qcatter

[qcatter]

Lost Echoes

Possible part one?

I wanted to try and play around with the language barrier a little for the Apocalyptic Ponyo AU (@keferon) Jazzprowl.

English isn't my native language, so there might be some grammar mistakes. Hope it's ok :D

————

Muffled cheering echoed as Ricochet swam circles along the sides of the pool.  Once, twice, slow to a stop by the shallow. Let Rose (who's never smelled like the flower) climb off him– don't help her up, don't move away– before her whistle rang out for a second. 

Swim another circle around the perimeter.

Whistle.

Roll to side, splash some water into the air with his tail for some extra flair– aw there's some kids here!– Salute the kids. (Very important. Look at them, they're jumping.)

Whistle.

Go under, finish the loop, and go through the opening gate that’s mostly hidden. Ignore the bar snagging his fin (ow) and keep going as the announcer wraps up the show. Second gate opens, swim through the public aquarium, salute those kids there (they look so squishy..) annnd through the third gate.

Out from the public, out from the show. Ricochet enters the somehow over bright training room and finally stops moving.

His back hurt.

Nothing against Rose, she tries to be careful while on him, but you can only swim around the surface so many times with someone standing and sitting on your back, as well as hold someone up by their feet while the only thing below you is more water, before things start to hurt. Not exactly easy keeping himself from sinking while acrobatics are happening on him.

The show was the last of today, meaning (after confirming that the noise is quieting down,) that the aquarium is closing.

He could really go for a nap right now.

A click echoed out through the white-tiled room before the door squeaked open.

Rose came in with a new bucket of fish– wait there's red in there. Is he gonna get crabs?? Did he do that good??? Oh hell yeah he's getting some Crabs!!!– Ricochet quickly swam to the shallow end of the pool, earning a hearty chuckle from the lady.

"You did great today Rico, so I brought you your favourite. Up!"

The whistle's shriek was mostly drowned out over the water splashing loudly from how quickly he pushed himself into the deeper end, going low before jumping up high with all his might– swiping his treasure from the air in time– before crashing back into the depths.

Rose's laughter reverberated through the water and his chest, soon to be joined by the sound of crab shell snapping loudly in his mouth. Teeth crushing the plating apart easily, to get to the soft meat within.

"Slow down or you'll choke again!" Rose said, handing him two fish (boo) that he bit the heads off while trying to reach for the bucket. He can hear that plating clanging against the metal, you can't fool him. 

Rose, the cruel woman that she is, jumped away before he could steal it from her.

"Hey now! If you're gonna be that greedy I might not give you the second crab after all."

How dare you. He was the bestest and prettiest boy today, he deserves that second crab.

Give.

".....oh.... Alright, alright... Stop sulking in the water you big oaf. You know you're too cute for me to say no."

Damn right he is.

Finishing the rest of his fish, he swam up to the shallow end again, mimicking the “grabby hands” he's seen some especially little kids do. And just like with the babies, Rose gives him what he wants. His well deserved crab.

Best thing in the world.

He should watch the kids more often when he's not doing any shows. They have so many tricks to get what they want successfully, aside from downright theft.

Though he's pretty good at that one, too.

-

Rose said something about a new neighbor while she left. He didn't really care, he was too busy eating.

With the fourth and fifth gate open, he swam into his "bedroom," gate five closing as soon as he got through.

Low light, old walls and tiled floors with nothing else to say about them, other than the quiet rumbling of a machine far below. Maybe he should decorate the space some more. Add another few scratches to the growing collection inside of this box.

He's been making sure to let his nails grow out a bit, lately, after having worn them down until they were blunt nothing's. So he could.

Not like there's anything else to do.

Jazz doesn't feel like moving.

…

Probably not.

He should sleep.

...

..or not. Apparently.

Whoever his "new neighbor" is, they've been moving so much the water sloshing against the walls could be compared to ocean's waves at this point. How's he supposed to fall asleep if there’s so much noise?

Rude.

"{Hey can you stop?}"

Jazz drawled. All of his neighbours throughout his life have really improved his English, he must say. When he first tried talking he sounded like that one man with a swollen tongue after some insect bit him. Now? He mostly just sounds like someone with food in their mouth.

Not li-

A shower of water flew over the thinner, dividing, wall and to his side– some plashing him in the face– interrupting his thoughts.

"{Okay that's even more rude than you making a whirlpool over the-.}"

Water was flung over to his side along with some snappy short-but-fast clicking.

Bitch??? Two can play at that game.

Turning on his stomach, Jazz swam two or three meters away from the wall with left behind drops of water crawling their way down to his pool, before angling himself to be right in front of the area where there's the most dripping down.

Quiet as a mouse, his tail dips low below, before catapulting water up with enough force to almost make him summersault.

Water rushes up and over and– score! A disgruntled buzz?- no, sonar– low enough to sound buzzy– tells him he hit the dumb fish that decided to refuse him of his beauty sleep.

He waited for the water to be chucked over the wall in retaliation, but nothing happened. Fishy gave up so soon already? Boring.

Oh well. Maybe he can finally sleep now.

…

...

...ok what the hell.

First he couldn't sleep because the neighbor was being rude, now he can't sleep because he got what he wanted?

It's too quiet. No– It’s as quiet as it always is, and as it’s supposed to be. Why can’t he sleep.

Rolling around a few times, leaning against a corner, counting whatever sheep are supposed to be, hugging his tail– Nothing is helping. Jazz huffs, letting go of his tail with force, spraying a row of water on the (not neighbour’s) wall. (See how polite he is?)

Ricochet won two crabs but at what cost. (His sleep, apparently.)

With a groan, Jazz eyed the sixth gate. His neighbor's door, technically. Technically also the first gate and not the sixth. It really depends what direction you start from. It was closed, but the keepers must've put up some sort of....... Thing. Over it. He can't see the other side.

"{Hey fishbones, you shy or feral?}"

Water curled from something– a tail?– dipping. Jazz waited. Eyed the wall for water to fly in, but the other’s tail stayed under. By the sounds of it, the fish submerged completely.

Jazz approached the... net? under water. Tiny metal wires woven together like fabric, covering the gate. If he pressed his face against it (ow-) he could see into the other room pretty well.

It’s as empty as his. And actually used to Be his, before he decided he liked this box more. Walls barely decorated at all. Only one or two scratches around, but those are the older ones from his previous neighbours (his ones were filled and painted up.) This one hasn’t done anything to the space, as far as he can tell. Or he has, and it just so happens to be on the wall that the gate is a part of. He’s apparently also very determined to stay out of Jazz’s sight. Jazz had only seen the white end of a tail-fin for a second before the new guy moved even further out of sight.

Rude. Jazz just wanted to say hi.

“{Knock knock. You home?}”

No water shenanigans. Guess neighbor boy isn’t in the mood to splash him for talking, anymore.

He can feel the water swaying again. A harsh swish audible every seven or so seconds. That guy must be really antsy about being in there. Doesn’t sound like he’s small… maybe around his size? Larger? Pacing incredibly fast. Powerful tail. Been a while since someone else larger than him was brought here.

For a moment, Jazz considered talking some more, since he has nothing better to do and the other guy doesn’t seem to like it. (Doesn’t even appreciate the effort that goes into mimicking human sounds under water.) But without a body to watch or the guy chucking water over the wall anymore; there’s no real fun in it.

…

Well. Might as well play nice. It’s been a few years since he’s had a neighbour, and even if they don’t seem to understand anything he tries to communicate, he’d rather not lose the new company only a few days after getting it.

Swimming back to the water’s surface– the guy paused his swimming for a second– Jazz laid on his back. Taking the moment to breathe for a bit, running thoughts through his mind.

Neighbour probably wouldn’t like any songs Jazz had learned from his stay here. Too unfamiliar, right? Right.

There is one song he knows… well, two actually. But it feels wrong to share the other one, (why?-) So there’s one song he knows that might help.

Jazz can only guess where he heard it from. It’s….. Comforting. He knows that.

Always thinks back on the song when the need to start biting the bars or bashing his head against the wall in this place got too strong.

Swimming slow circles, Jazz dipped just a bit lower into the water to make sure the sound travels properly, and starts with the low note. Drawing it out before flowing into a higher one with some klicks in between.

Why did he actually stop singing this song?

The sound echoed all around him. The water making him live in the song itself.

Strong arms holding him snugly.

Repetitive, slow, calming.

Right.

This was a lullaby.

When was the last time he held a hand much larger than his own?

Okay no need for those- Stop- Put those thoughts away. He’s supposed to be comforting the new guy (who stopped swimming,) not wallow in his own head. One note to the next, the song gets strung together like connecting rivers that he’s occasionally heard about. He’s a bit rusty in a few places, not having made these sounds in a while, but the song is still beautiful. It’s what would’ve been home, if he knew what that was.

Clicking softly, he was about to repeat the song again, when his neighbour clicked something by his gate.

Jazz cracked open an eye (when did he close them?) and looked over, seeing the vague silhouette of hands and a torso.

The neighbour clicked again in a pattern; it sounded familiar. Diving into the water, he could still hear the remaining echoes of those clicks around him. It was odd- it filled him- it was– Jazz knew that pattern. How does he know?- He’s heard it before- where?-

Pressing his hands against the net(?) Jazz blinked at the sight of blue eyes that matched his own. The gate between the net didn’t let him touch the other fish. (Person?)

His… He clicked again, same pattern from before. Jazz blinked, listening to the echoes of each set of clicks (they came in sets! A structure- A-) Jazz perked up, startling the other a little.

That was! Oh what was that- um. The last bit was “You,” right? How does he-

Jazz pulled back his right hand, circling it a few times while tilting his head, before putting it back where it was. He couldn’t see much, but the other… orca….? Looked a little confused.

One more time, he repeated himself. A little more slowly this time. (Thank god.)

“[Where are you?]”

No no, he wouldn’t ask that, Jazz is in front of him. “Who?” Is that it? Oh right! “Where” and “Who” sounded similar! "Who" having the last click cut off instead of drawn out. Right!!! “Who are you!!” Oh wait he should answer-

“I…” Jazz looked to the top of the gate, the next word at the tip of his tongue but somehow out of his reach. He huffed a bit, instead putting his hand on his chest.

“Jazz.”

The orca moved his head back a little with slightly narrowed eyes.

“Who are you?”

Does he not believe him?

“Jazz. Me.”

He touched his collarbone a few times, hoping the other orca could see it.

“Jazz.” “zh- … Zh..aasz…??”

Oh right, English is weird.

“J aazzzz. Jazz.”

“...zh- xh– Jah.  “J. asz.. szzz. ZZ. “..Jaazz…??”

“Yeah! Jazz!” He chirped, barely keeping himself from doing a flip out of excitement. Oh he had so many questions! How does he ask them? How-

“Prowl.”

Huh?

“I [am] Prowl. [???] you [?] here?”

What.

“...heeere…??”

Prowl regarded him for a moment, clicking a few times in thought. Not words this time, it seems. Just brain noise. After a moment, Prowl gestured with his hand for Jazz to get closer.

Though there wasn’t really… any closer he could get??? Other than pressing his face against the net and bars. 

Technically he Could open the gate. He knows how. They have this neat lil trick to opening them in case any power goes out. Humans would need their tools to reach it properly, but his larger hands do the job just fine. Sadly: The staff know that he knows how to do that. And clearly blocked that off as much as possible with the net (that he could definitely tear away but. Any metal thread will hurt to tear open. And he’d really rather not start bleeding on his new roommate.)

So! Shoving his face into the net is clearly the better option!

Thankfully, Prowl didn’t want him to Actually actually shove his face into it, motioning for Jazz to stop a centimeter or so away from the barrier between them, before he himself got close, too. Squinting his brighter eyes at him as if he’s trying to spot if his food had gone bad or not. Prowl started to eventually guide him around, too. Motioning for him to tilt his head down, up, left and right. (What are you, a doctor?) Before he backed off, resting his curled index over his lips. In the meantime, while Prowl prowled about in his thoughts, Jazz decided to go for an air break before coming back down to the gate. Crossing his arms on the floor and making himself comfortable. Watching the silhouette of Prowl until the orca got close to him again.

“[???] [you?] [?????] ?” “What.” The clicks and notes were way off. Honestly he’s not even sure if that “you” was actually a “you.” The simple note that it was made out of before was now that same note! Sure! But ending with a harsh click for some reason.

Prowl nodded with a hum, cocking his head a little.

“How [did?] you [?] here?”

“uh… How… did? I um… here…. Flow? No- no uh. um.” Jazz tapped the floor, pressing his forehead against it for a moment, hunting that damn word like his life depends on it.

“Come!” Jazz popped his head back up, startling Prowl again with the movement. Technically the word he used is “swim,” but he remembers them being the same thing.

“How did I come here?”

“...yes. How did you [get?] here.” Prowl tapped the net, pointing at Jazz. “Northern [??]”

“...nnorthern? What?”

Prowl watched him again for a moment, tapping his sharp claw against the net.

“From [the] north? You? Polyhex?”

“Polyhex.”

A name that crashed through his mind like a bucket of ice down his back. He.. Knows that name. It… What was it..?

‘From the north,’ Prowl said. It’s a place. It’s a Place. He Was there. Wasn’t he?

He must’ve been!– But he can’t?– No the memories are there he can Feel them– How else would he know it? Why would that name alone be a glacier of deep emotion?

“You..! You uhm..” Curse his brain. Remember damnit. “You…..go..? Go.. was? To Polyhex?”

“Once…” Prowl paused… trying to find the right words? Probably trying to accommodate him. He clearly didn’t have any trouble talking before.

“Work. I was there [for] work, once.”

Jazz was about to try and talk again– he needs to remember– but Prowl beat him to it, furrowing his brow a bit while glancing at the ground for a moment.

“I [??].  “Go” [and] “Was.”” Left hand (“go”) curled into a loose fist while Prowl gestured with his right. Deliberately moving it over and to the left of his fist. (“was”) A show of…. “Behind”..? No- “Before!” The past!

“[??] “Go and Was is [??]”

“[Went?]”

Jazz repeated the noise, tail swishing behind him while he used the gate to keep himself in place.

Prowl nodded, repeating the word again in confirmation.

“I went there once. For work.”

He could barely keep a trill from escaping him. He’s remembering them!! He’s remembering the words he forgot!! Jazz had forgotten just how filling his mother-tongue felt in his mouth. The words were so clear and easy and smooth. He doesn’t have to force the sounds in his throat and nose to come out in specific ways just to say something. He can just Say it! Say everything!

“How did you get here?”

Prowl repeats. Words a little slow to help Jazz keep up with them.

And that sure is a question. A bit too vague to his liking. Now how does he ask for more details… (no, this isn't a ploy to hear Prowl talk some more.)

“How did I… come here?” Jazz waved to their general surroundings. “What is uh.. No cave, cave? …ssssong?”

“”Song” is [Word.] The word for this [??], for this “not cave, cave” is [room.]”

“Yeah!!” (He really should stop surprising the other mer with sudden bursts of movement.)

“How did I come here to… to um…. this. To this room?”

He tilt his head, watching Prowl for a moment before pointing to gate number five.

“There. Behind.. this,” Jazz tapped the gate separating them, “is…. not cave. Long.” Similar to what Prowl had done before, Jazz decided charades were needed, and made his left arm bend into an arc before passing his right arm (like it’s swimming) through it.

“Long. Not cave.”

“... “..[tunnel?]”

“[Tunnel!] Maybe!”

The only thing keeping him from resting his head on his hands again is him continuously using them to form his words.

“Go from here, to tunnel, to uh… room! And then more room. “The room is like you! Like- like um.. uh.”

Jazz waved his hand towards what he could see of Prowl’s face, clearly only confusing him more than he already was, before remembering that he’s an idiot actually and could use his own body to demonstrate. Curling his tail over his head and pointing to the underside of his fin.

“Like you! Like light?”

The movement made Prowl have A reaction. The net obscured what exactly it was, but he backed away a tiny bit, staring at Jazz’s tail (that he was peeking out at him from below) with slightly wider eyes. After a moment of silent staring (and Prowl shifting away more,) he shook his head. Waving his hand upward a few times until Jazz stopped curling the tail over himself. Only then did he speak again.

“[White?] “The room is white?”

“Uh, yes!”

At least he assumed Prowl understood and that the word he used was the colour and not something else. Speaking of– Prowl shook his head again.

“No-”

He blinked, lowered his head and shoulders a millimeter, held up a hand and went up for some air– Wow he swims fast– returning almost immediately. (Did he even breathe??)

“Do you [re-] … “Do you know, how you got here. [From] Polyhex.”

Ah.

“Nuh-uh.”

If he blinked a second later, Jazz would’ve missed the tiniest narrowing of Prowl’s eyes.

“I am- uh. Uh..  “Hm.”

Jazz closed his eyes, covering them with his hands too for good measure, before undoing his actions with a very slight dramatic flare.

“That..? I was… arh.…”

“[???]”

“Huh?”

Prowl eyed the gate and its net before regarding himself. Pushing himself over to almost be touching the wall next to them before curling up. Resting his head on his crossed arms and closing one of his eyes, keeping the other on Jazz.

“[Sleeping.]” He repeats.

“Ah! Um um!! Yes? No? That, but… after! When light.” Jazz pointed up, where the sun would be if it weren’t for the ceiling. And if it didn’t probably set by now.

Prowl followed his motion. Coming out of his position and going back to how he held himself before. Perfectly replicating the pose he had, somehow.

“...[Woke up?]”

Spoken, unintentionally, softly. Jazz could almost hear– feel a “did i wake you up?” wash over him. What?- (who?)

“a-Ah yeah! I uhm. I.” Not important right now. “I woke up. Here.”

Prowl hummed again, glancing away while thinking, probably. Jazz seized the opportunity to feel his (rapid) heartbeat in his chest.

His body felt wrong.

He needed to remember.

Crossing his arms and forcing his body to look relaxed, Jazz laid his head on his arms. Tilting it slightly, watching. (If only the net wasn’t there.)

“What..? uh…” He doesn’t have the words he needs. “....how is uh. Polyhex?”

Prowl blinked at him, ripped out of his thoughts to process the question, and Jazz’s change in position.

“..It is [??] [?]. The [???] …. [??] ? Hm… “... “The… “rooms” are [????] nicely. More [?] are [going?] there, [which] [??] is and isn’t [???].”

“Ah.. really? That’s uh. Good to know.”

Jazz smiled easily, as Prowl hummed before talking some more about Polyhex, getting faster and using even more words he couldn’t understand at all. “About Polyhex,” well, probably. Prowl hadn’t explicitly brought up the name again so he could only guess that Prowl is still talking about (his home?) that place, since that’s what Jazz had asked him about. What could he be rambling about while answering “how is Polyhex?” The economic state of the place?? Come on, now.

Jazz sighed. He really needs to remember.

“{Welp!}”

Jazz stretched– cutting off Prowl before he started another intelligible sentence– moving away from the gate a little.

“It’s uh… stars. time.” That works. “Sooo… we {should} sleep.”

Prowl hesitated a little, lifting his hand for a moment before putting it back down and offering a nod.

“It is [??]. “Stars time.” [Night.]” … “Sleeping isn’t a bad [idea.]”

“Ok, good! Uh. Bye-bye, then!”

With a wave, Jazz swam into the middle of his room again, laying on his back while staring at the turned off lights. Offering a small wave to the camera nestled in one of them.

“... “...Good night.”

Prowl offered, quietly. Before- by the sounds of it- swimming to a corner to try and sleep.

A good hour passed before Prowl finally fell asleep. Jazz was tempted to go out into the aquarium, but didn’t want to risk waking up Prowl with his movements. So he just stayed where he was. Staring at the same ceiling. The faint hum of machinery from below the floor being his only company, as his eyes roamed over the metal wiring over the lights, again and again. Noticing new spots where the painted white had chipped off.

Again and again, over and over. Until he, too, eventually fell asleep.

————

My writing is so slow... This took me about over a week I think hdhd I have some snippets written out of a potential part two! If I ever do finish it, it'll probably be weeks from now, though.

Oh, here's a fun fact for you !

There was a beluga whale named NOC (“no-see,” i believe?) that told a diver to get out of the water, once. He sounds like he’s playing a kazoo, if you listen to a video of him mimicking human sounds. As someone who spends every summer swimming in a river; the “pattern” he’s mimicking is actually very similar to what it sounds like when you try to talk while under water (minus all of the air bubbles coming out of your mouth.)

Oh also, since it probably isn't very clear; Prowl going from somewhat comprehensible, to not comprehensible in the slightest, to mostly comprehensible when he asked "How did you get here," is because he was switching between dialects :]

[qcatter]

@keferon 's apocaplyptic ponyo au has gripped me in a chokehold, specifically lil baby jazz and blaster. ouuhh i love them sm i will be drawing them again and forever <333

[qcatter]

Currently completely obsessed with @keferon's mer au right now and I had to try and draw Prowl. Then I read @qcatter's fic "a Dream" and had a severe need to manifest Prowl

----TW BLOOD---- under the cut

Here's the bloodier version :)

[qcatter]

Bored

Kef's post here, specifically the art at the end, is haunting me. It is fucking with me bad. I wouldn't wish boredom and lack of mental stimulus on my worst enemies, and here Jazz is. Stuck and trapped.

Aimless.

So I decided to write a little something because OOF. Do you know what it's like to be bored? Constantly? Because I do and it SUCKS.

For @keferon's apocalyptic ponyo au.

There’s nothing to do.

This isn’t anything unusual. Jazz regularly finds himself bored out of his mind every day. He’s exhausted every avenue of entertainment he can and then some. He already knows this human dialect, English, so he can’t entertain himself trying to puzzle out words and letters. The people at this aquarium haven’t given him any toys to mess around with either. It’s always a toss up whether the aquariums he ends up at give him toys or not. He prefers it when they do. It’s demeaning sure, but what isn’t in his situation? At least with a beach ball, he could do SOMETHING. It’s night and usually, Jazz would escape his tank by now to explore the building, but the aquarium was setting up some new policy, something about frequent tank escapes and trying to prevent them. It’s not from Jazz’s end, he’s too good at this by now to get caught, but the octopi weren’t exactly being subtle when they went to throw rotten clams at their caretakers. What this means for Jazz though, is that the aquarium is busy tonight, and there’s too many humans around for Jazz to risk it.

What it means is that there is nothing to do, and Jazz is bored.

Bored bored bored, he is so BORED, there is nothing to DO!!

He bursts into an agitated swim, circling circling and circling, trying to burn off the restless energy, or maybe to get dizzy just to feel something, anything, but he’s done this too many times, it’ll take more than that to get him dizzy. The apathy and numbed anger quickly comes back, stealing his energy and hollowing him out. He hangs in the water, bored.

There is nothing to do.

More notes on being Bored!:

when you spend all day every day almost always always always BORED, you start creating your own entertainment

Jazz zoning out a LOT because there just simply isn't anything for him to do. Sure there's the training and there's the performances and the checkups and the people watching, but they can only take away the boredom for so long.

Oh! By the way, off tangent, but I finally thought up of a reason for why Jazz hasn't tried talking to the humans in an attempt to get them to realize that he's sentient and that he has a home and he wants to be free. Or to get them to make his tank more, you know, hospitable. Or at the very least not claw at the walls inducing.

Uh, simple reason: he physically can't. Like, merfolk just Do Not have the vocal cords to pronounce human speech. Humans don't have the vocal cords to copy a lot of noises! We can do a lot, sure, but we can't do everything! I say it's the same for merfolk! The may look like humans, but humans look a lot like mers too, and so I say: while both of them can learn the other's language, they're gonna have a difficult time actually speaking it.

so like, Jazz DOES try to talk to the humans, tries to get them to realize that he's a person and he just wants to go home, please please PLEASE-!

but he is clumsy with human speech and they just think he's like a clever parrot. He has intelligence, sure, but that's it. They think his cries are because he misses his home and his pod, sure, but they also think he's better off in captivity since he is so small and alone. They know better. Poor little orca, so scared and hurt. But they know better. It's for his own good. It's okay because it's for his own good.

ANYWAYS I'm digressing, back to boredom notes.

Jazz loses time a lot. There's just.. so little for him to do. And so little reason to do it. He tries to keep himself busy but sometimes he's just.. tired.

He swims because he's bored of staying still, and then he stays still because he's bored of swimming.

haha, wait, oof, ya boi probably has depression honestly.

He probably gets moments of mania too. You know, ACTUALLY clawing at the walls, throwing himself against the tank because he hates hates HATES how small and cramped it is! How it's only big enough for him to swim in small circles! HE HATES IT

The buzzing in his skin, the restlessness, the need for something, ANYTHING, to make him think, to make him FEEL. He’s going to claw at the walls, this is torture.

The reason why Jazz knows so many human languages isn't just because he was passed around a lot and was exposed to them, it's because he was actively trying to learn them. At first, it was to try and tell someone that he just wants to go home, but when it became clear it wouldn't work, he still kept learning anyways because that way he could overhear conversations, read information from maps and leftover textbooks/papers, and try to escape on his own. Can't escape from the aquarium if he just gets immediately lost once he's outside. (don't think about how he wouldn't be able to escape even if he can read and listen. That path leads to numbness and Jazz has had enough numbness, he needs to focus.)

There's also just.. nothing else for him to do. And if he wants to stave off the boredom and Empty Hollow Fog, then he has to do something.

Honestly, when Jazz and Prowl escape, Jazz is going to have one HELL of an adjustment period outside of just learning mer culture and the ocean world. Going from being bored every day to NEW EXCITING DIFFERENT CHANGES is going to be exhausting. Like, yes, it's all very new and very exciting, and Jazz is going to be a little too preoccupied with staying alive and being terrified to really feel the crash, but man oh man, when there is a lull in all of this? This mer going to crash a LOT.

He's going to have to take a lot of breaks, not just because his tail is weak and undeveloped, but also because he's never had So Much happening All The Time before. It's a lot to adjust to!

(Not that Jazz will let himself have those breaks because uh oh, he's kinda lowkey ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED that Prowl will leave him behind if he can't keep up and Jazz is tired, but he can not go back to being alone.)

Jazz has so many made up games and tricks and stories and music and and and in his head. Because, and I can't stress this enough, there is nothing else for him to do! And when there is nothing for you to do, you start making shit up because the only other alternative is to zone out and lose time, or hit something. And Jazz gets bored of zoning out too, and the last time he hit something, they restrained him and sedated him, so uh. No. No more of that.

Jazz spent a lot of time tinkering with the locks on his tank and practicing moving himself on dry land. He's gotten good at escaping, and very good at doing neat tricks, like doing pull ups to haul himself up the stairs by using their railings, or waddling over the itchy carpet by lifting his tail in the air and keeping it there, or doing a semi cartwheel where he flips himself head over tails by using his tail to help himself roll over (okay that last one is just for fun but come on, he's allowed to have fun.)

Sometimes, when he gets too good at sneaking around, sneaks around while giving himself a handicap just to give himself a challenge. Is it a good idea? Probably not. But he's so bored.

He's gotten some close calls, but he is now very good at sneaking around.

Jazz watches people, just like they watch him, and makes up stories for them. The lady with the screaming toddler is actually secretly a spy, and the child is their cover story! But the spy lady is regretting everything in her life now. She can hack into any computer ever, but she can not hack a child and tell them to behave. The man lingering by the penguins is staring at them because he's thinking about a lover who was lost at sea! The kid popping bubblegum in the corner has parents who are going through a very messy and very dramatic divorce, and they came to the aquarium to escape the fighting. The lady in the giant hat is having a secret affair!

He is so bored.

Jazz also observes, and notices people. Notices their behavior, their motives, their patterns. The caretaker with the Tuesday shift get nervous with loud sudden movements, so Jazz is careful to be small and gentle when it's his turn to feed him. Because if he is small and gentle, then the Tuesday Caretaker will give him a small smile back and sometimes, he'll spend a little extra time talking to him while feeding him, telling him about his classes or about whatever game he's playing for the week. The teenager regular, who must be one of the staff's kids to be able to come so often, loves it when he puts on a little show, playing up his cuteness, and acting playful. She stays longer when he does so, and that means that she stays long enough to meet with one of the cleaning staff members that she's friends with. THIS leads to them greeting each other, and the janitor leaving his cleaning cart unattended, and if Jazz is verrrrry careful, he can snatch one of the chemicals from the cart before the janitor notices. The night guard on Fridays is lazy and always leaves his shift a little early than he should, which means Jazz has less time to get back to his tank on those days.

Jazz notices it all.

There's little else he can do BUT observe.

Jazz probably fidgets and stims a lot too. Idle tapping of his fingers, splashing his tail into the water absentmindedly, humming notes to made up music, or snatches of songs he's memorized, making nonsense noises to himself, tearing up bits of his environment, like peeling paint or crumbling plastic rock.

He tries to stave off the Empty and the Fog, he DOES, but it doesn't always work. Some days, the Fog wins and he just.. floats. Listlessly. Bored. He's so sick of it all, and he's so tired.

He's heard about depression from the college interns and he's pretty sure that's what he has. Lack of stimulation, isolated, and bored bored BORED. Plus, there's that small deal with him being FUCKING TRAPPED AND HELPLESS TO THE WHIMS OF A PEOPLE WHO DON'T SEE HIM AS A PERSON. So you know. He's probably depressed. The Empty is probably the depression. Yippee.

He just wants to go home.

please.

[qcatter]

I just love how every time a new au drops, we react like a hivemind.

[qcatter]

a Dream

part two for nightmare @keferon

Prowl Drifted

Prowl awoke in a small white room.

He floated in the center.

The water tasted of salt, clean and wrong.

The current drifted him into a wall. He startled and clicked. The room was no longer small. It was oval and flat on two sides. There was a floating platform in the center and a bridge connecting it to the shore. The air was a fifth of the room. There was sand on the bottom. A large mat floated nearby, a big rubber ball with a handle. A single fish was cowering under it. On the other side was a glass window that was longer than he was but only just. It had Two hundred and eighteen rivets. 

Prowl swam from one end to the other with ten waves of his tail. He coasted through the curve did it again in eight. Once his third lap ended the screaming begain.  Humans crowded and filled the window. Small ones jumping and shrieking higher than the one he had mauled. There was another window above the water, just as many humans where there. Prowl pushed and pulled the mat over to the bridge and dove. Lauching himself dead center on it he wiggled until he was hidden under the bridge and sank one set of claws into the mat and the other into the framework of the bridge.  

Shaking and drawing in panicked breaths Prowl didn't dare move. Slowly the screams and cries and howls moved away, but only just.  They did not stop, nor did they get quieter, but they could not see them. 

 Prowl wasn't sure how long he layed there, gently quivering. The light did not brighten or dim as time past. The cries of humans and their pups came and went, but never quite stopped. Until finally. A sound chimed, and all the sounds slowly quieted and stopped, save for one that sang from a speaker on the ceiling. The voice would murmer and chatter and exclaim things with gusto before a new voice and a new song began. 

Prowl peered out from under the bridge. There were no longer any humans at the window. Sliding back into the water confirmed the same for the one under neath. The fish fled from him. Prowl tracked it as he went to investigate the ball. It was large enough that it had enough buoyancy to lift him, and hooking his arms thro the handle left him float and drift on his back comfortly like an otter. Not that Prowl would ever feel safe enough to sleep with his belly exposed like that, but oh! The fish just hid behind his hammock on the far side by the back shore. Swimming up for a close inspection showed that while far closer to the door than he would like, it was at a proper hight to sleep in still.  Hauling himself up and over the edge to explore the dryland he huffed. The door was locked, but Prowl could just about wedge a claw underneath. He had to stop himself from trying to dig.  Farther investigation, of what little there was, showed that he wasn't paying attention at all. 

The other left side of the bridge without his hammock was sloped and painted with a thick slicker paint and that he had spent a lot of effort making a fool of himself struggling to pull himself up a wall when he could have... well galumped like a seal up the slope and all the way across the room like slightly more of a fool.   Seeing how the hammock was on the wall, it likely wasn't supost to be climbed up.   There were a couple balls in varying sizes and a few rings large enough for him to swim through. He had not liked those.  The sand pit however. It was soft and warmer the deeper he dug, not more than a few inches down he scraped rock, but the rock was hot to the touch.  The vent near by blowing hot air over it made it nearly blissful even without sunlight shining down.  New favored nap spot acquired, Prowl returned to the water to acquire that fish. 

It was just as caught and trapped as he was, but unfortunately for it, it was trapped in here with *him*.  Chasing it around for the thrill of being able to do so for the first time in nearly a moon, Prowl slowly started to drift. Just as he passed by it, frozen where it thought it was hidden he twisted and struck out, hooking his fingers through its gills.  Cleaning down to the bones and savoring the freshest fish he's had, even if it did still taste off, he paused.  Something had clicked. 

"Hello?hello? Are you whereare you? Hello?" Whistled out under the sounds of the ceiling speaker. A few more locator clicks followed with a distrested warbling whine before calling out again, "Hello where are I am? you here?"

Diving down to the window where the sounds were louder Prowl froze.  Beyond the window was a pathway and on the other side was another window.  Staring back at him like an odd mirror was another orca mer. Who gave an excited whistle pop upon seeing Prowl swim up to his own barrier. Grinning gleefully and cheerfully showing off far more teeth than needed in a smile he twirled as Prowl came closer.

Prowl pressed a hand against the glass, politely difting sideways enough to facing but not pointed straight at the other mer.

"Hello, I am Prowl."

"Prowl hello! Hi!" Who proceed to wiggle himself into a near bowed position as his frount sank lower than his tail. Prowl looked in horror at what he had missed from this new mer constantly moving, constantly grinning, the bent dorsal and tail fins, just how thin and narrow his tail was, to the weird thing on his head. Prowl frowned. 

"What are you wearing?"

The mer had gone to press both his hands to the glass and was looked to be ready to press his entire body up against it any second, tilted his head and pointed at it. 

"Yes, what is that?" 

Pulling it off his horns the mer held it out. It still was some... black lumpy thing.  Then he swam up to the surface window. He held it up into the air and grinned even wider before he squished it between both hands. Water poured from it like a sponge. 

"Is (beanie)!" Slapping it back into the water before putting it on. "Good for you. Keep head wet, good. You here now! They new friend soon and i waited and waited."

"...what?"

"New mer! Wait and wait Long-long no mer. Where here me landwalkers say new mer, new friend didn'tseeyou. You here now!"

This was starting to be the strangest conversation Prowl had ever had with another mer, sure some orca pods had dialects so different as to be entirely different languages, but not like this. Stilted and clipped and words singing into each other like he heard it maybe once.  Prowl gave out a string of rapid fire clicky ticks that Bluestreak preferred only to get rapid clicky nonsense back.  Prowl frowned before trying again.

"What's your pod song? Who are you?"

Prowl got a flicker of a frown in response before the mer's face soften as he drifted flat and swayed back and forth in the water, crooning out a melody that warbled and *buzzed* with lifts and falls smoothly blending into each other as to nearly not notice when the notes changed.  Not one Prowl knew, but more than that, he looked over the other mer.  The bent fins, the thinness, the faint molting along his belly were its been rubbed thin over and over till it scarred, to the worn dull and blunted claws at the ends of his oddly thickly padded hands.

"How long have you been here?" Prowl asked softly as if someone might overhear the two of them singing thro the walls.

The smile fully broke as he looked away and muttered out.

"-don't know. I don't know." 

For a long moment the two of them hung there, in silence, with only the gentle stabilizing moment keeping them in place, the other mer twisted spirals and back strokes to counterbalance his dorsal. Then suddenly like a switch was flipped he exclaimed.

"Wait stay, don't go *stay*. Warchoutforlandwalkers. Gonna catch you. I go you come here I come! Don't go!! Wait" he waved his hand in a rapid and strange way before pressing his hands and face fully to the glass, flashing a another grin with too many teeth and  barreling out with an excited song and whistle.

"I-what- wait where are you going? come back?!" But the other mer was already out of Prowls sight. He looked back into his new prison. "Where would I even go to?" Prowl swam back to the upper window, he hooked his claws on the edge and pulled himself up enough to get a clear view of the other's cell.  It was empty except for a few toys bobbing in the water. And a small Fluffy toy orca sitting on the center platform. 

"Where did you go?" There certainly wernt that many places to hide in here. Prowl wasn't exactly hidden under the bridge with half his tail sticking out like a pup playing hide and seek. But it was all just too much at the time. But where could the mer have gone. Was he even real? The fish Prowl were eatting had enough drugs in them that he no longer knew where he was, how long he'd been trapped for, or even what time of year it might been. Who knows what was in that mix that might make him hallucinate. 

Notes of human noise and song quietly filled the air in the silence.

 Was any of this real? Had he even left the small white room with the bright lights and the stains of his own blood. Was any of that even real? Had managing to take only one of his seizure meds in time stop him from snapping his own spine, given him some sort of stroke instead?

The speaker in the ceiling crooned on. A new song played.

The door buzzed. Prowl snapped around to face it.  He was not going to let this go on any longer. These humans would learn just why Prowl's kind were feared even amongst other mers.

The door buzzed. He bared his teeth. Prowl may not be well adapted to land, but he didn't need to be in the water to use his tail to launch smaller mammals fifty feet in the air. 

The door buzzed and clicked.

It rattled and shoved open partway. The other mer was hanging off the handle before letting go and dropping flat down, his weight slaming the door and bouncing it off the wall. He smirked and began to rapidly bounce and slide his way across the shore like it was slick with ice. Calling out in a weird human warble.

"(They keep changing the pin codes but good old Bob just does four numbers in a circle around the numpad. Terrible I tell yah someone's gonna walk in and steal a manta ray from the touch tank and it won't be me this time. Hey are you OK man? You look like you've seen a shark?)"

Prowl floated frozen. He opened his mouth to say something only to close it. He hadn't finished processing what just happened let alone how to respond to it. What was he supost to say first? What wasn't he going to be questioning here!? He tried again.

"I-you. You're here?" Well that's a start.

The mer paused on the platform, eyeing the way Prowl floated ridged back and flippers shaking, before flopping down onto his elbows with his tail curved around in a half circle to plop his head on his hands.

"HI, I'm here."

"You got out, *you're out* how did you escape? Why are you still here? Why haven't you *left*" none of this made any sense! Prowl must have lost his mind ages ago.

"Can go out, no go where. I go out, go here and here, but all still here. I go out, but go *where?* I escape but where water? Water here, so I stay here."

Prowl paused, that did make sense in a way.  They could be miles away from the sea or any water of all. They could even be far far onto land or even burrowed and buried underneath it to the point that draging themselves out of here would lead them to their death without any threat to them but the shear lack of habitat. Prowl stopped.

"Are you real?"

The mer looked at him, tilted his head and seemed to think about that.

"Am I *real?*"

"Are you?"

"Are you real?"

"*YES*"

He mouthed it to himself a few times, like a puzzle piece he knew fit together if he could turn it the right way. Suddenly he reached forward. Slapping his hand down in frount of him he yanked and flung himself into the water at Prowl.  Prowl jerked back and back tailed for space only to end up halfway to being on his back with a face full of mer.  Hands outstretched and wrapped around the other mers hips to prevent them from being belly to belly their tails brushing as Prowl was forced to keep them buoyant. The mer that swam out of Prowl's worst living nightmare, who'd been living through it longer than Prowl could imagine. Who's existence took everything a mer was and twisted it into a warped being where everything about him was *wrong*. Slowly and carefully reach out, unheedng the claws digging into his flesh. Gently cupping his warm leather hands around Prowl's face, as if his dull claws where even a possible threat or capable of harm. As if *Prowl*  was some soft fragile thing to have come out of a dream long given up on and was everything wished for come true and could be broken as easily as breathing too deep and waking up.

"(Yeah), Prowl, I'm *real*."

[qcatter]

A Nightmare

i hate tumblr it hates me, and nothing posts ever. on that note i was up all night haunted by Mer prowl who has seizures instead of crashes and wrote this whole thing out on my phone and it's 6 in the morning now help. why are word limits a thing even with readmores!!!> prowl is in a horror story while jazz waits eagerly for his buddy cop escapes heist can start. (prowl is in actual hell as an angel meeting a demon who's twisted like a horror funhouse mirror until he's barely recognizable as the same thing as you once.) @keferon like a cat bringing a dead fish.

Prowl sighed, swimming through the bright surface waters.  The chances of closing this missing persons case were *abysmal*.  Nothing to go on, not even a clue to just when he went missing.  Tracking down a missing mer through word of mouth out in the wilds from half (and sometimes full) feral mers.  The case was cold long before it had been handed to him.  Missing for possibly an entire moon before someone noticed and reported it.  

Prowl breached for a moment to get a lung full of fresh air and to scan the rocky coastline.  The leopard seal mer he encountered had been more concerned about Prowl leaving their territory than giving anything approaching general directions, let alone *accurate* ones.  Swim that a way for a day, zig zag through that reef, and the island with a bay that has a rock jutting out of the water that looks like a shark had a mer *cliff jumping* from impossible highs and landing into the reef a hundred feet away. 

 Completely insane and utterly deranged if not for the fact that Brainstorm was in fact, a flying fish, and was last reported working on upgrading his water pulpusion jet swim assist to work in the air. Not that he could have been leaping off of these cliffs.  The shear drop made them unclimbable,  let alone from the bay as the slope would be utterly exhausting to drag oneself up the - oh, that rock *does* look like a shark.  Well nobody said Brainstorm was anything but incredibly focused on his projects.  It did not change the fact he was not here *now*, and likely and run off after whatever flight of fancy he got caught up in. 

 It better not be humans again.  The wildlife laws protected them from getting captured or experimented on, but some mer alway got it in their head to mess with things better left alone.  Humans were dangerous, known for catching and killing massive amounts of sealife, from shrimp to great whales.  Rather ironic, as Orcas such as Prowl had a similar reputation.  A supposed genius like Brainstorm surely wouldn't have... he absolutely saw a boat or a human splashing on the shoreline and had to go poke it.  

Giving a few loud clicks to map out the shoreline. Prowl checked it against the list of human habituated island.  This one wasn't, but a boat migratory routed passed within a few miles of here.   Prowl couldn't help but grin to himself.  It might not be the best lead, but it was one that didn't involve speaking with witnesses that didnt want to talk.  Soon Prowl would be able to find what little tide pool Brainstorm had gotten himself stuck in, and get back to civilization.

Lightening flashed across the night sky, Prowl flinched back below the surface, blinking away pain and blind spots. The very air felt heavy, pressing down like the deep sea crushed organs.  Every time he went up to breathe it felt more like drowning.  Flipping back under the boat he hooked his claws back into its' belly plating.  From the tips of his fingers to the ends of his tail, he *ached* . City patrols at least had time to rest.  Trailing boats at a distance during the day was tiring, but at night it was child's play.  Humans could spot a whale breach halfway to the horizon when it was light out, but would miss him right under their noses the moment the sun went down.  The sea and storm rolled, and Prowl let it rock and cradle him against the boat.  It was nostalgic.  Comforting memories of being pressed against his mother's belly while resting growing muscles from endless swimming.  Water going from fighting every moment to easing soreness when you gave in and drifted.  His claws were numb. The ocean pulled, the humans howled and chattered to each other over head. The air was heavier than the sea and hurt to breathe, hurt to *think*.  Waves crested and caught the light of their lanterns, shattering it in the water like glass.  His hands started to shake.  The boat screamed a horrible screeching hiss as the humans all barked at it, a terrible symphony with the song of the storm. His aching tail went tense and stiff and his fins started to uncontrollably tremble.  Prowl shoved himself away from the boat and let sea hold him in its' imbraise as he fought his own muscles to grab ahold of his pendant.  The chain snapped but he managed to click the dispenser twice.  Shoving the two oily pills into his mouth he struggled to swallow past his swollen tongue.  One popped under his teeth filling his mouth with greasy oily bitterness. He gagged. A fresh mouthful of salt water washed some of it away.  Tasting salt, medication, and blood he finally managed to swallow as the waves rolled him against sand.

Everything hurt.

It was dry. The light was too bright. A howling barking collection of seals wouldn't shut up. Each noise sending stabs of pain into his head as they got closer. Something shuffled in the sand near him as a wave of water poured over him.  Something was touching him. *Hands* were touching him! With a sudden jerk as he was rolled over, Prowl awoke.

Hands were holding his face as water was poured over scrapes and gashes along his body. Blood trickled over fingers with dulll blunt flat claws as it leaked from his tongue.  A human face swam in and out of focus, muttering sounds and pointing tools.  It frowned at him. Then starting barking orders before clicking a light and shinning it at directly into his eyes.  The pain blooming from his eyes into his skull had him thrashing as humans shouted and pulled on top of him in an effort to pin him down. Vision blurred and spotting left him defenseless as a sudden pricking bite hit him and he knew no more.

Prowl awoke in a white void.

He drifted in the center.

The water tasted of salt, clean, empty and wrong.  Clicking sonar showed that it was a small room. Two thirds water, one third air.  The walls were flat and empty, as was the floor. Save for vents and light. Surfacing showed the oddly high ceiling to much of the same, save for a small flat shore and a door.  Flipping to dive Prowl stopped. Floating facing the floor, Prowl reached out and touched it, then stretched his tail. It breached the surface. One, two strokes of his tail as he swam to touch wall to wall. He turned.

One, two. 

Less powerful stokes let him do it in five. Swimming in a circle had him scrapping against the sides unless he went carefully and slowly.  Even the air was wrong. It stank of oils and grease and chemical and fish and ranked of animals.  Purgatory may have been aptly named.

A click and a clang. Prowl surfaced. The door on the shore opened. Two humans entered, grinning and chittering to each other. One stayed back while the other approached with a bucket of fish. Prowl stared, silently and flicked his tail in line order to face it directly.  It placed down its' bucket and bent down on its' strange legs and smiled at him. He bared his teeth back.  He was already cornered and caught, he refused to back down. Prowl was a killer whale, he would not shy from this thing. It grinned and begin wave a fish taunt him with it. He lined himself up slowly, holding eye contact as he floated perfectly still and perfectly pointed straight forward unblinking.  

The human rose, and began reach for the bucket. One, two. Prowl burst from the water and sank his teeth into flesh. The taste blood and fat filled his mouth as screams filled his ears. He held it down.  Digging his claws into loose false skin until they pierced the true one. Nothing Prowl caught ever escaped from him.  Something popped and pain popped against his side. Throwing himself off and back into the water he yanked the little anemone biter off of himself. It was a needle. The lights rippled and the voices swam. Prowl... drifted.

Prowl awoke in a blank white room. 

He floated in the center. The water tasted of salt, clean, blood and *wrong*.  The room was small, barely more water than air. The air smelled of chemicals, burning the inside of his mouth as he scented it. The flat shore recked of it. It was empty expect for a few stray drops of blood and an over turned bucket of fish.  Beaching himself, Prowl drug himself painstakingly slowly, one hand at a time, over to the door. The handle refused to turn.  Slaming himself against the metal only left him with bruises. After chipping his claws to till the quicks bled he finally stopped screaming. Instead he turned back to the fish, dragging himself back and begain to pick through it and began picking the bones clean. Nearly all were un prepped and raw, save one. A small mackerel had a small slit cut in it.  He swallowed it whole and gagged as the trace bitterness of meds bit his tongue and desperately tried to keep everything he ate down. He failed. Leaving the mess and the pile of bones Prowl return to the pool.

Prowl awoke in a small white room. 

He floated lopsided in the center. The water tasted of salt, clean and wrong. His fins were scraped raw. Paint had been chipped from the walls. (One, two, wall) Faint brown stains left where ever the water did not reach. Prowl did not remember making the fourth one. (One, two, wall) The lights were too bright. They never fully went out. (One, two, wall) Some machinery thrumbed and throbbed in his head.  He ached. The door buzzed and clicked. A human brought a bucket of fish inside and left it on the flat beach. His fins shook. The door closed and clicked. Prowl pressed his face into a corner and tried to block out more light with his hands but then the sounds roared louder.  He seized.

Prowl awoke in a dim dark room. 

He floated in the center peacefully. The water tasted of salt, clean, and wrong.  The spot where they injected him was sore and inched. His hands were sore from scraping them against the rock. His belly hurt from dragging it on the ground.  The lights brightened. The door buzzed and clicked. A human came in and slowly tossed fish in frount of him one by one as he ate them. He left the bones on the bottom of the pool.  The fish tasted wrong. The door closed and clicked. The lights stayed on until he fell asleep.

Prowl awoke in small white room. 

It tasted of salt and the waste and remnants of fish and wrong.  He flicked a bone at the door. It hit dead center. The door buzzed and clicked. A human came in with a bucket of fish. It tossed him a fish. He ate it. It tossed him another one. The next went high and he caught it. It threw the fourth into one of the corners. Prowl didn't even turn to look as he stared the human down. The human sighed and tossed another just over his head. He had to reach up to catch it. The human grinned. It tossed the next one even higher. Prowl had to halfway breach in order to get it. The human howled and chattered at him. It started swinging a fish back and forth before launching it straight up. Prowl stared the human down without moving a muscle while the fish landed with a plop a few feet behind. He did not move. The human did not throw anymore fish. Prowl shoved the bones into the filtration intakes.

Prowl awoke in a clean white room.

He floated calmly in the center.

The water tasted fresh, of salt, clean and wrong.  There was a hammock hanging in the water.  It felt familiar. Prowl wasn't sure if he had ever seen it before. He swam into it. It wasn't soft, but it was sturdy. A familiar dark kelp green that perfectly cradled his body with holes for him to fit his flippers in.   The hammock was too low in the water for him to comfortly lay with his head above water. With a long suffering sign he wiggled and twisted around till he was sitting up enough to lay his head on the metal pole.  The frabic was rough and hurt where his skin was soft and sore, but it was the softest thing in this room and he missed his at home.  Where he wasn't trapped and could cook his food and turn the lights off all the time and sleep in a soft woven hammock properly for hours at a time rather than constant small naps. The door buzzed and clicked. A human came in holding a bucket of fish and a long stick with a ball on the end. It stopped and stared at him. He stared back. It wailed at him and began chittering in annoyance. It waved a fish. Then tapped the other side of the shore with the pole. With a sigh Prowl pulled himself from the hammock and gave a gentle swish of his tail to reach over and grab the fish. The human tapped the hammock and dropped a fish on it.  After Prowl wiggled back onto it the human tapped its stick on the other side of the room and waited.  Prowl went over and tapped the spot. It was almost like a form of communication. Maybe if he could manage to get something across besides bared teeth and lunging, were clicks and whistles weren't.  Prowl tried tapping. The human just handed him his fish and tapped a spot way up on the shore. This was the stupidest thing Prowl had ever done. But unless he went where they tapped, it would refuse to give him the fish.  Nothing was working. Attempts at tapping and placing his fish down, throwing the fish and draging him self over to it and tapping, tapping and leaving to see if the human would go there. Nothing!  Tired and with his belly scrapped raw Prowl rolled off the shore and unto the hammock and wiggled until he had his head pressed up against the side. The human babbled at him and tossed him a few extra fish.  Prowl threw his own arm over his face and for the first time, managed a deep sleep.

Prowl awoke in that hammock with the worse crick in his neck and waist from where he was bent over himself. He slept on the shore the next day.

They took the hammock.

Prowl awoke in a small white room. He floated just above the bottom. The water tasted of salt.  He wondered if it was worth surfacing. The door buzzed and clicked. A group of humans came in. They brought the hammock back and set it up. One tapped it with the pole. Prowl swam in.  It handing him a fish and tapped the pole again and handed him a second one. The hammock lifted from the water and Prowl struggled not to squirm as he was held in the air.  Hands brushed along him through the frabic and down his tail. One pair grabbed his fin and pricked it with a needle. Just as suddenly they backed up, barked at each up and lowered him back. They gave him the rest of the bucket and left him there. Alone, in a hammock. This time it was high enough to layout and rest his head. Prowl slept.

Prowl awoke in a Hammock in a bright white room. It was the only thing in there besides himself.  The lights pulsed. He drug himself to shore and shook stiffly through his seizure. He stared fixed at the one brown splatter of dots on the wall that looked like a fish hook. The door buzzed and slammed opened and humans rushed in and started pawwing at him. They shoved him down and rolled him into the hammock and lifted him through the doors. Frozen and shaking he watched. Down halls and past many doors until they reached a room that smelled so strongly of chemicals he could taste it through his blood.  The humans frantically yelled and barked until finally after one of the needles they jabbed him with made him black out.

Prowl awoke In a small white room

The fish tasted different, but in a familiar way. The bitterness matched that of when he would bite through his perscription. The water still tasted wrong.

Prowl drifted and awoke.

The humans would try to make him follow the pole where they tapped it, and jump for his fish. He often would not.  It was easier not to but there wasn't enything else. There was nothing to do but drift after listening to his own screams ringing in the silence. 

So Prowl drifted.

[qcatter]

Still Can...

[qcatter]

A reminder that sell-buy dates or best-used-by dates are not the same as expiration dates.

I love that a food bank is providing this info as they are experts in stretching food budgets and knowledgable in shelf-stable food items

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this website’s easy watch. *dangles a bunch of greek gods like keys*

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Photographer Mark Smith captures an amazing moment where an osprey emerges from the ocean clawed onto its prey

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a kitty!

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938 Seconds Per Second

(I had a short story idea. Enjoy :)!)

...

The first thing about Lieutenant Carson is that he’s a dickhead. 

The second thing about Lieutenant Carson is that he’s a dickhead. 

He gets to be a dickhead twice because we’re in a profession which attracts, near to its entirety, dickheads. To claim someone on this ship is a dickhead is to claim that some droplet of water is wet. Carson, though, is an anomaly. A true dickhead among dickheads, which would stand as two entire accomplishments if it were anything worth celebrating. More honestly, the only thing about Carson worth celebrating will be his funeral, assuming he has one, assuming he’s not simply shot out the airlock one day. 

It’s not like he’s surprising. Of course this job attracts dickheads. It’s self-selecting for a job whose process involves trashing your application if you have anyone in your life who could be mistaken for a loved one. A wife or children, or a girlfriend, or even one living parent who’s not completely estranged and jettisoned from your life. What you end up with is an enlistment of 90% dickheads with every flavor of anti-social affliction, half of whom are criminals riding things out on this ship until anyone who could have pinned them to their crime is long dead. The remaining 10% are the cultural hermits preserving some kind of dying ethos, and guys like me who just didn’t have anything anchoring them down at home.  

That’s probably wrong. I’m probably someone’s dickhead. 

But Lieutenant Carson is everyone’s dickhead.  

And most unfortunately, Lieutenant Carson is now my dickhead. 

Mission details came through this morning, unwilling to spare me even the 5 minutes I wanted for my coffee to cool. Grating intercom, mess of unwashed bodies clustering the cafeteria. “New Assignment Orders: Travel begins after evening Lights-Out. Duration is 4 months In Frame. Listen closely for Buddy assignments.” 

They didn’t tell us what we’re transporting. They never do. Some bastard on the ship would try to steal it if we knew. 

“Woo! 4 months!” Dorian cheered from the far end of Table 3. Dorian was an absolute brick shithouse of a man, sloshing around a coffee mug filled to the brim with not coffee. He was about the only man whose drinking problem I considered a real problem, since it took three men’s worth of alcohol to get him drunk. And he was drunk, always. “300 more years to the hag!” he toasted, to himself. He’d toasted a good 1,800 years to the hag. He got happier with each toasting. 

“Dorian McGee, your partner is Eric Sampson.” 

Sampson made a curt little noise through his teeth. I was glad it wasn’t more than that, since I was seated beside Sampson, and Sampson’s breath stank like a dead rat before his morning coffee. It would still stink like a dead rat after the coffee—but the cut of coffee made a meaningful difference.  

“A bit of a brutish man, isn’t he?” Sampson said, leaning in to conspire with me, and offering me a face-full of dead rat. I cut all breath from entering my nose, and nodded, and lifted my coffee to my face like hospital peppermint rub. Sampson was one of the ascetic cultural weirdos, whose company I preferred mostly because he was one of the few crew members not whittling something to a sharp point in secret. “At least he’s not—” 

“—Mendoza, your partner is Garret Carson.” 

“—Oh,” Sampson concluded, as I choked on my coffee. I kept the reaction off my face. I prayed for all the world that they would issue a correction, and partner me with the dead rat in Sampson’s esophagus instead. 

They did not. Carson leered from the far end of Table 2, smiling shittily, in his deeply unserious manner. Carson could not be made serious, not by his superiors and not by a set of knuckles digging new holes between his teeth. Several shipmates had tried. Nothing could break his shitty spirit, and I can only be thankful no one’s grandmothers or pets die up here, since I’m positive Carson spent his life up until now laughing at funerals.  

Carson and his shitty smile took my eye contact as invitation—not that he’s the kind to wait for invitation to do anything—and elbowed his wiry squirrely frame through men far bigger than him until he stood directly behind Sampson. He took Sampson’s untouched coffee, gulped down half of it in a single swig, and paid for it by offering Sampson the negative value of his shitty unserious smile. “Aw Sampsy, I love when you make me coffee.” 

Sampson muttered a few things, which sounded mostly like disconnected stumbling thoughts too buried in rat breath to make out, and Sampson scooted himself away from the table. He looked around, until consigning himself to try to squeeze next to Dorian. Carson fell gaudily into Sampson’s open spot. 

“I fucking hate that pussy. I wanna rip all his limbs off and shove them up his ass and call it modern art.” Carson tipped over what remained of Sampson’s coffee cup. Coffee dribbled to the floor. “But I like you Mendoza. I’d lube you up before I shove anything up your ass.” 

Carson could fucking die. If for nothing other than the crime of cursing me to a coffee-less dick-cheese-smelling Sampson for the entire rest of the day. 

… 

Mission buddies are also bunk mates. The one upside to having Carson as my bunk mate is that it puts me in the prime position to smother him in his sleep. It’s logistically possible. I have at least 50 pounds and 5 inches on the guy. I can picture him flailing like a wet noodle while I hold the pillow down. Anyone nearby would understand. I might get some high fives, maybe one of the smuggled e-cigs that turned to contraband after the meal-hall fire six In Frame months ago.  

The downside to having Carson as my bunk mate is that it makes me the key suspect if Carson wakes up dead with a dozen synthetic feathers shoved down his throat.  

So I just picture it. Fantasize about it. All the time. Really any time Carson opens his mouth to speak to me, which is constantly. Carson loves to hear himself talk. He loves to know he’s being heard. He loves anything that gets a reaction. 

It’s been 2.5 In Frame months. More precisely it’s been exactly 76 days of hearing everything Garret Carson has to say as my buddy. I’ve heard everything he hates about everyone, which includes me. I’ve heard every nasty thing he’s said to the cafeteria staff, up to and including putting his hands on the staffer who ran out of keylime pie right before Carson reached him (“the only edible fucking thing” which he’s sort of right about). It won’t get Carson fired, even if I tattle, even if he hadn’t already told anyone with ears about it. 

I’ve heard everything sexual Carson assures me he’d do to Major Chelsey Kensington if he were to ever catch her alone. It’s juvenile, and dimwitted and moronic, and everything he comes up with smacks of some stupid 13-year-old’s fantasy. He cranks his shaft from the top bunk while he talks, and he shakes the entire fucking bedframe. I never answer him, and I’ve considered taking up fake snoring to make him think he’s not keeping me awake. I know it wouldn’t work. The worst part about Garret Carson is he doesn’t even need an audience to be like this. 

Carson sits with me at all mealtimes, as mission buddies are required to do, and his fork spends more time in my plate than on his. Sampson sits morosely with Dorian, whose conversation is the only one loud enough for me to hear. (“Do you know HOW old?” Dorian asks. “2,000 years, yes, you told me already.” “2,003. As of this morning! Then 2,004, in five minutes from now! Another shitty year for her shitty dead bones to go’round the shitty dying sun!” “You know, my own civilization’s sun is dying.” “And around and around and around and arou—“)  

Carson is like a fungal infection. He’s like black mold in a cupboard. He’s like a pest problem the landlord won’t fix which keeps you from having any friends over. He’s like bedbugs, and I’m diseased until this mission is over. Until Dorian’s hag gets her whole 300 years. 

“Ugh. Blugh. These peas are nasty.” Carson is smearing his fork on my plate, leaving a long trail of pea-guts raked through my potatoes. “They can’t fucking grow them right. They can’t fucking grow any shitty food on this shitty ship. If I crapped on your plate it would be an improvement.” 

There’s a constant whir undercutting everything. It’s everywhere, and does not go away, and after the first 3 months of being driven fucking insane by it, you stop noticing it. I’ve been noticing it again, as it’s often one of the only alternatives to listening to Carson. 

I forget the name of the thing making the whir, but it has “hyperspace” in it.  

“Got us busting our asses transporting a fucking billion dollars of fuck-all-who-knows-what, but they can’t fucking feed us anything edible.” 

The whir itself also has a name. Something to do with space shrinking, and infinite acceleration, and something else back when I cared enough to actually learn about the ship. I’ve since learned it doesn’t matter. In Frame time is all that matters, and getting paid every two weeks on the dot In Frame is all that matters. It’s good pay, have I mentioned? It’s really good pay.  

“Hey Carson, what are you planning to do when you retire?” I ask, and for a brief glorious second Carson shuts the hell up. Probably out of surprise, because I’ve refused to address him directly until now. 

“Oh, retire?” 

“Where are you going to go?” 

Carson thinks—or does the closest thing to thinking which his mushed pea brain is capable of. He cracks wide his unserious grin and I think of a million ways to remove all his teeth. 

“I’m gonna find some place real tribal. You know like, Oonga Boonga. And use all my money to make them make me their sex god.” 

A sex god with no teeth? 

“If it’s some primitive tribe, why would they give a fuck about Entente money?” 

“Because it’s money, and people love money,” Carson answers, like I’m an idiot. I resist the urge to explain literally anything to him about intergalactic politics, because if I tried then I would in fact be the idiot for trying. 

“Sure, people love money.” 

“What about you?” 

I miss a beat answering. I admittedly wasn’t expecting him to ask the question back, but knowing Carson and knowing his tendency to weaponize whatever information his greasy hands can pry from you, I’m not so stupid as to answer.  

“Dunno. Depends what places exist by then.” 

… 

Sampson has started avoiding me.  

It’s probably not me he’s avoiding. It’s probably Carson, like everyone else with a brain and working feet has been doing since the assignments were given. But Sampson has been the last hold-out. He always seems to bumble into my space, and somehow always seems surprised once Carson rears his head and hurls whatever verbal harassment he’d been practicing in the mirror that morning. Sampson is kind of stupid, for a scholar, at least in a social way.  

But it’s day 90 now, and Sampson has finally made himself scarce.  

I catch sight of him in the cafeteria, and his eyes bug, and his neck jostles a little like a gobbling turkey before he turns away from me, all weird limb movements and discombobulation. He scoots up against Dorian in some weird parody of a chick ducking under its brooding mother for protection. Dorian notices nothing weird because he’s drunk, always.  

I get in line. Carson’s breath is on my shoulder. It’s replaced quickly with a whisper about how he’s gonna fuck Major Kensington in her sleep when this mission is over. I grab my coffee and pasty oatmeal. 

It’s day 93, and I no longer see Sampson in the cafeteria. This also means I don’t see Dorian in the cafeteria. Sampson, being the ascetic weirdo he is, I can see skipping meals. Dorian, I cannot.  

It’s day 95, and Carson wakes me up. He does it by holding my nose, and I clock him in the face by pure, de-oxygenated instinct. I’m gasping for breath and spinning into consciousness as Carson rights himself standing at the side of my bed, nose dripping blood, smiling shittily in the low emergency lighting. 

“I got us a special little present,” Carson announces, holding up something squarish, and indecipherable in the low light. 

I sit up with half a mind to punch him again. He wipes the blood from his nose, then wipes it on my sheets, and sits himself down on my bed. He cracks open the squarish thing, and it’s a book. 

“Are you fucking literate?” I ask, voice croaking. 

“It’s Sampson’s dirty mags,” Carson says, answering a very different question from what I asked. I blink to adjust to the lighting, and can only make out the tight, tiny scrawl of black ink filling each page Carson flips through. 

“What?” 

“He was guarding them pretty tight. Got Dorian watching them too, but I bribed Dorian with all the alcohol they’ve been rationing me.” Carson doesn’t drink. He loves acting like this makes him a godly person, somehow, despite the literally everything else. “Slipped this baby out easy.” 

Carson brandishes the book again, moreso in my direction. I look closer. Tight tight black ink, filling every page. I can’t read any of it. 

“Is that fucking... Sampson’s cultural tomes?” I ask. 

“One of ‘em,” Carson answers, delighted. 

“Why the fuck do you have his cultural tomes?” I hate the bothered note in my voice. Because I don’t care, and I don’t want to be awake, and I don’t want to be engaging Garret Fucking Carson. 

“I’m trying to educate myself. This is all that’s left of that poor poor culture that died 1,000 years ago.” 

(Last year, In Frame.) 

“Go the fuck back to sle--” 

I hear a shearing sound. Loud, amplified by the ambient silence around us, undercut with the silent whir of the hyper-thing. ShhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHRRIIP. I look. The page is torn vertically, right down the middle. Carson holds the separated portion and rips it again, length-wise. SSshhhhhhiiriiipp. 

Paper confetti rains. Carson flips the pages. “Boring fucking culture. Got like two million fucking pages in this thing but he didn’t think to preserve even one bit of porn. I don’t even know what the naked girls on his planet look like. Figures Sampson wouldn’t preserve any of that, considering he’s a fa--” 

I kick Carson hard in the back, hard enough to boot him off the bed. There’s agitation in my veins, but I’m staring at Carson’s shitty unserious smile staring up gummily from the floor, and I can’t let him win. I can’t let him win. 

“Do that somewhere else,” I say, and I roll over, dragging my covers over myself. “I’m going the fuck back to sleep.” 

… 

It’s day 96. Sampson appears in the cafeteria, and he moves like a meercat. Short bursts of agitated movement, all hand-wringing and buggy-eyes. He looks sleepless. He looks dog-tired. He looks my way, and wrings his hands more before turning away from me, away from the wide and deeply unserious smile of Garret Carson looming over my shoulder.  

Dorian isn’t with him. Someone is supposed to yell at him for that, but it won’t be me. 

It’s day 98, and Sampson can only dart around meercattishly for so long. His frantic eye-bugginess is morose. His hand-wringing is gray and tired. I’ve watched him, from a distance, upturn about every seat and tile in this ship—at least every one he can touch without getting yelled at, and a few he can’t. He makes the mistake of eye contact with me a few more times, and it lingers now. Like he wants to approach. That little flame of desire dies every time his eyes shift to Carson, ever the leech on my shoulder. 

It’s day 111. I have 9 more days of Carson, and I have not seen Sampson in a week. Dorian shuffles through the cafeteria alone sometimes, and he does get yelled at for appearing separate from his assigned buddy. But Dorian is drunk, and is an entire refrigerator of a man, and so there is little people can do about him. 

Sampson’s tome has long since turned to pulp in Carson’s corner of our room, and Carson is bored again. I can see it in his eyes. 

… 

It’s day 112. They tell us something in the morning about running behind schedule, and a pit stop for a very particular kind of hyper-fuel, and an ultra-hyper-hyper-something-or-other for the remaining week. I only pay attention to the “remaining week” part of it, because it reminds me that I will be free of Garret Carson in a week’s time. 

That’s a slight lie. I’ll still be on the ship with him. But importantly I will be entirely within my right to stay the hell away from him. I can get a coffee without him, and piss without him, and that alone sounds like heaven. 

The announcement continues. We’ve gotten another mission booked back-to-back, set to start the moment our current one ends. This elicits a few murmurs, mostly from the people who are more sensitive than me to the hyper-whatever and were banking on a little un-hyper downtime. I don’t care about them. I only hear the next part. 

5 months In Frame mission. Buddy assignments are to stay the same. 

I feel frozen. My heart jumps at what was surely a mistake, a bad dream, something I can blink myself away from and find myself lying in bed with Carson snoring above me.  

I feel Carson’s breath on my shoulder. His deeply shitty smile is boring into me. I won’t look at him, but he is real. He is entirely real. 

“Woohoo!” Dorian toasts, to no one. “Another 400 years to the hag!” 

… 

It’s the evening of day 112, and we’ve touched down on an anchor planet to refuel. It’s our version of an evening, anyway, since this planet is drifting in a starless system and the In Frame clocks have declared it lights-out. It’s weird to know we’re hunkered down to something. It’s weird to share a Frame with a planet. It’s weird to hear the new whir of fuel glugging into the ship. 

It’s too weird, and I can’t sleep. 

I’m still awake when Carson drops down from his top bunk and slips out the door. 

I should really view this as a blessing, to be given some unknown number of minutes without Garret Carson’s presence, at a time when I could believably feign ignorance of the entire thing. But it’s about as restful as losing sight of the spider on your ceiling.  

So I slip out of bed. I put on my shoes and I ease our creaky door open. There’s no bathroom to check, since the shitter is in our shared room, but I prod open the shower room on the off-chance Carson was possessed with the desire for some kind of 3am (In Frame) scrub-down. 

The shower room is empty.  

I check the cafeteria. I check the rec lounge. I check the library, not that Garret Carson has ever once set foot in there. I turn back, and shuffle through a few more halls, and even consider waking up Major Kensington to report my partner missing and then go the hell back to bed. 

There’s a strip of yellow light wrapping the edge of a cracked-open door. 

I curse under my breath, as I was just growing attached to the idea of never finding Carson. 

I approach it, and my rotten hunch is correct. It’s the door leading to the suit locker room, containing all the suits custom-tailored to crew members with outer ship maintenance as an assignable duty. Both Carson and I have the training, which largely consists of being the monkey with a toolbox, sent out into deep space on a rope, while an engineer in your earpiece instructs you step by step what to do. (The engineer is too valuable to send out as the monkey on the rope.) 

But I know with utmost certainty Carson has not been assigned to outer ship duty, because I have not been assigned to outer ship duty. I hiss through my teeth, and I step forward, and I place my hand on the door. 

Some airy breathy noise sounds out from behind me. It makes my neck hair stand on end. I would almost consider being relieved, on the possibility that it’s Carson, back from pissing in Sampson’s closet, and that the cracked-open door was mere coincidence. 

The rat-breath smell hits me next, and I know it’s not Carson. 

I turn, eye to eye in the low light with Sampson, who looks far more ghoulish bottom-lit. He’s sleepless and gray and doing a very good job of passing for a ghost haunting the ship. 

“Sampson,” I say. 

“Mendoza! I um--! I thought I heard something,” Sampson says quickly, and stinkily, as if he were the one who had just been caught with his hand on the locker room door. 

“Same. I think Carson snuck outside. I’m dragging his ass back in.” 

“Oh... Oh!” Sampson says, as though taking a moment to process what was said. “We should... You shouldn’t... I’ll alert Major Kensington, and she will--” 

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Kensington’ll probably just yell at me for losing track of my buddy and send me outside to grab him.” That’s a lie. Garret Carson is outside the ship. It’s a world different from losing track of your buddy in the cafeteria. 

Sampson probably knows this is a lie, because he’s smart. But he doesn’t know what to say back to me, because he’s dumb. His gray knuckles wring together. 

“Did um... is um... Sorry, speaking of Carson— I was wondering—Did Lieutenant Carson—since you share a room—if you’ve seen—At any point in the last few weeks did Lieutenant Carson--” 

“He took your tome, yeah. He shredded it.” 

The convincing ghost of Eric Sampson manages to lose an extra shade of color from his face. “Shredded?” 

“Go back to bed, okay.” 

I step inside, and close the door on Sampson’s face. 

… 

The suit fits less snug than the last time I wore it for ship maintenance. It’s disconcerting. Every inch of skin not touching suit feels like a nakedness doomed to shred up in the vacuum of space. That’s dramatic. These suits maintain a constant pressure, and they scream like hell at the first detection of a leak. The planet outside has an atmosphere. It’s way less dangerous than outer ship maintenance. It’s just been a while since I wore this suit, and I’m tired, and I hate Garret Carson. 

So I do hesitate, I guess, and my hand is clammy, I guess, once I’ve entered the exit code, and scanned my badge, and ensured the airlock door back into the ship is vacuum-shut behind me. There’s only out, now. And there’s only me. 

I open the door, and the pneumatic hiss is deafening (I did not miss that part of the job). There’s a ladder, already dropped, which vanishes outside the little emergency sphere of light that emanates from the exit door. It’s at least 30 feet down, judging by where the shadows drop off. It would not be extended if there were not already a shipmate down there. 

I drop down with the ladder. I ballpark it at 35 feet until my soles touch down.  

There’s a wind that whips by, and nearly sweeps my footing from under me before I’ve gotten my bearings. So I anchor myself to the ladder once more, and breathe, and wait out the roar of wind whistling past my helmet.  

Atmosphere. What a fucking concept.  

I step, and in the dim ship lighting I see what might perhaps be footprints, or what might be the idle artistic musings of the wind. But if I were both Carson and an idiot, it feels like the direction I would go. 

“Carson!” I call. If there’s atmosphere, there’s probably sound travel. 

I walk, and I walk. I’ve left the dim light of the ship, yet the ambient glow around my feet never quite vanishes. There’s something ever so slightly luminous in the soil. A planet without a system star which has found its own means of producing light, reddish and subtle, but present none the less. The ship falls farther away, but I don’t let it entirely out of sight. 

There are twirling tendrils of plant life, meaty and thick, which crawl and creep along the soil. They don’t go up, as there’s no sun worth reaching toward. Instead they ooze into the soil, tying themselves with whatever feeds the glow. Perhaps they are more fungus than plants. Perhaps the distinction is meaningless here. There is a rustle here, a skitter there, an occasional pivot or bounce in the shape of the soil which suggests a sort of animal life. It’s not cold here. The planet’s core is molten, and near enough the surface to radiate heat upward like a hot spring. The crust is thin, and what isn’t molten is rich with oil. The planet is not populated. It’s a refueling pitstop for deep space journeys, once in an eon. 

“Carson!” 

It’s quiet here. There’s no whir of the ship.  

Something presses my neckline. It hits fast, locks into precise pressure points—press, shove, tug, turn. I gasp—or maybe I yelp—and shoot away. My mind goes haywire with the instant panic response of recognizing the detachment protocol which separates my helmet from my suit. My hand flies to cover my mouth 

And bonks right into my still-attached helmet. 

The helmet can’t be detached like that, because it needs to be myself doing the detachment. The pressure points on the suit only respond if pressed alongside buttons within my own glove. But it felt real. The panic was sure as hell real. Like being shoved from behind while on a tightrope. 

The adrenaline has already flashed through my bloodstream, and I’m trembling. 

Carson is laughing. 

I take a swipe at him, and he ducks my clumsy aim, still laughing, still heaving with his own mirth.  

“Relax, dickhead, it’s breathable.” 

I still myself, though breath still fogs my helmet and my hands still shake. Carson is standing in front of me. His eyes are like iridescent beetles in the luminance of the soil. His helmet is gone, and he’s breathing. 

“I saw the fuel guy take his helmet off out here,” Carson says. “It’s oxygen out here. It’s like, extra oxygen. I feel kinda high. You should try too, Mendoza.” 

I don’t. 

“Come the hell back to the ship.” 

“Aw, did you miss me?” 

“Get back on the ship before--” 

“Before what? Who’s gonna do anything?” 

I stare him down, and I stare down his shitty smile and the red glint in his eyes.  

“You left the fucking ship to get high on oxygen? If the ship leaves--” 

“Oh better. So much better. Mendoza you’re gonna shit yourself once you know what I know.” Carson bobs and he steps. He gets in close to me, lit red from beneath. The whipping winds sweep his straw hair back and forth. “D’you know what we’re transporting?” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Cuz I’m gonna steal it.” 

I miss a beat. 

“No you’re not. Get back on the ship and I’ll pretend I never heard that.” 

“Oh but you did hear that. Cuz I told you. I was actually coming back to get you, but like a good mission buddy you came and found me.” 

“I found you to throw you the fuck back on the ship,” I answer. My patience is beyond thin. “I’m not risking my payday because you--” 

“Oh this is a HUGE payday. More than you’ll make in a million Frame years on that disgusting fucking ship.” Carson is moving in that squirrely way, or perhaps more like a collie, circling me and yet pulling me closer. “But I need to loosen one of the escape pods to do it, and they fixed the busted shackle I found during last maintenance so actually I can’t get it out on my own. The pod’s on a safety lock.” 

Carson’s shitty smile persists. He’s too close now. 

“So you want me to be the second badge.” 

“It’s gotta be you. The second thumb-and-badge needs Kensington’s girl scout do-gooder merit badge. You got that for licking her clit didn’t you?” 

“Why do you think I’m gonna help you?” 

“Cuz we’re friends.” 

I turn my heel on Carson. I only care about the ship winking in the distance. 

“And because I’m gonna give you half.” 

I pause, now. My boot sinks into the glowing sand.  

“Half of what?” 

“The treasure we’re transporting. I know what it is. I know where we’re keeping it. I know how to escape with it.” 

I keep walking. “I’m going to bed.” 

“It’s the remains of Sampson’s culture,” Carson barks after me. “Literally a civilization worth of wealth compacted into what fits on a ship. Sampson’s a stupid fucker and he said too much to me one day, and his fucking book confirmed it. A civilization of wealth, Mendoza, and all of them are fucking dead. We can just take it.” 

“No, we can’t, because someone’s expecting it.” 

“Oh boo hoo, you think the king of Fuckshit World living in a galaxy 300 lightyears away from Sampson’s stupid dead people actually deserves it? Instead of us who’ve been busting our asses transporting it?” 

I pause. The glimmer in Carson’s eyes is stronger. 

“We lost 300 years on this stupid journey. Transporting this shit. Your fucking childhood home is 300 years more rotted into the dirt. Because cushy fuckers who would never dare leave their own fucking Acceleration Frame hire us to do it. This trip cost US. Not them. WE deserve that shit.” 

“I signed up for this job because I don’t give a fuck how rotted my childhood home is or how extra-dead my grandmother will be. If you didn’t know that going into this then that’s on you.” 

“50% split. And once we’re gone from here, you never have to see me again.” Carson’s stupid shitty unserious smile has vanished. And this admittedly shuts me up for at least a second. It’s weird to see him like this. It’s uncomfortable. 

“You fucking hate me, right?” Carson continues. “If we go back to that ship, it’s another fucking half a year of you and me being besties. So steal this shit with me, and then never ever see me again.” 

I hesitate. I flex my fingers in my gloves. Another half-year of Carson sounds like a prison sentence, like a vice clamp around my throat, like a fate worse than hell. 

“How do I know you’ll actually give me half?” I ask. 

“Because you can wrestle it from me if you want. You’d fuck me over in a fight. You could take more than half if you want. Not like I could stop you.” 

“You could have a gun.” 

“Pat me down, Mission Buddy.” 

He spreads his arms. The space suit spreads with him. The luminescence lights him like phoenix wings.  

I stare at him, and I hate Lieutenant Carson all over again, because I’ve decided he’s being serious. And I hate him even more than before, because there’s a part of me. A part of me. Which thinks he’s right. 

It would be so nice to get off the ship. 

It would be nice to settle somewhere that has plantlife, and water, and atmosphere. Wildlife. A sun that rises and sets. I wouldn’t even care how long or short that sun-tracked day lasts, if it means never saying In Frame again. 

It would be nice to experience time, again. 

“...Fine then,” I tell him, and Carson’s face lights up like Christmas. 

“I knew you’d get it! I love you Mendoza. I could kiss you.” 

“Don’t.” 

“I won’t. I’m not Sampson.” 

And the mention of Sampson’s name jolts something just slightly beneath my skin. All gray-faced and ghost-like and pathetic. Sampson has never been good at the ship. He’s not like me who doesn’t care about time spinning away on my home planet, or Dorian who loves every year deader his ex-wife gets.  

“I know which cargo lock the haul is in. The fuel is near it and I slipped a shim under the lock when the maintenance guy went in to hook up the refueler. We only need badge access to get back there and then if I loosen the shim we can--” 

“We should do that part last, right?” 

“Huh?” Carson asks. 

“Because of the alarms,” I elaborate. “Once we open the treasure hold, it’s gonna trigger the alarms.” 

“Yeah, and we fill our bags and run.” 

“And the escape pod.” 

“What about it?” 

“It’ll still be locked up.” 

Carson pauses at this. His unserious grin splits wide again, right back in place. “See this is why I love you Mendoza. Brains of the operation. So we get the pod ready first, then pocket all the treasure we can, then dip.” 

Carson pivots off track just slightly, to the rear hull of the ship. 

“I knew you were smart. If Sampson’s people chose you as their scholar maybe they wouldn’t have fucking perished.”  

“Like hell. I’d rather dig graves than live as some kind of encyclopedia monk.” 

Eric Sampson is part of the cargo haul, I realize in almost an offhand way. Our cargo is all the preserved culture that remains of his people and Sampson is a relic right alongside it all. It’s not new for dying cultures to do this. Sampson isn’t even the first shipmate we’ve had whose job is simply to outlive the death of a people for as long as possible, keeping alive customs and knowledge and memories like the last breathing ember of a doused flame.  

But Sampson stands out to me maybe because he’s been the worst at it. Sloppy and forgetful, a manic studier of cultural information that seems to slip through his brain like water. Too often I’ve watched him stumble over facts and mix up dates and work himself into a panic over a forgotten monarch’s name. 

Maybe it’s because most of the other cultural hermits were second or third generation, tasked to memorize a culture they’d never seen. Sampson left while his culture was still bleeding. It died overnight, sometime last year, and had been dead a few good years before Sampson even woke up. I’ve never quite seen him recover.  

“Fucking Sampson of all people. What an absolute fucker,” Carson continues, almost singsong. “I hate him. He’s a cunt. My only regret is leaving before I ever got to punt him in the balls.” 

Carson sets his badge to the pod lock. It’s a solid, unbroken section of external ship hull, with only thin fissures in the body betraying the notion that something opens, that something reveals. The little shimmer of light remains yellow. 

“Oh, right,” Carson says. He lifts his free hand and sets his gloved thumb to the sensor beside his badge. It’s a double-safety measure: thumb for biometrics, to guard against a stolen badge, and a badge, to guard against a stolen corpse. 

Carson’s thumb is read though his glove, and a green light clicks to life under Carson’s touch. The twin sensor waits for mine. 

“Did the tome say what’s in the cargo hold, exactly?” I ask. 

“Oh just you know, literally everything of value to his people. Before the last of them bit it, they gathered it all up. Like emptied out their museums and banks and shit. Sent it off with Sampson. It’s all shrunk down into cargo pills so a wheel palette should be enough to nab them and run. We’ll need to find a planet with a Depacker but most galaxies have had those for literally like 500 years, so like since the last 6 months. Pros of being on this shitty ship.” 

“So Sampson knows about the cargo.” 

“Absolutely. Sure does.” 

“And when we’re gone in the morning, he’ll know what happened?” 

“100%. Ah!” Carson kicks his legs in a little dance of mirth, a little tick of uncontained joy. “Ah!! Actually I have TWO regrets, and the second one is that I won’t be able to see Sampson’s face when he wakes up tomorrow and learns what we ransacked. Oh he’ll kill himself. He’ll definitely kill himself. I wish I could see it. Dorian’s not gonna stop him when he kicks his chair and starts dangling from the ceiling tiles.” 

Carson nods once more toward the hull.  

“Come on, give it your badge.” 

I press my thumb to the sensor. I pat my suit with my free hand, and I pat the front pocket, and the back pocket, and my breast and neckline. 

“My badge is still in the ship,” I say. 

Carson clicks his tongue, agitated. “Right after I called you the brains, Mendoza.” 

“I came out here to haul your ass back inside. I wasn’t expecting to have to open anything under badge-lock. I’m still in my fucking pajamas under this suit.” 

“Well you can buy a million sets of whatever the hell clothes you want once we have this cargo. Go inside and get your badge. Be fast. I’m getting sand in my eyes.” 

I ease my hand off the scanner. I round the ship, the steady crunch and hiss of sand compacting and shifting beneath my boot. I reach the ladder, and methodically, almost puppet like, I climb it. I hardly feel like I’m the one climbing. I feel like a witness. I feel like time isn’t passing around me. 

I get to the top. I pop open the door to the airlock.  

I pat my pocket with my badge inside.  

I look through the coupled door, the ones which open back into the ship when the pressure has equalized, and through the circular window I almost expect to see Eric Sampson’s shitty gray sad face. 

There is no one there. There is no one awake. The hiss of the refueling has ceased. 

I make no sound. 

I haul the ladder back up behind me. 

… 

Dawn breaks with no sun. The whir of the ship is back, and it’s louder than before. It trembles the frame of the ship in a way I’ve never felt before. It’s in hyper-hyper-something mode, and we are fighting to make up time that doesn’t really exist this way for anyone but us.  

I do not go to get coffee. I phone in to the office that I’m sick, and that I’m quarantining. They mark my chart as such, and all that really means is they bring my meals to me, and they don’t count my head at morning count. And also that, if I DO show my face before getting medical clearance, they might punt my ass into solitary. Sickness doesn’t contain well on a ship like this, so the best they can do is contain you well. 

They send two meals, every mealtime. My fork spends as much time in Carson’s plate as it does in mine. 

The days slip by slowly. On day 120, the whir of the hyper-hyper-thing vanishes. It vanishes all together. We’ve set down somewhere. They tell me over the intercom that a doctor is being sent to my room. When I open it, he is no one from the ship. He’s garbed strangely, and accompanied by Major Kensington who keeps her distance several paces back. 

The doctor speaks, and he speaks through a translator mask. 

“I’m Doctor Zhhghghgbebrgh,” the translator mouth-piece chokes. “You are not feeling well. You are Lieutenant Mendoza and Lieutenant Carson?” 

I cock my head. “Well, yeah usually Lieutenant Carson is in this room. But he’s been staying elsewhere because I’m sick.” 

I force myself to keep my focus on the doctor. But it’s Kensington I watch through my peripheral vision. She stiffens, instantly. 

“What?” 

… 

It’s a mix-up. It’s an oversight. It’s clearly a case of broken protocol. The ship has been searched more thoroughly than Sampson was ever allowed to do for his missing tome. I’m sitting in Kensington’s office, as are a few sergeants, and the doctor, and just about every shipmate who ever breathed the same air as Garret Carson. (“I’ve been given medical clearance,” I tell each of them, one after the other, at the stink eye they offer me when ordered to pack themselves into the office with me.) 

Kensington is pacing. Kensington is pulling at the patch of hair she pulls whenever she’s stressed. It’s worried into a slight bald spot. 

“No one saw Garret Carson that night?” Kensington asks, again, like the answer might change. 

“I went to bed with a fever already. Thought maybe it was atmosphere sickness but I was zonked out of my mind by the next morning. So no, I really don’t know what time Carson left the room.” 

Kensington is worrying her thumb through documents I’ve already seen, pulled records from that night. There’s a single ping matching Carson’s badge ID against the escape pod sensor at 3:12am In Frame. 

There are a few thousand additional pings matching Carson’s badge ID against the escape pod sensor, ranging from 3:31am to 4:47am, at which point the ship engaged liftoff.  

“No one... else?” Kensington asks. Ship cameras are useless. The hyper-hyper thing amps up the magnetic field so strongly it fries even the best tapes. 

She’s running numbers in her head. It’s been eight In Frame days since Carson vanished. It would take another eight to double back, and that’s only if we could muscle through hyper-hyper-speed, and it doesn’t matter at all, actually. Because no matter how much we move faster, in reality it’s just the time dilation getting worse. From the resting planet’s frame, there’s nothing we can do to get there faster. The limit of lightspeed is a bitch. 

I’ve run the numbers in my head as well. At our normal hyper-cadence, we move 938 seconds per second. Even if Carson were only 8 days away at that cadence, even if he were only a 16-day round trip away, he’s nowhere close to that. 

He’s not In Frame. And 16 days to rescue Garret Carson is 41 years. 

And whether it were 16, or 8, or 4, there was never any turning back for Garret Carson. Because sacrificing 41 years of resting revenue, or 20 or 10, was never going to be the company’s decision.  

Kensington pulls on her hair more. I wonder if I ought to tell her about Carson’s graphic sexual fantasies. If it might make her feel better.

“Lieutenant Sampson,” she says. There’s a rock and shuffle of the ship. Depacked cargo unloading. A culture’s worth of treasure being unloaded for the king of FuckShit World, or whoever exactly Sampson’s people had bequeathed it to in their last will and testament. “Lieutenant Sampson, you’d said you thought you heard Lieutenant Carson that night?” 

I glance to Sampson. Some of the color has returned to his face, a man only half the ghost of the person I’d seen in front of the air lock that night. 

“Oh. Um, yes, Ma’am! I did um, I did maybe, I think. I heard something that night. But. I mean. I only walked down the hall. I was having trouble sleeping and I walked down the hall but, that was it.” 

“So you never saw Lieutenant Carson?” 

“No.” 

“And you didn’t see anyone else?” 

“No,” Sampson says, and I’m afraid for a moment he might look at me. He doesn’t. His face is rigid. It gives nothing away. “I didn’t see a single soul that night.” 

[qcatter]

In my personal experience (which is, granted, not universal) I have never been an actor in a play that 100% went as it was supposed to the whole time. There is always an actor who skips a line, or forgets stage directions, or took a bit too long to change costumes and is now late for their appearances. But the thing about theater is that it's a live performance- you can't just apologize and redo the scene. You have to carry the characters through the important plot beats even if you have to ad-lib to do so. Do you get what I'm saying? A character in a play is not a fixed thing. A book will not change lines between readings. A movie will not change shots between rewatchs. But in theater, a character may act differently, speak differently, but they have to reach the same ending regardless. Characters in a play are trapped, not because things are already written- they do have some leeway- but because everything will conspire to drag them back on their predestined road. Do you understand? Do you understand what I'm saying?

[qcatter]

hey everyone its april fools. but dont worry i dont have anything planned. just going to sit here and...

I LIED !!!! GET PRANKED

POST BELOW ME GET FUCKING WET

[qcatter]