m ok, thank you.”

“You’re among family! You helped my little Juan Esteban to come back home safe and sound – though the boy apparently lost the harness on the flight back – so that means you’re family to us! Eat as much as you like.” Isabella countered, undeterred.

Laverne shook her head. “No, no, I’m fine-”

“Ah! If it’s about your ninos, don’t worry.” Isabella laughed, smiling at the overeager Jornissian children burrowing through the plates before them. “We have more in the back, and I can make you what you want. Please!”

Laverne braced herself mentally; just like it would be rude to not admire the food, it would be doubly so to not eat. However, time was of the essence, and she really really couldn’t afford the delay. “I’m fine, I ate already-”

“Ah, but you haven’t eaten since you left, and that had to be many hours ago. Come, the food is waiting-” Isabella juked, the master of hospitality-judo unerring in her strikes.

“I’m going to have to say no.” Laverne said, the pitcher of horchata being chugged by a hydrating hydra. “I uh, can’t take off this suit. There’s a pandemic going on, which is one of the reasons why I was sent out to your farm. Your grandson is the first person who was cured of this awful disease-”

“Feh! I’ve seen worse – we had cholera break out in my mother’s time! Now that was a problem, let me tell you.” Isabella stated, matter-of-factly. “I think this is just giving you ninos something to fret over, more than anything else. Now, please?”

Laverne frowned. “No.”

Isabella frowned in return. “Audaz de usted a asumir que estaba pidiendo.”

“Wait how did that not translate-”

“Doesn’t matter~!” Isabella crowed, voice cracking as she grinned. “You came here to check up on my little one, and that means you’re welcome to stay as long-”

‘Oh. Oh no.’ Laverne thought, summoning the immense will to ignore decades of cultural etiquette be as rude as she possibly could without actually being mean. “I can’t stay more than a few more minutes; really I’m in need of your grandson, because I think he’s the key to what we’re facing.”

“And just how would he be helping? We have a farm to run!” Isabella demanded, sitting up as tall as her curved spine would let her, the game between them – the jabs and feints of kindness and denial – being cast aside so bluntly.

Laverne pursed her lips. “I can’t say. That falls under doctor-patient confidentiality-”

“I’m his grandmother.” Isabella said flatly. “You can tell me.”

“No, I really cant. I appr-” Laverne raised her de-Jornissian’d gloved hand up to cut off Isabella gently. “-I appreciate the insistence, but if I tell you I could lose my job. I know you’re family, so I understand your concern, but this is something that I can’t share with you or with anyone else.”

Isabella pouted for a moment, grumbling something that Laverne’s translator couldn’t quite make out. “-children. Fine. Juanes~!” Isabella called out in that mother-needs-you-here tone, and was quickly answered with a non-articulate “Ayuh?” from somewhere down the hall.

“Come here, bebe!”

“Abuela, I’m not bebe!” Juan Esteban said as he walked into the room, wearing a well-worn smile as this particular interaction played out before guests as it had before family a thousand times over. He paused near Isabella to plant a gentle kiss on the top of her head, and was rewarded with a few gentle pats on his cheek. “Not bebe.”

“Always bebe, until you’re older than me! Now. Why is our guest here?” Isabella, the abuela, asked quite innocently.

“Ah. Did she not tell you – did you?” Juan said, brow furrowing.

Laverne sighed. “I’m not allowed to due to doctor patient confi-”

“Juanes.” Isabella simply stated, and her grandson deflated slightly in real-time.

“Yes Abuela.” Juan Esteban replied back, not so much as a question as it is an acknowledgment of taking whatever order was going to be given.

“What is this woman talking about?”

“Apparently the Dust infection – that gray cough – is very bad, and I’m the only one who’s been cured. I think they want to take me back to the hospital and run some tests on me to figure out how I survived-”

Isabella did not mean to interrupt her grandson; it was just that the realization she had hit her then and there, causing a smile to turn into a chuckle to turn into uproarious laughter. The Jornissian infants were fascinated by the sound, pausing in mid-bite or gulp to figure out what was going on. The effect was quite stunning; as Isabella regained control of herself she had the rapt attention of everyone at the table.

“Oh! Oho, I’m sorry! Perdon – I just. Oh my.” She cackled, smacking the table a couple of times. “The old ways are still the best ways!”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry. Can you tell me wha-” Laverne began, before the sound of double doors being kicked open startled the group. In poured Wiggles and Tipo carrying James and Than mo, who they themselves were carrying a couple dozen Karnakian chicks and Dorarizin pups. Where the oversized bucket, roll of blue tarp, bag of fertilizer, simple headstone and treasure map came from, no one at the table knew.

Why they were being chased by 20 angry chickens is also another story for another time.

“-one eyed Willy buried his treasure RIGHT HERE.” James yelled triumphantly, before the entire group stopped under the withering glare of a centenarian who saw you not introduce her to literal bushels of infants and track in dirt on her new clean floors.

“[Er, um. Hello Mrs. Aleman, uh. You remember Tipo, right?]” Wiggles said, smiling a disarmingly sweet saurian smile. The Dorarizin perked up and gave a little wave, the bucketful of pups swinging heavy under his arm.

“HM.”

“Uh. I guess… this is the rest of your group, Mrs. Roberts?” Juan deadpanned, fighting a losing battle against a wry smile. “Tipo, it’s good to see you again… we really should catch up.”

“Well it’s settled. You all are staying here, and you all are eating.” Isabella demanded, locking eyes across the table with Laverne. “Or are you going to have these children leave my table hungry after making a mess?”

“I. Yeah. Sure.” Laverne sighed, defeated. There was a shuffling as the human guests were all sat next to each other, their chaperons working to supply new food to the guests and themselves, stop any escapees, continue polite conversation with the matron and stack the bodies of the infants who ended up getting the itis into a nice, neat, comfortable pile.

“[So, not to… change the subject.]” Tipo said, helping one of his pups chain tequenos into it’s bottomless stomach like some kind of food wood-chipper. “[But I’m surprised to see you up and about.]”

“Bah! I am not yet two hundred!” Isabella said, pride in her voice. “So I’m not yet old! And as you can see, I still can help run the farm.”

Tipo smiled, placing his hand on Laverne’s back as gentle reassurance. “[Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. I meant more, we came here because we thought Juan was going to be the only human still around, but you’re as young and spry as my pups!]”

“Oh! Hahaha! I forgot, caramba, I just got lost in these little ones~” Isabella cooed, gently patting a splooting karnakian chick who had attempted to burrow into the plantanos pyramid but found himself half in the guacamole. “Yes, the old ways are the best, and one doesn’t have to stray far to stay in good health. That’s how I got you back on your feet, bebe.” Isabella nodded at Juan, who hummed around his second helping of Tacos al Pastor. “So that’s it? All your learning and fancy machines and you can’t defeat a simple cold, eh?”

The elder beamed across the table, and everyone agreed it was just easier to let her have her moment than take that thunder away.

“Yes ma’am. It’s one of the things that’s got us all stumped.” Than mo replied, with the proper amount of humility in his voice to let Isabella ride this high for the rest of her life. “And we would be quite honored if you could tell us how you nursed your grandson back to health.”

Isabella closed her eyes, savoring the moment. “Lord you can take me, I’m ready.”

“[Ma’am?]” Wiggles said, slightly concerned.

“Ah. Nothing. So! All in all, it is very very simple…”

And so over piles of hot, fresh, delicious food, Isabella Fransisco […] y Aleman started to tell the assembled medical professionals about her ‘home cure technique’.

And every single one of the humans’ faces fell in disbelief.

168 hours without sleep was supposed to have no side effects.

“MY MACHINES.”

This was, of course, from the manufacturer of the MED-I-BOT, and was basically bullshit.

“[Dr. Robot-Nick, you know for a fact that the state paid for these-]” The Karnakian doctor yelled as he stood on the low-wheeled table, feathers out in a threat display.

The Doctor formerly known as a human and currently demanding to be known as an avatar of the Omnissiah’s will let out a feedback shriek that rattled the windows, mecha-dendrites flailing angrily in the direction of the apex predator. “THESE ARE MY MACHINES. MINE.” The being shrieked, cradling the life vests in his claws as he etched into their white plastic binary nursery rhymes with his metal talons to care for the ‘nascent machine spirits’. “MINE. THEY NEED HOSTS.

“[Eeeeeasy now.]” Nurse Stringbean said, trying to approach from a blind spot that wasn’t there. “[Easy. We’re not trying to take them from you, we’re just trying to recharge them for the next round of patients-]”

“THEY ARE FUELED BY THE SOULS THAT WE GIVE THEM.” Rumbled Dr. Robot-Nick, eyes glowing a deep crimson red as the sound of incomprehensible whispering was suddenly made manifest as static in his speakers. “AND YOU WILL LOOK FOR MY RISING ON THE-

*Bwoop ip boop. Be doop.*

“Oh hold on I have a skype call coming in.” Dr. Robot-Nick suddenly and very humanly said, any and all metallic edge taken from his voice as he put the slightly-damaged-but-very-loved Life Vests back into their case to be charged. With the speed of thought he answered the skype call, very obviously deciding not to answer with video.

“Good afternoon! How goes the hunt?” Dr. Robot-Nick said disarmingly cheerfully as the xenos hospital staff started to evacuate everything away from his metallic reach.

Jame’s worried, haggard face lit up his side of the call, and he sighed. “It, uh. Goes.”

“Well that’s statistically uncharacteristic of you, James. I’m assuming this means bad news.” Dr. Robot-Nick said, matter-of-factly.

“No, no. Just.” There was a thunk as James tried to press his hand into his eyes and was stopped by his visor. He looked up, groaned, and screwed his eyes shut. “Just. The answer is dealing actual psychic damage to me, and I don’t… I don’t like this. It is going to be a gigantic problem.”

“CHUNGUS is already a gigantic problem, James.” Dr. Robot-Nick said with warmth, and if he still had a head that could move from side to side he would have shook it. “We don’t have many options. Now, what’s the treatment schedule? What happened – is our patient still alive? How was he treated? In fact, let me just override some things and-”

With a cascade of pings everyone from SEELE to the CDC were forcibly ejected from whatever conference calls they were in, and added to this unsecured VOIP communication.

“We’re now live.” Dr. Robot-Nick boomed, silencing all objection from the hastily-assembled peanut gallery.

“I uh. Alright, I just… I honestly don’t care anymore.” James said, dejectedly. “So the first thing first – we don’t really know what to call this method, but we’re shorthanding it as PINGAS: Percussive intrapleural nasopharyngeal guttate absorption system.”

“Fair enough.” Dr. Robot-Nick said, taking mental notes. “PINGAS can dissolve CHUNGUS?”

“Yeah. So you’ll… want to get yourself a quartz crystal.” James started, looking at some notes that were sucking the soul right out of his body. And as James began to go into detail on how the method worked, what needed to be done to prep the patient, possible LD50 of some of the items and how they are applied, Dr. Robot-Nick actually broke down.

Not in an emotional way, though there was plenty of emotion. No, this was more in the way of centuries of medical science crying out in pain and being suddenly silenced – it involved a lot of screaming, the sound of metal being wrenched free, concerning metallic knocking noises and the power to the entire hospital flickering in and out as lights burst randomly.

This was going to cause so many fucking problems.