(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸ (¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸ —Back at the diner…— ¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)
Opting to grab her steak to go, being hungrier for answers instead, Captain's instinct was to dine n' dash after her rookie, leave Amy to quench her thirst.
Ounce by ounce, her personal scale had continued to tip—firmly against her at first, it had warranted a wish to 'adopt' that stray and see out his potential. Balance of Justice since then to degrade, toward keeping close pursuit of his steps, cautious eye… Even to admit to not helping matters at all.
"Nothing 'bout him makes any sense, but, whether necessary or not, poor kid's known only beatings and barbs outta me. Who am I to order that he open up? To fly right? Never figure out what grounds him so, if I don't adapt and make amends."
A nearby checkpoint and pneumatic tube to hop into, which'd suck her upward, through a series of curves, and soon right outside HQ. History had after all of covering eye, ears and mouth when convenient, warning signs be damned, and knew only a fool would ignore the possibility this time.
No chance of raising concerns though, for the big sign to halt her; yet another stunt that'd resign her to coffee and maybe some contemplation. A thought at first of cooler heads hashing things out in conference, coming to an understanding; sudden activity beneath, though, to reconsider.
Piecing together her near-scalding, Hermes' great rebuke, and lack of doorbells, would scurry under just as her Officer hopped out, moving as if he were possessed. An innocence to keep believing in, for leaving so quick, only to catch wind of a conversation when she finally made for the lounge.
Returning to listen in, any benefits of doubt became atomic; one thing to bust down old backdoors, quite another to commit this breach of command, with nary a hesitation… Nothing on her to record anything, yet the gist and gut belief to be more than enough.
"Evolve at my expense, will he? That really chucks my berry—let's see him flap lips once my fists start talking."
Her mind to become the smoothie she'd get going, its nutritious slush—nothing sweet, hardly solid, and no alternative to entertain. In that moment, a perfect ambush planned out, of surfing channels after a gruelling workout; face and tank top given a splash or two, and a fierce eye kept on the clock.
Could've watched a full show by the time he'd enter, be left in babbles and the verge of tears for facing her. Just a glare and beckoning forth to seat him—caught him dead to rights, and were she right, bet her life on how he'd end up.
"Had yourself a nice little chat?"
"Lee—um, Captain?" he'd try composing himself. "How'd you get here first?"
"Call it one of those, miracles, if you like. Speaking of which"—arms to cross, stare narrowing—"something you wanna say?"
"Ummm, errr, well—"
"Words escape you again, to the surprise of none. Just follow me, perhaps I've a better idea."
Looking back once or twice to check he hadn't run, would stomp toward a secret corner of their hangar, punch in a keycode to reveal her miniature gym. Hands to wrap up in tape, and never once would she break eye contact; this effect to prove effective at rattling her unnerved crewman.
"Jeez, what a big baby.Get behind that heavy bag, keep a tight hold on it."
His inquiry to ignore while she'd tape a small photo—mental tsunami to begin crashing about, tempt that famous roundhouse to collect his head instead of leather and stuffing. Little fun to love though, as those legs got to work kicking right to left, to create herself a human pendulum.
"Alright, glad you're getting your kicks, but what's the strength of this? What's going on?"
"Let me answer that by axing my own… Whose side are you on?"
"Sorry, what?"
Combos of crosses and hooks, southpaw stance, to let loose, each to land closer to his hands, "I've no mood for games, and I'm not gonna axe again. Whose—"
"Everybody's? You saying—"
"Was going over my head your plan for running from a free meal?"
"Ohhh, son-of-a-bit—"
A lightning left uppercut into fingers to ensure he knew, no doubt a bruising to hear a gasp and grit of teeth, every effort given to stay quiet. Series of flying knees, every effort of holding back, to follow up with—warnings of what was to come should he continue this resolve.
"Wanna keep me waiting? Could use the workout, and can do this all day."
"With due respect Captain, you're giving up a goldmine for, as I see it, no good reason. And I've wasted enough treasures in life, to wanna do so again."
"Never was that 'gold' I wanted, and emphasis on the word MINE… Chase after it again, and you're gonna get way worse than the shaft. Are we clear?"
"Uhhh, sure ma'am, but—"
"You're dismissed."
"Wait, damn you! Just my personal take on payback, didn't mean to—"
A tint of red so vivid, over orders ignored and revenge outspoken, would return to let rip a push kick that'd send her bag—all hundred-plus pounds—thundering into his face. Extent of her damage to not know, and care even less, as she'd unsheathe her combat knife to gently nick a finger.
"Keep pushing me kid, keep pulling your bullcrap… Promise you REAL payback, to keep doing so."
Her own claret then to draw an 'X' upon the picture taped… A certain headshot of a certain crewman.
(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸ —HQ, Friday evening…— ¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)
"*sigh* As if I didn't have ENOUGH headaches for helping, she goes ahead and gives me a migraine. Swear it's past lives and public service all over again… Like I can't escape."
Wherever he'd gotten dragged, would reflect upon last hours, same as any clocked up; train's great delay, walks of dread which'd linger, bosses to stalk and berate, then finally the search for some help desk. Thousands of calls in that short career, and an overwhelming majority the same—regardless of care given or urgency had, got only a venom he wouldn't wish upon anybody, even in this life.
Rarely a break from vermin clientele or team leaders, the latter's beehive full of hornets for any reason, so had only 'home' and certain cabinets to help. Every sip and every night to plead for a liquor lobotomy—not only for hours prior—while he'd twist inward in his recliner, swearing to vandalise the federal files of whoever crossed him next.
Fool's solutions and knew it so, but far better than fantasies of late; thoughts echoing of enacting them when, several calls in, the screech of a crone would shred his ears into a cartilage coleslaw, rip him backwards and, to memory, damn near off his chair.
Tried and true security, not to mention mandatory, to verify every caller's ID; name, address, basics usually. Her tirade however to not allow an actual word in edgewise, and leave him little choice but to inspect previous notes, try to appease matters, do anything BUT what was demanded.
Every agent up to now to draw the foregone conclusion; upon doing so, each to really get the business, be left a disturbed mess. This day, of all days, to be next in the firing line…
"Ma'am, look, much as I regret advising this, your finances remain cancelled. I can't do a damn thing, the system won't let me, as it says it's subject to this—"
"Screw your fuckin' meeting, where's my fuckin' money?! Christ you're a useless count, swear my daughter's gonna kick your God-damned arse!"
Sympathy at first, as on and on she'd broadside him—hadn't a clue, idea, or hope of a steady dollar either, and BOY did he relate to meetings taking his money. Agency to employ him to always appoint catch-ups, even book them in the middle of shifts, and that'd say nothing of the red tape, hold times, and hundred-plus summers without electricity.
Maybe why he let most abuse go quietly, for sailing as they did in that absolute storm, but this one he wouldn't—one thing being called count, minus a certain vowel, but promises of violence to nuke whatever goodwill he had. Little left to lose by then, and word was he was to be sacked over failing quotas-what did it matter, to bring out his own broadside?
"SHUT UP! SHUT, YOUR, STUPID, MOUTH!"
That and a few choice curses to come out bestial, transfix everyone within fifty feet of him.
"You wanna talk a tough game, bitch, then remember this—WHO has WHOSE address between us both? All you've got is my voice, so I'd suggest you apologise and beg for my grace, lest I personally feed your parasitic arse to the worms, and make your little girl dig the grave. GOT IT?!"
Only the hang-up tone heard, to then give his immediate notice; witnesses gawk-eyed as with a bellow, he'd smash his keyboard, rip out the landline, hurl his monitor, and send his seat through a window. With no-one in his corner, no-one to fight for anymore, would return with only one plan; take his final shots, have a lie-down, and just hope to be grabbed by an old friend of his.
Very first delivery, found the one and only thing to make him feel alive, capable of anything, only to squander such blessings by way of plain bad phrasing. And there were plenty worse thoughts he couldn't help having—couldn't prove them either, so had to keep them to himself.
"Much as I mightn't forgive how we met, why WOULDN'T I want what's best for her? Took me in, taught me a trade, gave a living… But without any powers, how can I prove myself worthy?"
Answers to never come in days to pass, with each shift of boarding crates, signing off deliveries solo, or helping to clean Bessie. Fractures to further crack with every struggle, every chewing out, every takeover at times—in time, came to suspect a bigger, graver obsession than first believed.
How readily she'd deny the simplest requests, for starters, regardless of reason or downtime—no chances to catch a live supernova, no sailing beside Halley or his friends, no care to witness any Earthrise… Insult to injury upon reaching the weekend, as after what the Captain would call 'tip pooling', would be left with only a handful of Bens, Blobs, and Brainos for his efforts.
"Absolute load of BULLSHIT—are they kidding me?! Be lucky to get a goon box let alone the good stuff. Screw it, least I know what's cheap or free."
Eager for a banquet and a book, was leaving the locker room when a callout stopped him cold; bony back clap of the big boss, uncanniest smile to wear, to get shivers cutting inside bones.
"Where do you think you're going, Mayflower?"
"Out, since I'm off the clock. Other than that, none of your business."
"Ahhh, afraid we've a change of plans. I'm sure you appreciate that free board doesn't pay for itself, that flexible arrangements must be made—"
"If you want me to work weekends, HELL no! I got my couch to sleep in lieu of your garbage pay, and that's non-negotiable."
"You, negotiating?" A great chortle to erupt, "Who OWNS this place again, hmmm? Besides, this isn't business at all, absolutely not. This is a family thing."
"Think you're my only boss to claim that crap? Please, I'd rather be adopted than call you maniacs and freaks a family. Excuse me."
Warm night's air to grace his cheeks, but for looking back—Chief's much softer tone to just make out—was compelled to return. Closing in, began to overhear mentions of termination and breaking contracts; fearing for his life, raced behind to snatch the phone from a suspiciously easy grasp.
A familiar tone, cackles after, to realise the line had always been dead, didn't even have a number dialled in. Flashbacks of final hours to bring on those shakes, bunch up sleeves and fists begging to knock out those dentures.
"You snake-bellied cockroach, playing games with my life like that… Fine, what do you want?"
"First, to watch what you say, lest I make good on it regardless. Second, a small, quite easy favour."
A casual toss, and words of special exceptions, to go dead silent—judging by jangling metal, he'd just been 'promoted.'
"If your word's got any worth, then I think you know what I'm after. You've got 'till Monday, and save the questions for someone less busy."
Thought of spitting on slippers as soon as backs were turned, yet would immediately make tracks—realising a real clash was incoming, one to require picking a side, was left breathless upon reaching the bridge.
"Gods, me and my big gob. My fault really, shoulda known that Grandad Goodness was gonna call me on it."
Guts to sound off while he'd go from dashboard to brig; even to discover open cabin safes, would find not even a squirt of what he sought. In their place however, three-by-four inch snapshots, a wad way thicker than his tip.
"Trust my luck to wind up with trash. Still, these can't be an accident."
Jeans pocket to place them as, determined not to spare a single corner of anything accessible, he'd continue this quest—from Captain's seat to Bessie's engine room, would scour and scrounge about every floor and shelf, every cupboard and appliance. Quite assured of such anyway, for by the time he'd throw up empty hands, could hear the city in full swing.
Cosmic Ray's to crave after a shower of careless length; was busy scrolling contacts when, as if out of nowhere, a focused burn sent the phone flying from his hand. Though more surface than serious, couldn't help but yell out, rush to apply relief—who else to encounter there but the mightiest midget he ever met?
"Of course it had to be you, ALWAYS with these stunts… Make like any hopes I had, Puke Eyestalker, and die."
"Lord Nibbler to you, young man. And after rescuing you again, to decide how and when we meet is the LEAST I'm owed. Clear?"
Would return to his phone determined for a late dinner, only for a burning headache to start taking place. A tempest of feet and good fist thrown in response; oh-for-six to get him gnashing.
"By Eternium's halls… Are you done with this childish tirade of yours?"
"You done trying to infantilise me, after forcing my rebirth?"
"I won't be until you start growing up—suggest you do so fast. As rumours have it, seems you've a side to choose over a certain doctor's cream."
"That'd explain why I'm chinwagging with you instead of floating as space debris. Gotta wonder how though."
"One can learn and act upon matters, being loved and looked after. Also, would I be wrong claiming you got a better rush with miracles than with the booze, junk food and, let's say, self-intimacy?"
Fingers to dig into his forehead, "Be lying if I said yes, but MAN, the hangover afterward… Captain doesn't trust me, thinks I'm a traitor in waiting, and to top it off, just got extorted into proving her right."
"Your thoughts and yours alone. But in her boots, with the crewman you've been, would YOU turn a blind eye and your back? Besides that, did you really believe nobody would take your word, test your nerve, over the stakes YOU'D spell out?"
"Do I look so stupid as to just walk right up and ask what's crawled up hers of late? Rather remain here these days, thank you—easier to attend to any screams for help."
"What's so bad between you both, that demands you keep everything a secret from each other?"
"For starters, she thinks low enough of me as is," would shell up. "All the abuse and arse-kickings, and I never told her the life I lived—namely what I'd give back for it. So of course I've kept my distance, be damned insane not to."
"Perhaps her strikes are pre-emptive ones, to be reminded of a former crewmate—in helping themselves, they had no care in causing great harm either. Maybe some answers might lie in your right pocket?"
Copped a shudder as, per request, he'd help Nibbler to the conference desk and begin spreading that pile of photos about—attentive prudence a tough task for always fighting yawns and empty stomachs.
That he could tell, his Captain to remain prominent, or central, among the two or three beings featuring in each. To one side, a bloke of green eyes and ginger mullets who'd wear the same outfit—red jacket, blue jeans, white tee—in every single shot, many to date from years back.
"My oath, if I thought the crab reeked, can't imagine his smell. Wonder what she's got over him, to keep so close and pretend he loves her?"
"More like he had to get over himself, to be given an actual chance."
Ignoring the remark, would return to their robotic companion; if not hogging the shot, a head or two taller, and built like a steel barrel with limbs. Absolute force to reckon with, even BEFORE the evidence of being a hostile felon—novella's worth at least to see Stinky copping the brunt of balcony dangles, jagged glass, king hits and worse.
"Wait, this bastard commits all but murder, and I'M the bad guy? Make it make sense, please and thanks."
"You'd be wrong about that too—on both counts, I might add. Anyway, all these memories, always these three, and all to remain hidden 'till now. Any theories as to why?"
"Why bother, squirt? Can't even piss in peace nowadays, so take this down and take it to the bank… Her rope of helping hands is gonna become the gallows I'll swing from."
"You CAN find out, child, you just don't care to. Now I don't dismiss the hesitations, the history you have, but no-one can remain a solitudinarian forever. Either let her in and lend an ear, dig inside to forgive past deeds, or be welcome to tighten your own knot. Universe won't oblige any way out, and nor will I."
"You don't get it, you seriously don't bloody get it."
"And you're GOING to, should you keep your charades up. Pleasant dreams."
Flash of static to once again bounce about his mind; wishing he had kept notes, would grab a small bite before tucking into makeshift blankets, knowing no sleep would come. Mysteries of fetch quests aside, had to confront, make one certain choice in his ever-questionable future—do right by his rescuer, or do what was best for business.
(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸ (¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸ —…— ¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)
"So still you persist, even to know you don't belong. Wise up and walk out, or be wishin' you did, for we won't extend mercy and grace forever."
Almost bashing brains for springing off the couch, could only catch a flicker of fabric to scan outside—whoever it was, it to vanish into the night. A slap of the window, and again no chance of sleep; how could he, to have 'black death' stalk him every other night?
Could only glance bleary-eyed among snapshots as sunlight would bathe his couch, thinking such honest advice was worth taking. Tempting, even, yet greater forces would vow otherwise—hatred for its messenger, and unsettled payback to prove the main ones.
"I don't Gods-damned care what that creature thinks… I'm gonna ensure my spot, even to strip these headquarters clean."
Excepting breaks for lunch and dinner, any search efforts to last from rising to setting, indeed redouble the day after. Brightest peaks of the attic, darkest bowels of deep below, anywhere else in between and whatever would avoid recall—to find nought but hordes of junk however, could only chuck the closest thing to him, some stupid invention collecting dust.
Final gleams of starlight, overlooking the Widow's Walk, to mist up his eyes; imagination perhaps to form portraits of true Captains, their Number Ones, the Lieutenant that, no matter the miracles it took, he'd never come close to. Gripping the railing, would only incline his head and spine.
"Wayward son, heavy for a brother, and never ever got going. Idiot's tale at an ignominious end, but no longer shall I disgrace, dirty the name. Go and forsake your light, and please, just be at peace…"
Placing a hand over his heart, his eyes prickling, would leave with ideas of getting presentable until, twisting from grim to gleeful, he'd discover his second chance—last place he'd look, that locker room bench. A tighter grip he couldn't give, only to notice a 'READ ME' card taped under where it was laid.
Could only grimace to unfold that note, inspect its cursive script, scream to realise it had just arrived.
You alone to make this choice, and you alone to be held responsible… I'll be watching.
- L
Hands to clasp over his neck, as he'd shrink into a shell—maybe the hardest decision of his life, AND arguably the last. A game of trust and experiences, where head and heart had to weigh up who helped him most, who'd inflict the least harm.
Chief to offer this place to sleep, Captain to teach lessons on keeping it. He to employ enforcers, she to actually BE said enforcer. He to know nothing of miraculous potential, she to harbour serious stories of its influence; had to believe so anyway…
As options would tip towards the obvious, as lost plans left any light of hope fading, would make his choice—reaching over Leela's locker to place that prize, would eventually hand the keys back over, to a series of small tuts.
"A real shame to see, Mayweather—here you had me in the lab, day and night, believing you'd meant every word of being our difference… Only to lose your spine at the last second."
"I did volunteer, boss, but NOT to be extorted. And to lose my last weekend over your stupid bullshit, don't tell me I didn't try either."
"Me, a lonely old man in a lab coat, trying to threaten YOU? Prove it."
Had to admit to having no good answers, but only to himself—between phone logs inaccessible, and isolated incidents in general, was sure of being at a disadvantage, that Farnsworth had ensured it.
"Trying to? For refusing your 'overtime', you'd try sicking the cops onto me. Hell, even on day one. So to be a dead man walking anyway, why shouldn't I punch ya up the throat?"
"Maybe I can impel you to reconsider, then, by reminding you exactly who I am. If you'll follow me?"
Long strides taken in the opposite direction, and that corpse to notice nothing as he'd shuffle—precious reading hours and comfort to ponder, until curiosity would compel him back. Casual jog to match steps, and eventually, Professor to grip that sheet and raise the other arm with pomp and circumstance.
"Move over Dolly, PREPARE for creation!"
Inch-by-inch the sheet to be dragged, until he took over and just ripped it off himself; beneath, best he could tell, a giant green box adorned with tubes of plastic or glass; connected to it, a conveyor belt that'd run twice of him end to end. At its end, a Plexiglass tub attached, and between it all, messes of wires from giant green lever to circular screens to get it all operational.
"Oookay, well, utter rocket science to me, whatcha got here?"
"Behold, the Clone-O-Mat 3000, now with object-moulding capability! Borne from remnants of salvage, scrap, spares, rares and tireless work, it was with everyone's efforts on Stumbos-4 that I'd finally add its finishing touches."
"Right, right… And?"
"At last, our miracle to launch us forward!" In saying so, a subtle hand of beckoning.
"Exactly what miracles are—oh, ohhhh."
"Was afraid I'd have to talk slower, use simple words."
"Yeah, as if you wouldn't. Well, you want a miracle, lemme get the ins and outs first."
"Without frying that brain of yours, goes like this; place any item upon this input shelf there, then adjust the quantity you want by dragging this left or right, and finally, slap that big green button. After that, modern science can take care of anything else."
"I see, and any caveats I oughta consider?"
"Oh none at all, none at all… Oh wait, there's two actually. One, this'll scan only one thing at a time, and in getting lasered up, it WILL require the original's loss. Second, it's a 24-hour cooldown per copy; better trust me and the doomsday device to power this thing. Ahhh, if only I could've reused the lava pit."
"Doomsday device? Lava pit? Cooldowns? Gods help us, what else ya hiding in your closet? So if our best case scenario is some gigantic wait, then what could possibly be the worst?"
"Would suggest we take the ship, fly a good fifty light years out… Or fifty thousand." Mad cackle afterward to set off another shiver.
"Grreeaat, as if matters weren't messy already. Trust me to speak up, after believing my Captain deserved better than a punk kid playing spaceman."
"I don't believe you're a punk. Sure, the attitude stinks and so does the language, but—"
"Ohhh please, don't pretend you've ever cared. Guess I'll be back."
Each pause between labs and lockers to create cardiac attacks of varying intensity, before he'd make that ultimate choice—all manner of bleeps, bloops and blips to atomise that tube into the aether. Everything he could and couldn't describe to form the properties, ingredients, labels and warnings he'd fatefully come to discover; all to do now was watch that lever be tilted with caution.
Routine affair at first, until a crick in the ankle sent Farnsworth to the ground; after propping him up, both to gasp out loud.
"Uhhh, seven THOUSAND copies? Whoopsy-daisy, let's just correct this here… Like I wanna wait twenty years or, Gods forbid, kill billions."
A couple of particular dings, boss's own claim, and a wishful goldmine to gather—every tube of seven to get snatched up, a second after hitting the belt. Each one to inspect closely, but after every effort to spot a screwy label, any crooked text, or even misaligned glyphs—fail on all counts—finally had to admit to any chaotic brilliance.
"Gotta pay my respects, Professor, damn sure outdid yourself. Hmm hmm hmm hmm, precious."
"Don't need you to tell me. Now if that'll be all, I've got a nice breeze to enjoy."
Would flash a big grin, barely even process a word, until he'd watch the guy just strip out his lab coat, no provocation nor permission. Several bits wrinklier than a Shar-Pei to begin flopping about, enough to send those tubes scattering across the floor.
"Auugghh, my eyes! Satan's balls of fire, what the ever-loving HELL is wrong with you?"
"I have no idea, but I do know this… You better make this nonsense worth my while, got it?"
"Do my best Rip Van Wrinkle, just don't melt into a puddle in the meantime."
Pocketing their newfound prize, had only a smile as he'd lounge across the couch—even in spite of potential nightmares, their tickets to caviar dreams were now within grasp.
(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸ —In the wee hours…— ¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)
Once again enduring nightmares of justice unserved, to this time confront the 'hero' at her helm, Leela would whoosh back in pyjamas and bare feet; latest memory loop of many to encourage this return.
Regular coffee budget, of all bills, to remember waxing wise that power—she'd add the 'S'—was the best exposer of one's honour and nature. A life known too well, for heading up HQ's lift, notably including a once dear friend who'd proclaim, promise that as truth… Though of course, after Johnny Carson 'quotes' and criminal summers, would take such words with generous salt.
"Alright, our real moment of truth. Time I see where your loyalties lie, Officer."
Fingers to riff through in-house tapes and soon get to scribbling notes—hopes had of not alerting anyone as Amy's chat, hand-off of cash, came on screen. A regret to express over unreadable lips, of Miss Wong's failure in forgetting, so hadn't a choice but confirm this scheme as a complete dud.
Next, business behind closed doors to cross her fingers; awful lot to overhear that day, and a lot so awful, it'd goad her to act. Bits of footage though to somehow become static, leave much to simmer in imagination and breathe deep over.
Muttering of lucky nights, would spring up and powerwalk for the console—in the middle of fiddling with tapes, could hear this one grow crisp and clean. Few steps back, it'd come to reveal HER keys in that kid's hands, very same ones she would sanitise thoroughly with each morning 'recovery.'
Simmers to start boiling then, and upon their last tape, erupt beyond volcanic; while off the clock, he'd be leant against her locker, at times bash against it, only to finally defy her ultimate order.
"Truly sorry Captain, but soon enough, you'll come to realise why. At least besides deserving better."
Such a revelation to eject the tape and hurl it headlong over the railing, speak hushed regrets of not ignoring voices and keeping miracles secret. Perhaps a 25-to-lifetimes sentence in her horizon, but as vitals spiked and eagerness for revenge unravelled her, she began to see no other alternative.
"Wrong move, wrong freakin' move… This time you've DONE it!"
The morning after to confront a nightmare made real—reeking of eucalyptus and ego, her dead rookie walking to inspect that busted tape. As he cleaned up any scatters of plastic and celluloid, marvelling at their existence, would rack her brains wondering when to finish the job, knowing that to not strike was to risk mutiny.
'True heroes' to have tried before, indeed almost succeed—this to play through her mind as they'd meet within the cargo bay.
"Get a good look at you now… Had a good rest, I take it?"
"Don't mistake how I feel now for being at rest, Captain. Such spaceships launched long ago."
"Is that so? Well if there's anything to say, I was once a couns—"
"Yeah, right, as if you'd actually care. Awful notes of yours aside, ain't no way you've inclined me to believe you."
"Wouldn't have had to write that, had you quit your ideas. Why didn't you bail on this one?"
"Where would I go, to give up again? Back to Cookieville? Back ten thousand miles away, to lands of broken promises and bad memories? Better yet, had I no choice, how would I survive out there? I've got NOTHING to my name; just a worthless degree, bare experience, and barren networks—no way to advance any of 'em either. So let's hear it Ma'am, lemme soak in your wisdom."
"Sorry but no, and especially not anymore. You had your chances, and I'm not in the habit of always giving them."
"What chances, exactly? From the day we met, I had to walk on glass and eggshells 'round you; why bother opening up at all?"
"Because maybe they'd explain your methods, your madness, your motivation. Instead, you're likely the sorriest crewman I've ever led, even for our standards of late. What makes you think I'm obliged to hear you out, when you began as a crewmate with potential, and wound up as some worse version of Coward Man ever since?"
"I'm no hero Ma'am, never have been. But don't you DARE mock how I cope, when you've never cared about me, my mental state, or the memories that led me there."
An obvious gimme to provide with a pat-down of pockets, before she watched him rush up the ladder and, presumably, to the bridge.
"Maybe I do, and more than you think. But you won't need to cope for long…"
Crates again loaded and Bessie to bolt skyward, thoughts of lessons to override any of Amy's warnings, until a gamut of slavers would suspend any curriculums. One thing facing creatures feverish for fresh meat, on a Monday morning, but to have comms snatched and demands heeded, no cut fuel lines to justify it…
Thoughts of cuffs, chains, and coarse rags to circle as this new gang boarded her ship, as well as how she'd murder Mayfield prior, until subtle fixes in odds would flip the script of surrender.
Guns drawn to get hands up, and then they'd break into pieces. Promises of being beaten into submission, then forces unknown to injure them. No invader to have any advantage OR answer, and no apology nor mercy once she'd easily outclass them—eulogies kept brief as she'd drag their carcasses for the airlock.
Cries on deaf ears as she'd blow the trash out, watch them burn to dust, coining it a "blessing of SOLs." One to confess as rather welcome, especially to have Officers hide like little rabbits, not that she could convince Amy as they'd declare Noumel-13 their first stop of several.
Crates branded with 'BUILDING MATERIALS' for their Senate, its Grand Statehouse both violet and crumbling; orders and objectives to outsource as usual, with the hope of bedrest and clarity, until cracking sounds sprang her back for bridge, ready for lift-off.
Scene outside her dashboard to slap it and stomp out; turned out, would catch Mayfield belting the ground, watch crusts of chocolate and mantles of vanilla be shovelled in. Real problem episode to remember, and these days, too close to home.
"You bloated asshole—stop stuffing that fat craw, and go do your job."
He to carry on oblivious to any insult or order, until she'd approach close and yell right beside his ear. Naturally, shouting match to ensue, and as he'd abuse every detour thereafter, and flout every order—not just hers either—knew she hadn't any hope for mission success.
Nothing safe from an insatiable appetite; giant mazes of colourful candies, falls gushing of maple syrup, lakes limitless with quality Sundae fudges. Wishes he were this relentless where it mattered, as he'd end up so overstuffed that, once powers petered out, would just tumble in with a splash.
By the time he'd flail about, start to disappear under that goo, could've had a discourse with devils and angels—instead of letting the Lord sort him out though, grabbed him and gave an almighty pull back to shore. Such follies to aim fair shares of fierce kicks, as they'd arrive at the Statehouse leaving a sticky trail of liquid chocolate.
Any cordiality to cool quickly, when they'd approach Noumel-13's leaders—wouldn't take long for them to add two and two together, and just moments for them to call a sizeable army.
"So it was YOU to rescue this criminal, was it? This vandal who'd sully our heritage and culture without remorse?"
"I assure you, Senator, he can expect a SEVERE reprimand. But as Captain, I have a duty to my crew, and—"
"If you so choose to condone his deeds, then we shall sentence you the same… ERADICATE THEM!"
To know they hadn't any means of escape, that they couldn't scatter any materials due to packaging, had to wonder who'd murder who first as that army, out of their Milk Dud minds, leapt into attack. Only able to punt a bunch to kingdom come, and watch her Officer enter a food coma, it wasn't long at all before the numbers would overwhelm her.
The more they'd slash her thighs, the more satisfaction she'd lose, and as spurts turned to pints and darkness formed from dizzy spells, gave only a whisper above.
"I'm so sorry, I really wanted answers for our future… Guess I'll see ya on the other side."
Next thing she knew however, they would exact one more chance—ploy of surrender, promises of creams hurting worse, to soon end up aboard Bessie, good as new and powered up too.
"Captain, oh thank sweet Christ, I thought—"
Jaw to grip by reflex, and lift skyward, "One more word, one TOE on my bridge again, and I'll send you out with the slavers personally. Gonna give you five seconds to get out, now go."
Fastest those thunder thighs would waddle, and arrests coming due—cardiac or in cuffs—as inside of fifteen minutes, Mercury swung into view. Mayfield to once more be sent out, maybe his last mission for thinking of the lethal heat.
"Get into HG's and get this done, we'll be back to come pick you up. That clear?"
Nobody'd know of her lie, was certain, as she'd take Wong for a break and lunch at Luna Park, virtually just a quick jaunt. But even for arcade round robins, bad gopher jokes, and the music of Moon Street, she couldn't help but continue winding up—reminders of what she had to never cease, to say nothing of reunion plans and revelations against them.
Combined with Amy's concerns every other moment, was tempted to strand her and go home—duty of care however to win the day, though not without consequence. A mistiming of just moments, to collect a beyond pissed, burnt-to-the-bone crewman; in her mind, to surely know how he survived, a fate too quick and too deserving.
Next departure to be Symphonia-9, and the orchestra to offer a choice upon the safe and express delivery of a dozen Holophonors; big cash bonus, or custom Symphods. Those dozen notes, made up mostly of Gores, to grab in haste, before she'd toss those glorified music boxes the crew's way. Amy was set for several lifetimes, and the kid would owe MUCH more.
Fifth and final stop to be the Waldorf Asteroid; Mrs. Astor their client, and a crate of priceless Ming vases to secure and set up. Mutant and madam to prefer their distance, backs turned as well, so instead chose to send Amy out.
"I'll thank you not to argue, and just attend to her. Rookie screws this up, we'll never escape our black hole."
Real reason to keep close, and yet her co-pilot to see things very differently—didn't just bring him back on bridge, but found out she'd literally pass the bucks as well.
"Miss Wong thinks there's good reasons that you're up here… She'd better be right, for your sake."
"Even for counting mine, Captain, right pocket's got many thousands in there. Lady's quite the tipper."
"You can consider my share, AND yours, my price to avoid the airlock. I'd think it a fair deal for—"
"Smeesh, what's been with you Ma'am? Something I missed or—"
"Careful who you cross, Wong… You might have more money, but I make the rules 'round here."
Any concerns or injustices promptly ignored, to instead question Amy's loyalties, all their money made, over showers and bedrest. Even to crave this phoenix act, any chances to upgrade their old girl and afford better gear, this wasn't the cost she prepared herself—was willing—to pony up.
Wounding enough when personal plans were made ashen, but to observe upon day's end the applause and handshakes, that smug grin for being promoted to Executive Delivery Boy, that promise would be made that very instant.
Colleagues' calls of goodnight to hear none of—knew it was a vacancy he would never occupy, to trail that newly-certified to his locker.
"Well congratulations, you actually did it… Leave your things kid, and come with me."
"Yeah, thanks. Be right with ya, just gonna prepare—"
Would shove him aside and thud the door shut; if impulses were correct, then only one more chat to insist on.
(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸(¯ˆ·.¸ —The bowels of HQ…— ¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)
To be warned of what'd happen for walking away, and observe prior to that offbeat hallways and old doors creaking, would try to convince himself that a sensible solution could still be reached.
And yet just couldn't help the evolving suspicions, dread growing ominous; insides to freeze in spite of roaring fireplaces, bones to rattle over bookshelves full, skin to begin crawling over the ancient busts and bastard swords. Whatever Leela had in mind, seemed like eternity before she'd return, carrying a porcelain tea set in with her.
Just a snap of fingers, point to a chaise lounge to address him; only when he sat would she walk for a corner shelf.
"Can you gather why we're here, Mayfield?"
"Uhhhh, nooo, can't say this rings any bells… Say, hold up, how'd ya get English—"
"Never mind the refreshments, just let me enlighten you. We're in our accusing parlour."
"Scariest library I've set foot in, to say the least. Mind telling me why, what's going on?"
Got only an "Ah!" in response—hadn't heard a word of his while she scanned the shelves, grabbed a volume with gusto. Details of days and entries once they sat beside each other, dog-ears noted for casual page flips.
"So, it'd seem above almost anyone else since our first hire, that you've actually made the cut. Wanna say I'm glad, daresay proud, but to speak the plain—"
"Ohhh, I'm pretty sure I know where this is going," would pinch his bridge and forehead.
"Oh you do, do you? So how are you gonna excuse everything since Stumbos-4 this time, how blatant and barefaced you'd go about it? Surely you can't have forgotten, I can't have kicked your ass THAT badly?"
"I absolutely didn't, that said, we were going nowhere at all. Always wanted, was adamant, on people getting what they deserved, paybacks far less applied than usual."
A stare of claymores as she drank, "Am I the only one here who remembers stopping our slavers, crushing those candy critters? Was all that your idea of payback; just put us all in constant danger and keep pissing me off?"
"Chriost dean trocaire—you think I'm so out for number one that I don't regret any of that? All I hoped they'd be were tests for greater purposes, certainly nothing SO out of hand. Swear it's like you wanna see me as—"
"You really wanna go there? So I s'pose I was too stupid to notice your desire for money, hmm? The frequent disrespect and defiance of orders? How you'd screw us for any pleasure you could get?"
"Real bloody rich from the"—pained grunt to give—"woman menacing me out of a living. And though I'll give you the disrespect and defiance, you better fuckin' mind who you're calling betrayer."
A sudden rise and advance, to be sent scooching, "I'm not the one on trial here! For God's sake, was it so much to axe, just to be good crew?"
"Hear me out and be reasonable! With what little honour I've left, or my life, let us walk this back so I can show you why I grabbed your goldmine to begin with."
Every inching out, every beckoning to grow desperate, until a sharp corner smacked him between the eyes. A taste of the Captain's life to leave him going rubbery, thrown with a timing and precision not unlike an assassin.
"If so much as a single hair leaves this room, they won't find your body. Now, here's how it's gonna be."
"You can't be serious, come on, let's not—"
"Inside any pocket of yours, I'll bet your life that a certain miracle hides within. Give that up, you can grab your things, get out, and never come back. You refuse, then I'll use whatever means I must to secure it—I believe you're aware how. So what's it gonna be?"
"Ma'am, we were just at our lockers, and time after time beforehand, you had the right to inspect me. I know I've made real serious mistakes leading up to here, but I'm BEGGING you, just lead me back and let me clear my name. I only believed you deserved better, than the mangy dog you'd 'adopt.'"
"The one time you're actually right. I absolutely did." Up she stood, soon offering a shoulder pat, "Time I ripped up my papers; hiiiiiiiiii—
"Ahhhhhhh SHIT!"
Coughing fit to suggest she'd gone and caved his chest in, for driving a foot square into its middle; deep breaths heard before a lightning kick in the gut dropped him with a crash. All he knew, as tears coursed forth, was to scramble outta there—never even got to the door before he was blocked, facing a glare that could turn Central Park into a public pool, daresay a hot springs.
One-by-one, door handles to hear clicked shut, in a manner to remind him of bespoke, modern-day knights.
"Get up."
Circled his body about, even tried grabbing onto things, to actually heed the order—got greeted with a response of fists and knees, a force and speed to balloon his cheeks, again cripple him to silence. Shades of first nights, at that point, to believe she had much worse in mind.
"Get up. Now."
Knuckles to dig deep in getting to a push-up—minute he'd reach his feet though, had a leather boot rip into his knee, and snap it inward. Down with a thud he'd drop, groaning for inabilities to scream, only for that same boot to render his right hand to dust.
"Held my hand out, took you in, and that's how I'm repaid? Stick my neck out, only to have you slash it?"
Tears and silence his only answer, as his life fell into her hands—quite literally, to have them wrap around his neck.
"Well? What was your plan, you rat bastard? Was hurting me all you ever hoped to do?"
Such a tight grip he couldn't even shake his head, obviously not good enough to avoid being picked up and belted against the bookcases; that none would come to his aid, never a better time.
"Still you insist on playing charades? Buddy, must I bring out the teapot for you to talk?"
Fears he couldn't over wouldn't, for an injury both grievous yet unobvious, to leave him little alternative. Tried his damnedest to mime writing, actually reveal his code, yet would end up thrown to the ground; to cross her so beyond reason, truly had no idea what was next.
"Wasn't much to axe, y'know? Only had to listen, work hard, follow orders. Couldn't set the bar lower, yet still you couldn't clear it."
Every joule of energy to get back onto his good knee; couldn't even turn to see her raise an encyclopaedia above her head.
"Well, frankly, I'm done."
World's collective knowledge to then burst in at once, such a blow to drop him face-first before she'd seize his collar and raise him, letting teapot steam scald the air.
"Was only one request, yet execution and plan were the same… Pray I don't see ya on the other side."
Words he wished he would've spoken, as she'd then crown him; only a guttural wail as pours akin to molten gold sizzled the skin, and even sloughed some off his face. Never had a hope of natural citizenship, but between crabs and Captains, finally realised which alien deserved the chance all along.
"Hope you're proud of what you've done… Come morning light, I'll let the abyss claim what's left."
Last good limb, last ounces of strength, to offer his 'salute' behind her back—whether in this parlour or whether she broke into his locker, beating impossible odds, his secret would drift as he did.
A regret in death he'd be glad to have, missing the look in her eye once his 'betrayal' came to light.