In a garage in the Outback Sector, Nick leaned against a tall metal cabinet and twisted his jaws, tearing off a piece of the mushroom jerky Chief Engineer Parks had offered him. Normally he would touch the stuff, even the meat jerky, but this wasn't that sweetener laden, additive laced, overly processed crap one would get in Venison Corp's convenience stores. This was the good stuff; mushrooms harvested from the highlands, dried by Parks's cousin once removed, and delivered to ZV-73 once a year for her birthday.

Nick swallowed down the bite of jerky and watched as the red deer examined the transport vehicle sitting in the center of the garage. Her horns, sheared short to keep them from interfering with her work, were spotted with black grease. Her back was to him, so he couldn't see exactly what she was doing. When the car was brought in and she'd heard part of what had happened, she'd eagerly insisted on commencing the repairs herself, and immediately.

"Michty me!" She hissed and jerked her hoof away from the transport. "You could have warned me the blood hadn't dried yet, ye eejit!"

Nick shrugged wordlessly. Parks strode to the sink, washed her hooves and moved on to the nearby cabinet, muttering about the 'fecking' humidity. On the cabinet was a flag of the United Kingdom, an intended symbol of her roots. When she was three, a few years before Scotland seceded, her family had moved down south to the North West of Fengland, then moved again to Whales when she was ten. She'd adopted the accent as she grew up, but she'd learned much of her birth country's lingo from her parents.

One night, Nick had asked her about her pronunciation of the 'eejit', the term she'd used to the poor bastard she'd drunk under the table earlier that night. She'd proceeded to unload her entire life story then and there, spilling drips of cheap beer on her greasy grey coveralls, while Nick listened and tried not to show how awkward he was feeling about the whole thing.

The exposition had ended with Parks proceeding to, as the scots apparently put it, fa' on her kisser.

Parks opened the cabinet and procured a clean sponge and a tube of soap. "Yer lucky I really want to know what happened or I'd be making you do this, fox."

Nick held the jerky between his teeth like a cigar and crossed his arms. "A Gorgon faceplanted Fangmeyer's car and died. What else is there to tell?"

"Dinnae haver. Unless you're being thrown through a windshield at 60 miles an hour, a faceplant doesn' leave that much blood." Park gestured to the side of the transport. It looked like someone had thrown a sealed can of paint which had subsequently exploded on impact. Drops of blood could be seen on the tires and the windows. He could even see it dripping on the concrete floor of the garage. Nick could smell it all, a sickly sweet-salt scent that made him glad for the jerky under his nose. The sight of Park's nose wrinkling suddenly made him feel charitable. "You want some help with that?"

Parks paused. "You can help clean the tires. There's another sponge in the cabinet."

As they cleaned, Nick went into more detail about what had happened. Parks scowled when Nick explained that he'd taken Judy to the scene of Green's murder. She laughed the joke he'd been telling. Then she whistled as Nick described the exact moment of impact.

"Shut the front door. It was that close? Jesus, it could have been your blood we're cleaning right now."

Nick nodded. He didn't tell her that he'd frozen up. The scowl on Judy Hopps's face afterward had been sobering enough.

The scent lingered even after they were done cleaning. Parks dried the side of the car and took another look at the dent. "Should be easy enough to pull out, but there might still be a mark. It's a good thing the transport was armored, or we'd have to replace the door."

"So long as the door opens and closes." Nick said.

"From what you said, it was either suicidal or seriously stupid." Parks walked around the vehicle out of sight. "Are Gorgons stupid?"

"The thing is, the Gorgon was already messed up when it hit the transport." Nick heard a button being pressed, and a thick pole rose up out the ground, the anchor that was used for dent repairs such as this.

"How do you mean?"

"It was in a fight and got trashed. Something tore it to shreds. Bleeding like that, Hopps reckoned it could have been wandering around for miles before Roth spooked it."

Parks returned with her trusty dent puller and attached one end to the anchor. "Hopps reckoned?"

"You know why she's here. Crime scenes are her thing."

"I thought she just took photos for a living?"

"You saw her website, too?"

"Heard of it. I'm more of a clockworks and gears kinda lass." Parks applied some sort of glue to the large suction cup and pressed it to the dent. She hesitated, her hoof pushing on the cup for a lot longer than what it probably needed. "You think she and that computer will find who killed Green?"

Nick chewed on the last piece of jerky. "I think she'll do everything she can."

He left before the repairs were complete. There was someone he needed to talk to.

Rhamnusia Comminications, Rham-Com for short, was a communications center based on the second floor of Savanna Central. Nick needed to stop by that place before returning to the fort. He stopped at the reception desk at which sat Miss Armandillo, a lady who single handedly ran Rham-Com with an iron fist, and pursed her lips whenever she saw any mammal who carried a gun on daily basis. Nick liked to imagine that it was a leftover habit from her distant teen years of hating authority figures just because it was cool. He'd made the application the day before and answered the mandatory questions the computer had asked him. The head of communications had almost put down a rejection, but as the acting Administrator, Clawhauser had overruled her. Nick hoped the guy wouldn't get in trouble for it when Hornbull returned. He was a good guy, and a good match for Bogo.

Armandillo handed over the document containing the passcode without any drama and went over the usual spiel; the code must not be passed on to anyone else, it will be rendered void in 24 hours, yada freaking yada.

Armandillo wagged her finger at the fox with every other word. "Destroy that document as soon as your business is done, do I make myself clear? I don't want to take any chances of it falling into the wrong hands."

Nick dearly wanted to ask how old biddies like her could still exist in this world. "Not to worry, ma'am. I will tear it up and mix it in my broth."

Armandillo leaned over the desk, getting closer to Nick's face. He could see the specks in her irises. "See that you do. And stop showing off that pistol hanging from your hip. It's not a merit badge."

"Never joined the scouts, doll." Nick pulled his shirt over his holster as best as he could manage, pocketed the document and left.

His barracks in Fort Meadowland had one computer for each room. Nick was happy to find the room empty when he walked in. It'd be pretty awkward if anyone was looking over his shoulder and his old buddy had one of his 'episodes.'

Nick sat before the dirty grey brick that was the computer, slipped his comm-card into the slot beneath the tiny screen and typed in the code. All eighteen digits. It may just be the way it affected his ears, but the beeping sound it made during while processing the code was a weird one. It sounded more organic than digital, like someone was blasting air through a flute. It went on for a lot longer than he thought it would. He tried not to get worried. If anything was wrong on the other end, such as the comm system suffering damage from the collision with that UFO, the screen would be showing an error message by now.

Before he could pull out the card and try again, the screen flickered. For a moment he saw a slightly pixelated, overexposed image of a grimy maintenance room somewhere on the Vidar's C deck. Then the featureless black plate of a welding mask filled the screen. The figure paused as it recognized him, then slowly raised a set of claws to lift the mask. A smile slowly spread across his lazy-looking face.

"… Nnnniiiiiiiiiick."

"Flash, Flash, Hundred light year Dash." Nick propped his elbows on the desk. "How the hell are you?"

"How many years has it been? Two years? Three?"

"1 year, 11 months, 2 weeks, 7 days, 2 hours and 20 minutes." Flash paused. "Make that 21."

Nick was happy to see how fast he spoke. Drawing out the 'Niiiick' was his favorite way of greeting the fox. Flash was the best kind of synth- the kind with personality. "How're you doing, buddy?"

"You want the good doing or bad doing?"

"Bad doing."

"The hyperdrive needs replacing. It's going to take half of what we earned delivering Miss Hopps to pay for it."

Meaning that until a new hyperdrive was delivered and installed, the Vidar crew were officially stuck on Rhamnusia. For weeks at least. Nick whistled at this realization. "That sucks balls."

"The good doing is that I'm just about done here. I can bring the Vidar and Minerva into orbit first thing tomorrow."

"Carrots will be happy to hear that."

"Carrots?"

"Miss Hopps."

"Ah." Flash turned away from the monitor and pressed some buttons on an unmarked panel offscreen. Nick had forgotten how inorganic he moved when he wasn't around other mammals, negating the need to act like a sloth. He turned his head, his arm still raised to the panel. Nick didn't see or hear anything happen. If Flash was happy or disappointed, he didn't show it. "Hm. Nothing. The fuse, perhaps." He moved offscreen, but Nick could hear that he was still in the room. "So, what made you go to all this trouble just to call me?"

"No real reason. When you're planetside, Captain Wire Wool won't let you out of his sight. I figured this'd be our only chance to talk, one on one."

There was a clinking and scraping sound as Flash removed whatever panel was covering the fuse box.

"My scent detecting skills may not work like you do, but even I can smell bull. So who's the prick?"

"No, no prick. Just wanted to talk to a friend."

"Nick, we've talked about this. You need to make some friends who, unlike me, are flesh and blood."

"I do have flesh and blood friends."

Flash strode across the screen with a signed fuse in his grasp. "You have associates. Most of whom… cut ties when you… were drafted… into… service."

Nick sighed but said nothing. Flash was having an 'episode.' Hopefully this one didn't last.

"When… was… the last… time… you'd… spoken.. with… Finnick? His… sentence… doesn't… end for… another… two… years."

"Drafted, he calls it." Nick muttered. "I didn't want to join the corps in the first place. I'm a convicted hustler, not a killer."

Flash slowly began to move across the screen with a screwdriver in one claw and a spare fuse in the other. "Do you… still… intend… to… apply… for… marine… engine… eering?"

"Once I get the degree."

Flash made it to the other side of the room. Nick heard him apply the spare fuse and screw the panel, his movements growing steadily faster as his episode came to an end. Nick knew that Parks knew a guy who worked in Outback, specializing in synthetics. Maybe he could convince him to have a look at Flash.

He remembered the last time someone had looked at Flash. He'd never forget it.

It was five or six years ago, give or take a few months in hypersleep. He'd been travelling with Rochewool and Cudson as a temp, on his way to Hyperion to conduct the mother of all cons. An unidentifiable signal had prompted Mother to divert their course, waking them up until they were three hours away from the source. Nick could vaguely recall the surreal feeling he'd felt when the sloth had floated into view outside the window, drifting aimlessly in the void of space like a drowned corpse.

Rochewool had taken it upon himself to suit up, venture outside the ship, and bring back what they all thought a dead body. Nick snickered, remembering the epic freakout he and Cudson had when they brought Flash to the infirmary and he reactivated right there on the table.

Rochewool, cool as ever, had regained his composure first and asked him to identify himself. Flash could only give his assigned name; Fletch. Rochewool then asked him for his identification number and manufacturer; he couldn't recall. He was dressed in a pale blue uniform, but the shirt, the garment which would have identified which vessel he'd served on, had been missing.

The last question Rochewool had asked concerned the severe acid damage he'd suffered to his abdomen, the root cause of the episodes he still suffered to this day; he couldn't recall the cause of that either.

As it turned out, Rochewool had been thinking of acquiring a synth to handle some of the more complicated tasks required to maintain the ship. They got him patched up in Hyperion, changed his name to Flash, and enlisted him in the crew for less than half the price of simply buying a synth fresh out the factory. If anyone asked, and they rarely did, Rochewool had bought him second hand. Only Nick knew the truth, and gut instinct told him that he'd be better off keeping it that way.

The acid damage had since been patched up with a patch of fake wolf skin, but something about it always made Nick curious, and at the same time cause his fur to stand up on end. He had never asked Flash if he recalled anything about what had happened to him.

So why did he want to ask now?

Flash returned to the computer, his speed back to normal. "Alright, let's try this again." He reached for the panel from before and flicked some switches. Nick didn't hear anything, but whatever Flash saw satisfied him.

"Power restored to the portside engine. We are good to go."

Nick's tail wagged. The question died in his head. "When you're planetside, I know a kiosk that caters to mammal and machine. I hear they do a pretty good synth milk."

"Must you call it that?"

"Would you prefer I call it-"

"No."