#it wiggled into my head like some invasive species and now I have to write it

[starfall-spirit]

y'all, I'm working on a fun little project for a christmas day surprise.

[ganymedesclock]

Prompt: All of team paladin finds themselves up on the bridge/ in the kitchen because they could'nt sleep (for various reasons), it turns into a cake eating hangout or slumber party. It's probably been done to death, I know, but it's always a nice trope.

I want you to know that this is titled “Castle of Lions passes the burrito test”. It ended up being just two people (sorry!) but it was a conversation I wanted to write so. Here it goes.

           It is threeAM and Shiro is greeted by the sight of Slav microwaving a burrito.

           He doesn’twant to know how in his current state, addled by nightmares and insomnia andquite frankly god knows what else- that he is able to ascertain thisinformation. He doesn’t want to know how Slav got a burrito in the first place,or how a hermetic spacefaring inventor knows what a burrito is. He doesn’t want to know how, in thedepths, light years from any star, the fine-tuned intuition of a chronicall-nighter has told him that it is, in fact, three AM in whatever hybrid ofEarth and Altean time everyone’s biorhythms have become clocked to.

           “Oh, you’reup.” Slav notes cheerfully. He pats the table next to him with a paw. “Have aseat.”

           At an utterloss for any other way to respond to this situation, Shiro concedes partially,sitting not on the table but pulling out one of the chairs next to it. Slav,unperturbed in a manner that’s frankly a little alarming given his usual levelof anxiety, settles his topmost pair of arms into its attached pocket, whistlingsnatches of something that sounds bizarrely like the 1812 overture.

           There areonly so many things Shiro is able to put up with about this situation at once.He drags his flesh-and-blood hand down his face, trying to muster some amountof coherence. “Slav, it’s three AM.”

           “Speakingtechnically in the time systems of my native planet, it is six bar ebb. Ingalactic standardized time, that would be 02:11. Either way I suppose it is areasonably godless hour.”

           Themicrowave hums between them, interspersed with Slav’s whistling.

           Shiro takesanother stab at making sense of the universe: “Why.”

           “Answeringthat question would require an unabridged history of the bar-dal-vir timesystem’s development as well as that of galactic standard time, which wouldcoincidentally necessitate an unabridged history of the rise of the empire asfar as I understand it, as well as general deliberations on why it is that timeexists at all.” Horizontal-pupiled eyes sidle in Shiro’s direction. “You asksome very detailed questions in the middle of the night.”

           “No, I meant-”he motions, briefly, at the microwave.

           “Oh! That.I don’t particularly intend to eat it, if you want it.”

           Shiro’sneed to know briefly, but bloodily, wages war against the growing suspicionthat the longer this conversation goes, the less anything will make sense. Thesole survivor of the conflict manages to stagger uphill to a neuron,triumphantly mounting the flag of curiosity. “…So…”

           “Sometimes,I like to remind myself that as long as I am able to wake up in the middle ofthe night and heat up leftovers, it means I am no longer in prison.”

           It takeslonger than it really should have for Shiro to process this information, a timein which he studies the burrito, the microwave, Slav, and the entire situation.

           “It’sliterally the burrito test.”

           Slavblinks, the feelers around his mouth wiggling pensively. “I think that sentencewas supposed to make sense.”

           “It’s athing on Earth. If you can’t get up in the middle of the night to microwave aburrito, you live in an institution.” He pauses, watching Slav’s expression.“It means other people are controlling your life.”

           Theinventor puzzles this a moment, with a slow blink. God knows maybe Shiro isn’tthe only one half-awake here. “You mean to tell me an entire species, entirelyseparate from the larger galactic community, has also decided to measurepersonal freedom with a pointless exercise in food preparation?”

           “…When youput it that way, it sounds kind of funny.”

           For amoment, both of them turned back to the microwave- the burrito turning slowlyin place within it.

           “Actually,a little reassuring.”

           He looks atSlav, trying to place the tone in the other’s voice- but Slav is still watchingthe machine, with rapt attention the likes of which Shiro doesn’t think he’sseen out of him ever before. “What do you mean by that?”

           “You wondersometimes, don’t you?” Slav’s tail makes a languid pass over the surface of thetable. “You start out only doing the things that make sense, and reality playsalong- or it seems to, at least, it’s statistically unlikely that any realitycares about personal comfort-” a small sigh. “But there’s a while where it allseems to make sense, and then something goes and happens and everything is amess, so what do you do? You keep trying to go with what makes sense. There youare, a tiny, insignificant speck in a grander cosmos that’s throwing you intosituations that get worse and worse and all you have is what you can make sense of. Silly things. Irrelevantthings. Whether or not you can microwave leftovers. If you can tell when theguard is coming. If you can make the system overload and delay the part thathurts by point five seconds.” Wide pink eyes slide in Shiro’s direction, thebrows above them crinkled in a look that’s- not apologetic. Humor. A humor toobleak to actually laugh at. “Point five seconds. And it seems to make perfectsense at the time.”

           Shiro’smouth has gone dry. He hasn’t realized at what point he started gripping theedge of the chair, but when he lets go he realizes his prosthetic has leftfinger-shaped indents in the metal. He folds his arms across his chest, trapsthe mechanical one between his chest and its still-flesh counterpart.

           WhateverSlav sees in this, he nods slightly and turns to look back at the microwave. Hehas scars, Shiro realizes- barely noticeable, around the base of his ears.Tiny, round scars, more cabbage-colored than the green of the rest of his head.Their configuration suggests electrodes.

           Themicrowave goes off like a gunshot in the silence- Shiro jerks, hard enough toalmost knock his chair over- what was hethinking sitting down, bad angle, maneuver around it how fast is enemyapproaching-

           Slav,entirely undaunted, hops off of the table and waddles to retrieve the burrito,stretching upwards to reach it. He has to set the plate on the table to clamberhis way back up onto the surface of it, engaging several sets of arms in theprocess- but once there he settles without so much as glancing at Shiro, as ifeveryone startles like that. Offhandedly, mumbled out of the corner of hismouth: “If you’re committed to people not knowing that you don’t sleep well,you might want to actually change clothes at night. I know the other paladinsseem to.”

           He nearlyprotests- he’s not wearing his vest- but it dies. “…What do you mean I don’twant them to know?”

           “Is thatnot what you’re doing?” Slav’s tone is not assured- rather, it seems genuinelyquizzical. He picks at the burrito’s shell with thoughtful fingers, and seemsto nibble a few pieces. It’s hard to really understand quite how the alien’s jaw works- regardless, the motions seemtentative.

           “No,” Shiropauses. Thinks. “…I’m not sure.”

           Slav wavesa piece of lettuce. “This is exactly what I was talking about. You’re mindingyour own business doing things that make sense, but when you actually thinkabout them, they don’t. Because who knows what makes sense anymore? Things thatmade sense back then don’t where you are now. And then everyone starts givingyou that look, where they’re worriedabout you. Probably going to start having well-meaning little talks behind yourback. Don’t blame you for trying to avoid it, honestly.”

           “That’s notwhat I’m doing.”

           Slav shrugshis three uppermost sets of shoulders. On further observation, the leaf he’schewing is definitely not lettuce- it’s pale violet in color, and looksslightly prickly.

           A part ofhim, he realizes, was really hoping Slav was going to argue. The silence is notdoing him good.

           It’s three AM. Probably approaching four bynow. I shouldn’t even be here, I should-

           Go back topacing the castle? Like they’re going to get boarded in the middle of space,light-years from any inhabited planet or shipping channel- a route theyspecifically picked to lay low? Like even if they did, he’s going to be a realdeterrent half-awake and partially undressed?

           Try tocommit himself to pretending to sleep? Basically lying to his team aboutsomething that’s definitely going tobe hindering his performance- something he’d give any of them an earful and ahalf about if he caught Keith, or Allura, or Pidge shorting themselves andstaying up…

           Has healready been a hypocrite about this?

           Hisflesh-and-blood hand comes up to massage his temples. There’s a reassuringblackness behind his eyelids, warmth and pressure. “…So what do you do?”

           “I’m goingto assume this is not a broad request of information, but, rather, I’mcontextually missing you once again.” Slav mumbles around a chunk of somethinglooking like a cross between an onion, a cucumber, and a tomato, painted blue.

           “What yousaid earlier. When you realize you aren’t making sense.”

           “Oh.”

           There is anuncomfortably long silence after that.

           Then, morequietly, “I suppose that’s the part that we’re finding out now.”

           Whatfollows afterwards is more comfortable- quiet, but interspersed with the soundsof Slav munching.

           “If youwant my advice- it’s statistically probable that any near-death malfunctions,invasions, or other undesirable outcomes are going to wait until tomorrow. Andeven then you have upwards of a fifty-percent survival rate.”

           Despiteeverything, he cracks a grin. “Really? You’re not predicting everyone dying foronce?”

           Slavflashes him a look, brows lifted. The effect is somewhat diminished for himbeing a child-sized, cat-eared alien in the process of eating a burrito pieceby piece. “I’ve had to adjust my predictive models on the fact that your teamhas an abnormally high success rate with otherwise low survival outcomes. Haven’tnailed down the variables yet.”

           He easesout of the chair. “You know what? That’s good enough for me.”

[somesoundbites]

English quick write project

(Original)

The world is not forgiving, the moon changes phases at the same rate, whether you live or die. The stars themselves, huge & bright to the point we call them heavenly, don’t write poetry about us.

There is comfort in this, the nihilistic idea that it’s all one colourful shout into an uncaring maze, filled with planets I’ll never see.

Who will? When will they be born? Will they be remembered? Will I?

The future doesn’t exist outside of theroy, its always running at us before melting into the present. We can’t escape the now, but the now doesn’t care. Neither do I.

(Polished piece)

At the academy we all got one class a week in “The Zero”. A huge building, all polymers, replicated graphene, and steel with airlocks at the entrances. It towered above even the library, rising a good kilometer into the air at its vertex. The ovular arches rose into the sky with natural strength as promised by the shape, the center of the structure was made of tensile steel fabric, layers of leather and nylon and plastic woven into a series of dense tarps that allowed all air to be sucked from an entire room without it collapsing. It was a marvel, one that will be written about like notre dame was, with history and meaning sculpted into some day crumbling supports. But back then it was a minor novelty, a building with freezing temperatures and the false vacuum of space where future voyagers could get their required training. Each of us suited up and sat in awe as we saw the simulator in person for the first time, but the astonishment would soon be replaced with resentment when we learned that the classes held here were not all spacewalks and anti gravity.

A call to attention from our instructor broke the wonder, though he waited long enough for us to get our fill of the metal giant in front of us. With a soft click of a faded orange button the video screen popped up, looking like a relic from the twenty first century. First thing they taught was how to secure a breached hull:

-Seal the airlock, with you and whoever else is there inside

-Cover the breach with the nearest object, if none are available, use yourself.

-Send out a code orange (breach alert) via your wrist comm.

-Pull on your oxygen mask

-Use the room’s breach box to create an emergency patch

-Wait for a crew member to weld the hole from the outside

-Stabilize oxygen levels and pressure

-Run diagnostic to confirm repair

-Breach over

I still see the video of the challenger playing on loop in my head, a reminder that you have one chance to get it all right. A faulty O-ring can cost everything. My class sat in stunned silence as our professor displayed video after video of routine repairs gone wrong, of ships and bodies and people who would never see their planet again. The crew of the Space shuttle challenger, the shuttle Sentinel, the failed mission of the Wonder rover, the first manned craft of Venus, the ghost towns on Mars.

We had sent so many people out. It made sense that there was a certain rate of failure. To err is human, to accidentally weld yourself to the hull is astronaut. Still... seeing the frozen face of a man, once humming as he tightened a bolt, before the nitrogen in the cooling tanks spilled over him, felt like an invasion. He was only human, and now he was a cautionary tale. Marcona Du’ Bliss, the man who I still remember seeing on the screen in front of me. It was hard to feel the same about space after that lesson. It was difficult to see beauty in something so dangerous, but somehow humanity managed to.

The lessons were practical, living on a station was about the same regardless of if you were a researcher, a communications officer, or a navigator. What stuck for me was the realization that the universe was not forgiving, the moon changes phase at the same rate, whether you live or die. The stars themselves, huge and bright to the point we called\\ them heavenly, don’t write poetry about us. There was comfort in this, the nihilistic idea that it was all one colourful shout into an uncaring maze, full of planets I’d never see. Sure we’d terraformed one moon, but in an infinite universe it felt like a small accomplishment. Our first generational ship hadn’t even left the galaxy yet, confined by time and motion and the too slow speed of light.

All I could do was ask myself who would pass that line? Who on that ship would be standing as close to the edge as they could when it went beyond everything we’d ever known? Some ailing scientist, given a last request, an intrepid astronaut who thought space was where their life was worth living. Would they exist in my lifetime, born already or a twinkle in a great grandmother’s eye, growing up in space and never knowing the feeling of 9.807 metres per second squared gravity? What would be left of them when all was said and done? Would they become a footnote in history, merely the first of many voyagers in a long line of new settlers, or would they have a day named after them, left on a calendar to end up as a day off school for some child in the future who doesn’t remember a thing about them.

This world was one of impossible chances. The idea that I existed as I was, that anyone existed at all, was amazing and against the odds. A planet orbiting just far enough from the right star for liquid water, having the conditions necessary for life, able to cradle so many species within its vast blue and green hands like grains of salt. We were humanity, small, and brave, and I believe truly good. We were earth’s children, a People of soil and gravity and fire, made of stardust, breathing rocket fuel, and counting the seconds in between crackles of thunder. A species that was as tough as we were foolhardy, that didn’t know when to quit. A People like us.

These were the thoughts I had as my bag was packed. As my earthly possessions were prepared to lose one important qualifier. These memories of an academy where I learned how to undo spaghettification in the case of a black hole related emergency, the place I learned xeno flora and fauna protocols off by heart, so that when we finally found something out there, something new and beautiful, we wouldn’t hurt it. I had to prepare myself for stasis, mentally it would be fine, but as far as physically... well... there was a reason you had to gain extra weight before they’d even consider putting you into it. The process was simple enough, you’d be put on life support, your heart rate was slowed to almost nothing, your breathing reduced, and they gave you three units of Voxanian by IV a week to keep you under. The fact that Voxanian digested fat cells as part of the process was just another minor drawback, like the mild chemical burns around the injection site or the average three days it took for the pins and needles feeling to go away. It wasn’t nearly as predictable as what we use now, but we didn’t know how to make a cryo crypt that wouldn’t freeze someone to death. Back then it was expected that a few people would wake up mid trip, sometimes leading to casualties, but more often the only negative was minorly depleted food stores upon arrival. Until we automated the IV systems, replaced Voxanian with Ludophine, and brain scans were made routine, that was the norm.

Fortunately for me, I was out for all of my stasis. I spent four years, at speeds I still have trouble comprehending, drugged and dazed.

Waking from that kind of drug induced nap was about the least refreshing feeling imaginable. It was like I’d been pulled through a radiation filter and dipped in chlorine. My toes buzzed as I wiggled them for the first time in years, reminding me that my muscles weren’t entirely atrophied. Lieutenant Sorra unhooked me from all of my machines and monitors before leading me to my quarters.

“We’re giving you an hour to get your sea legs, kay? But then it’s straight to the med bay,” she said.

The first thing I did was grab my soap and head for the shower, an easy enough feat in artificial gravity, save the moments where the system would fluctuate and I’d get shampoo in my eyes or float into a wall. It was coconut scented soap and the feeling of hunger broke past the lull in my mind. I was more alert than I’d been in years. If hunger hadn’t woken me up, my medical tests would have. I’d never had so many injections in my life, vitamin shots and blood transfusions were almost enough to put some pep in my step.

“Any medical issues that may not be in the files?” asked Dr. Vondervan.

“ I have an allergy to peanuts, but that’s about it. Are my legs supposed to feel this heavy?”

“When the Vox wears off you’ll feel better, until then you’re gonna be staying in your quarters. I'm gonna suggest that you complete an extra hour of sleep for the next, say, three shifts? You’ve got some more advanced effects from the process than I’ve seen in a while.”

He sounded slightly concerned, enough that I headed his advice. He looked at my chart for a few minutes, confirming that I had all of the appropriate health qualifications for my assorted jobs. He paused, asking me questions about my past, like how I broke my arm when I was seven. Small talk had never been my strong suit, but being hopped up on Vox and a four year nap made it tolerable. He paused when he reached my tasks list for the next week. After sucking a breath in and letting it hiss out between his teeth, he spoke,

“Also, since you’re working the water system for the greenhouse next week, I'm gonna have to give you a tetanus A shot.”

I had spent enough time in my history and disease lectures, even as a biochemical and botany major, to tilt my head at that statement.

“I thought that tetanus A wasn’t brought to the base? Wasn’t it screened for?” it was pretty serious, seeing as tetanus A, the original virus, had stopped being vaccinated for after gene altering had rendered one of its last strains harmless to humans. It was an unheard of disease at that point, without an earthbound case in forty years.

“It was on a shipment of potatoes, apparently they were near a virus incubator, which is a bad decision, but not against any actual protocol, so we’d rather be safe,” he said, pulling out a needle.

I frowned and braced myself, he grimaced as he pressed the plunger down.

Lewis Vondervan had a face like a bulldog, it was short, drooping, and whiskered, set on a larger than average head. All of this was balanced on top of his six foot three inch body, which was of an average, if slightly pudgy build. Salt and pepper hair sprouted from his head in thick, curled waves, while his beard and sideburns were still mostly a deep ocher. His personality reminded me of a chemistry professor from my university, indecisive but undeniably in charge, all while seeming less like an authoritative father and more like an eccentric uncle.

(Tbc)