#ntwk dcnnct

[junetwentyninth]

Two (2) Unread Messages

Read on Ao3

The blinking light plagues him, a constant irritation in the back of his brain as he continues working. His hands are always active, delicately filling a dropper or placing a petri dish of bacteria into the refrigerator, and the red light is always blinking.

It had been for two days now.

Every time he thinks he is ready to confront the awaiting tasks, a machine beeps or the system reminds him of another task he had been putting off and his attention is taken away. He takes it as a sign from a god he does not believe in that he is not meant to confront the light. He drums his fingertips on the counter and looks at the ceiling, waiting for an alarm or a voice or some other menial obstacle.

“Gogy, who is my message from?” The whirring over the speakers stops and, save for the quiet drum of the isolation tank, the lab falls silent while the system thinks.

“You have two messages: one from Tommy Innit and one from Dad Philza. Would you like to play a message?” Wilbur leans against a counter, his large framing wilting as he considers, moving his goggles up to rub a hand over his eyes. He should listen and respond before they get worried, but he knows he will fear worse off after. The lies fall easily off his tongue, but weigh heavy on his shoulders when he is laying in his bunk later.

“I’m doing fine.” Lie.

“I made a lot of friends.” Lie.

“Training is going well.” Lie.

“I miss you and I miss home.” True, but he can’t say that.

He knows why he has to lie but that fails to make it easier, especially when his brother continually digs for details about his training and his dad congratulates him on his ever-growing list of friends. It cuts deep that his family is happy with the things that aren’t real, though he only has himself to blame.

Sometimes he envies Dream for having no family back home to lie to, but feels a punch of guilt in his gut. Maybe he should invite him for Christmas some year.

“Would you like to play a message?” The voice, though it lacks inflection, is a tinge amused.

“No, Gogy, I do not want to play a message,” he sighs, dropping his hands to rest against the table.

“Any specific reason why the system is logging distress?” Wil can almost hear him logging the response for the EC-6 therapist who, while nice, was not the person to talk to about his guilty conscience. He would prefer his dad, but if there’s anything he knows, it’s that he doesn’t always get what he wants.

“It’s ‘cause your system sucks, Gog. I’m just too lazy to check ‘em right now.” The AI does what Wilbur interprets as a laugh and turns off the lights. Wil chuckles to himself and squints up at the ceiling, though the AI exists as a function of the ship and not a camera on the ceiling that Wilbur can stare at with mirth and amusement.

The AI exhales again and the lights return, temporarily blinding him.

“Dinner is in ten minutes, Caereac.” Wilbur turns to face the samples he’d abandoned in the refrigerator, bending towards the glass door to observe the spores more closely. There is a silent moment as he mentally marks the color.

‘Why do you only bring bad news, Gog?” The system says nothing and Wilbur sighs. Capping the open samples and collecting others from the refrigerator, he places each of them in the incubator, the warm yellow light turning them each a sick vomit color. The rest of the lab was relatively clean, but he still chooses to disinfect each surface individually, scrubbing violently at imagined stains.

His hands are red and raw when the system alerts him that Quackity is requesting his presence at dinner.

The difference between the lab and the living area is striking, starting with the wall of warm air that hits him as he enters. The living area was usually the least active area of the ship, considering they only use it officially for meals, but the expedition organizers had put in the effort to make it comfortable for that one hour of stilted, awkward conversation. The seating area chairs were comfortable and the table, though slightly too small, was secured to the floor. The kitchen was basically non-existent, with only enough appliances to rehydrate and heat their food to an edible level.

The table is bare when Wilbur exits the lab, but the other three crew members are in the kitsch, standing around the rehydrator. Dream and Quackity are talking quietly, while Sapnap stares directly into the machine as if mental pressure will make it work faster. Instinctively, Wilbur goes to grab utensils to make their table seem less sad.

“Wilbur!” Quackity startles him, grabbing him around his shoulders, and he drops a fork. “Thank you for making your appearance!”

The worst part is that Wilbur knows he is being genuine, but it still feels fake and uncomfortable. He wishes accepting Quackity’s affection, which he offers so readily, was easier.

Quackity shoves a plate into his hands, a plastic fork bumping against his thumb as he’s jostled.

“I made it just for you, Wilbur Soot.” Wil gives him a fond smile as he pronounces his name like ‘wheel-bur suit’ because Quackity, as hard as he tries, cannot do a British accent and Wilbur has given up attempting to help him.

“I made it for me,” Sapnap mutters under his breath as he shoves another packet in the rehydrator. Wilbur smiles apologetically.

The crew sits at the table in near silence, their forks scraping against paper plates. The system alerts them every so often for one reason or another - a timecheck, an incoming message from EC-6, once to tell Quackity that his joke, while funny, could not be classed under ‘protected communications.’

But, for the most part, it is a quiet, sordid affair and Wilbur is quick to escape when the system alerts them that the allotted meal time is up. He retreats to the lab where his samples sit in the refrigerador.

“G.O.G.?”

“Yes, Caereac,” the speaker crackles to life.

Wilbur pulls the samples out and places them into the reader, shutting the opaque glass door to trap in the cold air. “Can you read these samples for me?”

The machine whirs once, then again louder. The speaker comes back on.

“Yes, but it’ll take a few hours.” Wilbur sighs, running a hand through his hair. He can only assume it is sticking up in wild directions after the past few days have left it oily and unruly.

“Would you like to check your messages while you wait?” Wilbur huffs a laugh.

“No, I’m going to take a shower. Store the messages for now.” He pushes off the counter, walking to the other side of the room where the incubator stands, empty of its samples. He pushes the manual ‘off’ button and is met with his own reflection staring back at him as the light inside shuts off.

“Alright. Are you clocking out now?” He nods, then, realizing the system likely could not see him, affirms out loud. The lights turn off immediately and Wilbur is left to clean the lab in darkness. He flips off the ceiling, if for nothing more than his own satisfaction.

His shower is quick and quiet, the ship’s only bathroom being the farthest room from all of the work. When he comes out into the adjoined bunkroom, it is empty and dark.

“Time check on the samples?” he asks into the still air, cringing when the lights flicker on.

“One moment.” The speaker crackling ruining the quick British accent of the AI. As he pulls on his pajama pants and compression shirt, Wilbur wonders why EC-6 made their artificial intelligence posh.

He pulls back the sheets on his bottom bunk and the system comes back on.

“An estimated six hours, twenty-eight minutes. Would you like me to alert you when they are finished?” Wilbur pauses before shaking his head.

“No, I’ll handle them in the morning. Thank you, G.O.G.” The system bids him good night before shutting off the lights, leaving Wilbur to himself.

A red light flickers on his bedpost, flashing intermittently, begging for his attention.

Two messages unread.

He turns over and stares at the blank wall.

Author's Notes on Ao3

[junetwentyninth]

System Log 15 (23:02 GMT)

The day and night cycles function with the GMT time zone. The G.O.G. system alerts crew members at approximately 5:00 GMT and again at 5:15 GMT for Dream and Quackity whom no amount of military discipline will prevent from sleeping in as long as possible. Each member of the teams conducts their normal functions, mostly in private, until team dinner at 18:00 GMT. They finish their nightly duties until the system alerts them of the beginning of the night cycle at approximately 21:00 GMT. Every day is a 16-hour work day.

Traditionally, Caereac has held the most steadfast to this schedule. He is older than the other crew members with far more work experience, so he is familiar with the schedule, but he is also the only one who has lived in the GMT time zone. His body is the best acclimated to function at those times every day.

Following the 5:00 alert, the lights in the cabin area and in the bunk rooms turn on, but those in the flight cabin, laboratory, and the engine room remain off. All machines that were manually shut off the night before remain off, but those on idle turn on. The G.O.G. system remains on at all times with exception for system updates.

The machines currently on idle are the cosmic positioning system, the inter-planatary mapping system, the automated flight systems, laboratory refrigerator 1, emergency alert systems, laboratory incubator 1, and laboratory compositions reader 1.

Daily Hours Logged (DHL)

Dream (14)

Sapnap (12.62)

Quackity (15.2)

Caereac (15.4)

System Updates

Completed (2)

Pending (0)

Author Notes on AO3

[junetwentyninth]

16 / 12 / 21 (3:09pm)

yeah so I know I said I wanted to post the first chapter yesterday, but what you don't understand is that I forgot my fucking notebook that has the entire chapter written in it

chapter one comes Sunday <3