An irken lies, his organic shell wedged deep within Blorch's crust, a cloud of dirt billowing through the air surrounding him. His limbs curl into him, his body flattened like a cockroach crushed under heavy steel-toed boots. One of his legs twitch.
His PAK glows, a haze through the mist.
TROUBLESHOOTING...
_ ERROR
c:\BCH000003687679\ IS DAMAGED
ASSESSING DAMAGE...
: "BROKEN"
: "BRUISED"
: "ιΙΤΘπ Hυ UUΠ⨔ R⅘s"
SCANNING ARΞ –? A∺R⊠EA ⨌CANNED ?
DANGER IMMINENT ADMINISTERING EPINEPHRINE
His body jerks to life.
CANCEL COMMAND "ADMINISTER="EPINEPHRINE"/"
INCREASING NITRIC ACID
Skoodge blinks bleary eyes. His vision does not clear.
He can't feel anything. Are his antennae broken?
ADMINISTERING STRESS REDUCTANTS
Distantly, he realizes that his PAK legs are out.
What, was he doing?
… My tallest…
Wasn't… wasn't he just talking to them? Did something happen?
He hears the crackle of fire, and the inner workings of his PAK. He hears cannons fire and the distinctive bwiee of lasers sweeping the surface of a planet.
It all sounds so muffled, and distant.
Stop… I'm still here…
A laser grazes the edge of the indent left from his crash. He can't feel any heat coming off of it, but the foggy air encircling the laser is telling enough. Those aren't celebratory lasers.
They're performing the sweep.
… still… down here…
His PAK whirrs in exertion. It can't work fast enough to rid him of his charred shell.
If he doesn't move, he'll die.
His arms shake, incapable of doing anything more.
Are they broken? Is everything broken?
His PAK legs scrape against the dirt and rock.
… can't…
He can't leave this hole. The surrounding area is a minefield of lasers and cannon sweeps. Even lifting himself up would be a death sentence.
… How'd he… get here?
PLAYBACK c:\04.9.39925_
"There's a new tradition now."
He crawls into the cannon. His hands find themselves placed against the glass, beady artificial eyes looking between his two Tallest.
That's right… his Tallest…
Did they know how badly this would damage his shell?
If not for Blorch's unique composition, Skoodge would no doubt be dead. If he were assigned Vort, and got shot out of the cannon there, he would've died. Should he warn them before they do this for the other Invaders?
Why does this thought feel so… ridiculous to him?
Like it wouldn't matter if he did tell them.
… He must be delirious.
It's hot. His bones are shattered. What's left of his skin is nothing more than a peeling, dark, bubbling mass. Irkens are highly flammable, and he got –
He's tired, too.
Currently, his PAK is screaming at him, pumping melatonin into his shell to make him go into a forced narcosis. He knows he can't sleep yet. He has to get out of the lasers range. He knows he can't leave. He'll get vaporized.
Skoodge does the next best thing.
His limbs, laden and jelly-filled, barely respond to the commands he executes. He hisses at their inefficacy.
Instead, he uses his metal legs, drawing them inwards, clawing and kicking up the dirt beneath him.
A newborn grub can do it. So can he.
He goes down.
Skoodge claws and digs without relent, burying himself deeper and deeper into the planet's crust.
Only when he's fully settled a whole Tallest's height beneath, with a coat of dirt layered above his shell so heavy that it's almost suffocating, does he stop.
He doesn't need to breathe. His PAK will handle that.
It'll… handle it…
His eyes are already closed as tightly as they can be. There's definitely dirt in them. He can't find it in himself to care.
He's tired.
He just… needs to sleep.
The muffled sounds of cannon fire grow distant. He slips away until he hears nothing.
When he next awakes, he awakes to silence.
The sweep has stopped.
His eyes itch. His skin, too. That's a good sign.
He tries moving his limbs. Despite the rough, peeling and charred outer coat that scrapes against his newly-grown epidermal layer, they're completely fine.
Good. Anything less would be an indication of a defective PAK.
The dirt shifts around him as he squirms. He slows down, and stills. It's pretty comfortable, actually. Quiet. Dark. All he can feel is the dirt around, and himself. There aren't a lot of stimuli to process.
Processing things has become a difficult task for him, lately.
He wouldn't mind staying a little longer…
… Nah. He should get out of here.
Not wanting to risk getting more dirt in his PAK, he uses his limbs to dig himself out. It seems to have hardened above him while he was down here. How long has he been out of commission? He checks his internal calendar.
About… a week.
That's… not good. A PAK should be able to heal all his injuries within a few hours.
Was it because of the dirt? Or was his PAK keeping him under until the organic sweep ceased?
Maybe… maybe his PAK is … broken.
It's… kind of been like this for a while, though, hasn't it?
There's a noticeable delay between when he sends commands and when it executes them. His tools are slow, his metal legs jerky and jittery.
And he's always so, so tired.
He should get it check –
NO.
– it's fine.
Everyone has a few technical issues with their PAK. Not every little thing requires a maintenance check.
Unable to breathe to ground himself, Skoodge instead prepares himself mentally for the challenge ahead. His hands come up above his head, and begin scrabbling at the dirt. He's not sure if he's facing up or even down right now, but he's sure with a little bit of frantic flailing he'll figure it out soon.
Just as predicted, within a few minutes, his hand breaches the surface.
He pulls himself up, dragging his body out of the quickly sinking ground that's trying to pull him back in. Fresh air. He heaves it in, tired despite barely being awake for any time at all.
He turns his head lazily to look around him.
There are other people.
The surrounding aliens busy themselves with constructing, piloting large rollers and churning large amounts of dark, durable cement. Every time a roller finishes with a section of land, cement soon follows, poured over the primed dirt. He's a little curious as to what they're making.
This must be the planetary conversion team.
… No one's noticed him yet.
His eyes twitch. Before he can think to stop himself, his tongue slips past his lips and slicks over the squishy surface of his optics and licks them clean.
He stills. His hands push out beneath him, and he rises to a sitting position. He spits the dirt out.
At least no one was looking.
While he's at it, and while everyone's still ignoring him, he might as well fix this whole skin issue, too.
Skoodge grabs at the loosest part of his face, under the flabs of his neck, and peels away the largest and most open portion of the dead molt – his head – reveling in the way the air hits his still-moist, freshly grown skin. He drops his old crisped skin next to him, wiping some of the leftover sticky residue away from his eyes and the perioral area under that. He'll have to get rid of the rest of the skin under his uniform later.
His hands rub along his face, and pull down to cup his cheeks, simply admiring how smooth they feel. He feels as clean as the day his tube cracked. He thinks so, at least. His PAK wasn't installed for those memories.
Removing his hands, he raises them above his head, and begins the process of preening his antennae. Claws scrape and chip away at everything obstructing them, and Skoodge almost immediately regrets cleaning them.
It's so loud.
He wishes his PAK would just go back to processing things like it used to. Or that he could've stayed in the dirt.
Skoodge wipes his hands off on his uniform.
Aliens surround him, all bustling with a sense of duty and purpose.
There… uh…
… It looks like there's a lot of construction going on, huh?
He continues to observe as irkens and allies and slaves whittle away at the land.
Boss. They should have a boss. Right. Skoodge needs to talk to the Tallest. He needs to get out of here.
He looks around and sees someone of interest – a nearby, loud irken, holding a holo-board and shouting at the other aliens to get things built faster.
Skoodge jumps up, and with a kick in his step, walks on over to the taller irken.
The supervisor turns and looks down at him, head tilted and curiosity piqued. "What's a little bug like you doing here?"
His steps have a little less kick as he finishes coming over. Huh. They don't… recognize him?
"I, uh – actually, the funny thing about that…" He brings his hands together in front of him. How does he tell them that the Tallest shot him out of the organic sweep without looking crazy? Should he? "… I… conquered this planet. I'm an Invader. Skoodge?"
Their curiosity quickly morphs into boredom. "Oh, yeah? And what's the 'Great Invader Skoodge' want from me?" He spites the name out with sarcasm. Skoodge pretends not to notice.
"A lift?" His hands whirls around as he shoots off suggestion after suggestion, in quick succession. " – ormaybeyoucould get one of your delivery drones to –"
"Sure," They interrupt, not sounding at all genuine. "Just get back to me in, say, a century."
They walk off, continuing their business of shouting orders over the din of machines and labor.
He huffs.
Rude.
Not wanting to bother them again and get to the same nowhere fast, Skoodge cuts to the chase and goes to the temporary drop-off zone nearby, erected for holding building supplies.
Large spacecrafts line unpaved lots, aliens mill about and converse with one another, casually, during the spare moments of reprieve they have from their work.
"Hey, there!" He waves at one of the storage drivers. They look back with an impassive glare.
Skoodge keeps walking, up until he's right at the foot of their spacecraft. Why are things always so tall?
"What."
He smiles, all teeth. "I was wondering – could you, maybe, drop me off at Conventia, or –" His smile falls to a grimace. Why does he have to explain this? All he should have to do is flaunt his name around, and be done with it. He straightens his spine, hand pressed firmly against his puffed chest. "I'm an important irken, you know!" The stout Invader deflates, becoming unsure. "I'm Invader Skoodge?"
"Hah!" The alien barks. It grates on his antennae in all the worst ways. "Nice try, pipsqueak. As if I'd fall for that. Skoodge is taller."
They slam the door shut and fly off.
… What?
That's… the second time his name hasn't had an effect.
Not only that – what did they mean Skoodge is taller? He's never been tall. Everyone knows that. Don't they?
He taps his foot and crosses one arm over his body, the other propped up to hold his cheek in his hand as a contemplative look settles across his face, wrinkling his just-smoothed new skin.
Why would someone think that…?
Why would no one care that he's Skoodge? Shouldn't the Tallest themselves be singing their praises right now?
… Shouldn't they also not shoot me out of a cannon?
No, there's no time for this – he smacks his chubby cheeks, ridding himself of all doubt. His leaders are perfect. Everything they do, they do for a reason. To think otherwise would be treason.
Perfect. Perfect.
Stay in line.
There's another alien nearby that he can ask for help from.
This time, Skoodge shoots out his PAK legs – executing the command early, compensating for the slight delay – so that the alien doesn't fly off before he can get a chance to talk. He digs his claws into the bottom edge of the open window. "Where are you going?"
"Suppliyon," comes their gruff, curt reply.
"Could you drop me off at Irk on your way over?"
"Why should I?"
"I… might…" He struggles to think of an adequate reason. "… get in the way of construction?"
They pause, scrutinizing.
"Fine, get in."
Skoodge practically beams, opening the passenger door and crawling through, slamming it shut behind him while he retracts his metal limbs. He nearly starts bouncing in his seat until he reminds himself not to.
This is perfect – well, not perfect, since he should really have his own personal ship bringing him back to Irk… maybe a sleek Nirn Cruiser, with a long body, painted a deep magenta with deeper tinted windows… – but! That doesn't matter! He's getting back on the track he needs to be on!
He'll go to Irk, schedule a meeting with the Tallest's advisor, and figure out what happened while he was gone. And after all is said and done, everyone can have a good laugh about this whole – whatever this was, while Skoodge is getting ready to head out and Invade his next planet.
The other alien rolls the windows up and turns the ship on. The low hum of the engine is calming, and the way the entire vehicle shakes almost feels like a massage…
Skoodge's antennae droop, his eyes soon follow.
Important… things… he's got…
Maybe, though, he can have a quick nap first… Just, a small one, before they get there…
He's tired.