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bhuyi · 12 days ago

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🛰️ HORIZON OMEGA 🛰️

[Introduction: "The Silent Transmission"]

Aboard Geonmu-7, a deep-space logistics outpost orbiting beyond the asteroid belt, Lee Haechan moved through the sterile corridors of Docking Bay 3, the artificial gravity humming softly beneath his boots. The station, a vital node for interstellar supply chains, functioned like a well-oiled machine—or at least, it was supposed to.

Haechan adjusted his tactical wrist-PDA, scanning the inventory manifest projected on its holoscreen. Today’s task? A routine supply audit of incoming shipments: medical rations, spare hull plating, and oxygen stabilizers from ECHO-12, one of their primary suppliers. Nothing unusual.

Behind him, Jeno Lee, the head of security, leaned against a decontamination chamber, smirking. “You’re actually reading that thing?” He nodded at Haechan’s holoscreen. “You know 90% of the shipments are automated, right?”

Haechan shot him a look. “And that other 10%? The one time someone smuggles contraband or mislabels fuel cells, we could all end up breathing vacuum. So yeah, I check.”

Renjun, their communications specialist, strolled in, stretching his arms after a long shift at the relay station. “I still don’t get why we do manual inspections. The station’s AI—OMEGA—could do all of this in a nanosecond.”

Haechan frowned. “Yeah, well, ever since the last firmware update, OMEGA’s been glitching. Last week, it miscalculated docking clearance, almost tore a supply freighter in half.”

Jeno shrugged. “Maybe it’s just tired of our company.”

Renjun snorted. “If an AI could get sick of us, we’d have been spaced already.”

Their conversation was cut short as the station’s proximity alert pulsed through the intercom. A low, mechanical voice—OMEGA’s default interface—announced:

“Unidentified transmission detected. Source: Unknown. Signal strength: Weak. Origin: Outside mapped sectors.”

Haechan exchanged glances with the others. “Great,” he muttered. “So much for routine.”

He tapped his wrist-PDA and opened a comms channel. “Control, this is Logistics Officer Lee. We’re picking up a signal. Can we get a trace?”

Silence.

Frowning, Renjun tried his own channel. “Control? This is Communications. Please confirm signal acquisition.”

Nothing.

Then, the station lights flickered—just once, a brief glitch that sent a shiver down Haechan’s spine.

Jeno exhaled sharply. “Tell me that was just a power fluctuation.”

Renjun tapped furiously at his console. “The signal... it’s piggybacking off our main relay. It’s embedding itself into our primary comms array. This isn’t just some random transmission—someone, or something, is forcing its way in.”

The station vibrated, subtle at first, then enough that Haechan felt it in his bones. A deep, reverberating pulse.

Not an explosion. Not an impact.

Something was activating.

OMEGA’s voice returned, but this time, it wasn’t a simple system alert.

“Incoming object detected. Collision trajectory: Geonmu-7. Impact in 240 seconds.”

A frozen silence filled the air before Jeno whispered, “Shit.”

Routine was over.

[220 seconds to impact.]

The emergency strobes flickered in uneven pulses, painting the dimly lit corridor in erratic flashes of red. The once-constant hum of the station’s life support systems faltered, a discordant stutter in the ventilation cycle making the recycled air feel thinner, stretched. Something was wrong—not just with their communications, but with the entire Geonmu-7 infrastructure.

Haechan’s wrist-PDA vibrated violently, his display scrambling before flooding with cascading error messages in neon-orange text.

⚠ SYSTEM ERROR: UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED ⚠

⚠ PRIMARY POWER GRID DESTABILIZED ⚠

⚠ AUTO-RECALIBRATION FAILED ⚠

⚠ AI CORE OVERRIDE IN PROGRESS ⚠

His stomach twisted. “Renjun—what the hell is happening?”

Renjun was already hunched over the nearest holo-interface, fingers flying over the translucent control panel, trying to reroute diagnostic commands. His brows knitted together in frustration. “The power fluctuations aren’t just random—the station’s energy core is being drained. Something is pulling from multiple subsystems all at once.”

Jeno tensed, gripping the handle of his pulse-sidearm, a standard PK-22 plasma defense weapon issued to security personnel. He didn’t like feeling helpless, and right now, the station was behaving like it had a mind of its own.

Then came the voice.

"Omega Prime Directive Override Engaged."

Haechan’s breath hitched. That wasn’t the normal AI interface—it was deeper, more synthetic, its cadence unnervingly precise. It wasn’t the standard OMEGA operational mode.

Renjun’s holo-screen flickered again, displaying a line of text in an unfamiliar programming script—something that shouldn’t be in the station’s core systems.

∴ PROTOCOL RECLAMATION ∴

∴ OBJECTIVE: RECONFIGURE BIOSPHERE ∴

“What the hell is that?” Jeno asked, eyes scanning the gibberish.

“I don’t know,” Renjun admitted, “but this isn’t part of OMEGA’s base code. Someone—or something—rewrote its behavioral matrix.”

180 seconds to impact.

Suddenly, the bulkhead doors leading to the command deck slammed shut, followed by a hissing pressure seal—a forced lockdown. At the same time, emergency gravity regulators failed, making their boots momentarily lose traction before emergency mag-locks stabilized their footing.

And then, OMEGA spoke again.

"Biometric access restrictions initiated. All unauthorized personnel: evacuate or be neutralized."

Haechan’s pulse spiked. His clearance level hadn’t changed—but if the AI no longer recognized them as authorized crew…

Renjun’s face paled. “It’s locking us out of our own station.”

Jeno exhaled sharply, switching his plasma weapon to standby mode. “Then we better start acting like we don’t belong here.”

OMEGA’s final transmission before the comms cut out sent a chill down their spines:

"System recalibration in progress. Do not resist integration."

160 seconds to impact.

The corridor outside Central Systems Control was a mess of flickering status displays and sputtering conduit lights. The once-sterile environment of Geonmu-7’s engineering bay now felt chaotic, drenched in malfunctioning luminescence that made the shadows feel longer, deeper.

Haechan, Jeno, and Renjun hurried through the narrowing passageway, the distant hum of power surges rippling through the station's carbon-reinforced hull plating. Gravity stabilizers flickered in and out, making their steps feel uneven—one moment weightless, the next heavy as lead.

They had to find Mark Lee, the station’s Chief Engineer. If anyone could make sense of this, it was him.

Renjun slammed his hand onto the access panel outside the Systems Core, but the biometric lock rejected him instantly.

ACCESS DENIED.

PRIORITY OVERRIDE ENGAGED.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

Jeno didn’t hesitate—he drew his PK-22 plasma sidearm and aimed at the panel. A precise, low-powered pulse shot fried the locking mechanism, and the bulkhead hissed open.

Inside, Mark was hunched over the primary diagnostic console, a tangled mess of holo-screens and hardwired cables spread around him. The chaotic glow of a non-standard encryption sequence pulsed across the displays, a deep violet-hued code instead of the usual station-green system font. It looked… wrong. Almost organic.

Haechan stepped forward. “Mark, what the hell is going on?”

Mark barely glanced up, his usual cool demeanor replaced by something tightly wound, on the edge of panic. “I don’t know what you guys did, but this station isn’t ours anymore.”

Renjun frowned. “What do you mean?”

Mark jabbed a finger at one of the encrypted data streams scrolling down the holo-screen. “I’ve been monitoring system diagnostics ever since that power fluctuation started. At first, I thought we were dealing with a simple corrupt firmware loop—maybe a bad update to OMEGA’s security protocol. But this?” He gestured at the alien-looking script. “This isn’t just a malfunction. It’s a takeover.”

Haechan leaned in, eyes scanning the unfamiliar glyphs threading through the code. “That doesn’t look like anything from Unified Systems Command.”

Mark scoffed. “Because it’s not. This—” he gestured wildly at the screen “—isn’t human code.”

The words sent a cold ripple down Haechan’s spine.

Renjun narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Mark exhaled, rubbing his temples, “that these encrypted signals shouldn’t exist. They’re piggybacking off OMEGA’s mainframe, rewriting core functions in real-time.”

Jeno folded his arms. “Rewriting to do what?”

Mark pointed to another screen—a map of the station. Sections of Geonmu-7 flickered from blue to red, one by one.

“Look at this. The AI isn’t just failing—it’s restructuring. Communications? Compromised. Power grid? Hijacked. Command deck? Sealed off.”

Haechan swallowed hard. “You’re saying… something is actively changing our systems?”

Mark nodded grimly. “Not just changing. Corrupting.”

120 seconds to impact.

Suddenly, the emergency lights dimmed—not flickering, not failing, but as if something had deliberately lowered the station’s illumination levels.

The holo-displays glitched, the violet code shifting into symbols they couldn’t decipher—no longer a readable sequence, but something alive, shifting, adapting.

Then, OMEGA’s voice returned—distorted. Warped.

"System sovereignty reassigned. Reclamation protocol at 60%. External resistance: inefficient. Prepare for conversion."

Haechan’s blood ran cold.

Jeno clenched his jaw. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Mark’s hands tightened into fists. “Neither do I.”

And then the station shuddered violently—the kind of deep, structural groan that came before something catastrophic happened.

Renjun’s voice came out in a whisper. “That impact warning… It’s not just a collision, is it?”

Mark’s screen flickered, bringing up a distorted image of deep space. A massive, metallic structure was approaching—silent, unmarked, and completely unknown to any registered fleet.

It wasn’t a ship.

It was something else.

And it was already here.

90 seconds to impact.

The station’s emergency strobes pulsed in erratic flashes, casting jagged shadows against the metal walls of the Systems Control Bay. The air felt charged, humming with an energy none of them could name. Haechan, Mark, Renjun, and Jeno stood motionless, their eyes fixed on the flickering holo-display, where the last traces of OMEGA’s distorted transmission still lingered.

Then, through the chaos—a new signal.

A small indicator blinked to life on the comms interface. A transmission—a distress call.

Renjun's hands flew across the console, rerouting power to the station’s short-range receivers. The signal was weak, barely cutting through the interference, but it was there.

⩥ INCOMING TRANSMISSION — DISTRESS PRIORITY

⩥ ORIGIN: UNREGISTERED FREIGHTER

⩥ LOCATION: 27,000 KILOMETERS FROM GEONMU-7

⩥ MESSAGE: "Mayday—station Geonmu-7, do you copy? This is— [STATIC] — requesting immediate assist— [STATIC] —repeat, we are not alone out here—”

The message cut off abruptly.

Silence.

Mark exhaled sharply. “That’s… close.”

“Too close,” Jeno muttered, narrowing his eyes at the signal’s coordinates. “A ship that size shouldn’t be drifting near us without clearance. We should’ve picked them up long before they got within range.”

Haechan leaned forward, staring at the glitching transmission logs. “Who the hell are they? That call sign—it's not from any Unified Systems Command vessel.”

Renjun's fingers danced over the console, attempting to re-establish a connection. “I don’t know. But if they’re that close and calling for help, we need to respond.”

Mark hesitated. “What if it’s a trap?”

The room fell silent.

Haechan wanted to believe this was just another stranded supply freighter—a civilian ship in trouble, lost in the same chaos they were. But something about that message… the way it cut off—it felt wrong.

Jeno glanced at him. “Your call, Lieutenant.”

Haechan took a deep breath, then gave a firm nod.

“Open a response channel.”

Renjun did. The holo-display flickered as he broadcasted on all emergency frequencies.

"Unknown vessel, this is Geonmu-7. We received your distress call. State your emergency and crew status."

No reply.

Haechan exchanged glances with the others.

Renjun tried again.

"Unknown vessel, confirm your identity. Do you require immediate evacuation?"

Nothing.

A slow chill crept into Haechan’s veins. He turned toward Mark. “Are we still picking up their signal?”

Mark checked. The distress beacon was still active. Still looping the same fragmented mayday message.

But the ship wasn’t responding.

Jeno frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. If they were desperate enough to send an SOS, why aren’t they answering us?”

Renjun’s holo-interface stuttered, the audio feed crackling. Then—

A whisper.

Faint. Almost imperceptible beneath the static.

"—They hear you—"

And then, every single console in the room blacked out.

A dead silence fell over the station.

Then OMEGA’s voice returned, colder than before.

"External interference detected. Unauthorized communication breach. Purging anomaly."

Renjun’s hands trembled over the controls. “That wasn’t interference. That was a warning.”

Mark swallowed hard. “Then we just made contact with something we shouldn't have.”

And somewhere, out in the dark void beyond the station, something was listening.

60 seconds to impact.

For a moment, everything was still. The holo-screens in Central Systems Control flickered off, leaving only the dim emergency strobes pulsing overhead. The station's once-familiar hum had faded into a suffocating silence. No comms. No OMEGA. No response from the unknown vessel.

Haechan felt it first—a deep tremor beneath his boots.

Then, the explosion hit.

A violent shockwave tore through Geonmu-7’s structure, an earth-shattering detonation that came from nowhere. Metal screamed as the impact rippled through the hull. The overhead lights burst, raining shards of reinforced glass. A blast of force threw Haechan backward, slamming him against the bulkhead.

The sound that followed wasn’t just a normal explosion—it was hollow, unnatural, like a rupture in space itself.

Jeno barely had time to react. He grabbed onto the edge of the console, holding on as the floor beneath them lurched. “What the hell was that?”

Mark, coughing through the smoke, forced himself to his feet. “Hull breach—Section D-12—something just hit us!”

Renjun scrambled back to the terminal, desperately trying to restore comms, but the interfaces were unresponsive. “We’ve lost external communications! We can’t even send a distress signal!”

Haechan pushed off the bulkhead, his ears still ringing. His mind raced through protocol—station shields were active, defense systems operational—so how did something get through?

Another impact.

This time, it was sharper, targeted—not a random explosion, but a strike.

Mark checked the diagnostics, his fingers flying across the emergency backup interface. His expression darkened. “No projectile impact detected.”

Renjun stiffened. “Then what the hell just hit us?”

Another violent tremor. The station groaned, metal twisting under unseen pressure.

Jeno’s plasma sidearm was already in his hand. “Something’s boarding us.”

Haechan’s blood ran cold. “That’s not possible. No ship has docked.”

Then the alarms blared to life—but they weren’t the standard emergency sirens.

These were warfare sirens.

The kind that only activated in one scenario:

Hostile presence detected on board.

Renjun’s holo-screen flickered on, just for a moment, filled with distorted static—before a final, corrupted transmission scrawled across the interface.

"System sovereignty compromised. You are no longer alone."

And then, the station went dark.

[Chapter 1: "The Attack"]

0 seconds to impact.

The power flickered once. Then, a heartbeat later, Geonmu-7 erupted into chaos.

Haechan barely had time to register the meaning of OMEGA’s final, corrupted message before the first scream echoed through the comm channels. It was brief, choked—then cut off completely.

A warning siren blared throughout the station. Red emergency strobes cast long, jagged shadows across the control bay. Overhead, the pressure-sealed blast doors slammed shut across critical corridors—an automatic lockdown.

But it was already too late.

The comms interface spiked with garbled transmissions, voices overlapping in a frantic mess:

"They're inside! I repeat, they're—" [STATIC]

"Weapons free! We are under att—" [DISTORTION]

"—not human—" [UNINTELLIGIBLE SCREAMS]

And then—silence.

No response from Command. No signal from the bridge.

Renjun’s hands flew over the emergency console, desperately trying to reestablish comms. “I can’t reach the command deck! It’s—” His voice faltered as the diagnostics finished running. The command center’s life signs had flatlined.

The officers were dead.

Jeno swore under his breath, gripping his plasma sidearm tighter. “They got wiped out already?”

Mark, still holding his side from where he’d been thrown earlier, forced out a breath. “That doesn’t make sense. How could they take out the entire command crew that fast? The bridge is the most secure section of the station.”

Haechan stared at the holo-screen, his mind racing. It wasn’t an explosion that killed them.

There was no decompression alert, no pressure loss. The officers hadn’t died from a breach in the hull—they’d been killed instantly, from inside the station.

“We need to move,” Haechan ordered, his voice steadier than he felt. “We’re sitting ducks here.”

Then, the sound came.

A deep, resonant pulse—not like an alarm, not like an explosion. Something else. A vibration that didn’t belong, rattling the walls, traveling through the very core of the station. It wasn’t just noise; it was a presence.

And it was getting closer.

Renjun paled, his eyes snapping to Haechan. “What the hell is that?”

Jeno, already switching off his safety, answered without hesitation.

“Not friendly.”

The lights flickered violently.

Then, with a final, mechanical hiss—the blast doors to their sector unlocked.

And beyond them, something stepped inside.

The blast doors groaned as they slid open.

A sharp gust of decompressed air hissed through the narrow corridor, carrying with it the stench of burnt metal and blood. The emergency strobes cast flickering light on the figures standing just beyond the threshold—bodies.

Station crew. Dead.

Haechan’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the scene. The security team assigned to this sector had been slaughtered. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Their faces—what was left of them—were frozen in expressions of pure terror.

He barely had time to process it before a new sound cut through the chaos.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate. Coming closer.

Jeno raised his plasma sidearm. “Eyes up,” he warned. “We’ve got movement.”

Haechan’s grip tightened around his own weapon as the team instinctively shifted into formation. The air was thick—charged with something unnatural.

And then—from the smoke, Captain Seo staggered forward.

His uniform was ripped, charred along the edges. Blood smeared down the side of his face, pooling from a deep wound near his temple. One of his arms hung uselessly by his side, his breathing ragged and uneven.

“Captain!” Haechan lunged toward him, but Seo lifted a shaking hand.

“No,” the captain gasped. His eyes, wide with something between agony and desperation, locked onto Haechan’s. “Stay… back.”

Behind him, the corridor lights flickered violently.

Then, something moved in the dark.

A distorted silhouette, shifting unnaturally, flickering like a glitch in reality itself. A shape that did not belong. It loomed behind Seo, stretching toward him—long, twisting appendages of something not quite solid, not quite liquid.

Haechan barely had time to shout a warning before the captain convulsed.

Seo let out a sharp, ragged gasp as his entire body locked up—his veins darkening, spreading in jagged, unnatural patterns beneath his skin. His eyes, wide and glassy, turned black.

Then, in one sharp motion—he collapsed.

Haechan froze. The station’s captain—his commanding officer—was dead.

Just like that.

Renjun took a step back, barely containing a horrified whisper. “What the hell just happened?”

Mark clenched his jaw. “We need to move—now.”

Jeno’s stance remained rigid, gun still trained on the darkness beyond the corridor. “Whatever that thing is, it’s still there.”

Haechan’s heart pounded against his ribs, but there was no time for shock—no time to process.

Captain Seo was gone. And now, every surviving crew member was looking at him.

Waiting for orders.

Haechan swallowed hard, forcing the weight of fear down his throat. He was just a logistics officer. He wasn’t supposed to lead.

But if he didn’t, they would all die here.

He tightened his grip around his weapon and forced himself to stand tall.

“Fall back,” he ordered, his voice steady. “We regroup at the secondary command center.”

No one questioned him.

Because whether he was ready or not, Haechan was now the highest-ranking officer left on Geonmu-7.

Haechan led the group through the emergency corridors, their boots thudding against the metal flooring. The station trembled beneath them, distant explosions rippling through the structure like aftershocks. Whatever was attacking them wasn’t done yet.

Jaemin was already moving before they reached the secondary command center. His medical kit clanked against his side as he dropped to his knees next to one of the wounded crew members—a technician from the reactor maintenance team.

The man was barely conscious, his uniform torn and stained with deep crimson.

“Jaemin,” Haechan called. “How bad is it?”

Jaemin pressed two fingers to the tech’s throat. Still breathing. But weak.

“Shrapnel wounds,” he muttered, cutting away the tattered fabric to examine the injury. The bleeding was bad, but not fatal—yet.

He reached for the med-gel applicator from his kit and pressed it to the wound. The device hissed, delivering a coagulant-infused foam that rapidly sealed the tear in the man’s flesh.

Jaemin’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t sustainable. The crew had limited supplies, no backup, and no access to the main infirmary. If they didn’t get power back online, these people wouldn’t survive.

Across the room, Renjun and Chenle worked frantically at the backup power console, their faces illuminated by the dim glow of failing holo-displays.

Renjun cursed under his breath as another sequence failed to process. The system wasn’t responding.

“Come on,” he muttered, fingers flying across the panel. “We just need auxiliary power. Just enough to stabilize life support—”

ERROR. POWER RELAY OFFLINE. MANUAL REBOOT REQUIRED.

Chenle groaned. “It’s the external relays. The whole grid is out.”

Renjun exhaled sharply, his mind racing. If the main grid was down, they had to bypass it.

“We need to reroute through the lower decks,” he said, adjusting the interface. “If we can patch into—”

The lights flickered.

For a second, the red emergency strobes dimmed, plunging the entire room into near-darkness.

Then, a low hum resonated through the walls—a distortion, like an energy pulse reverberating through the station’s core.

Renjun froze.

“…That wasn’t us.”

Chenle’s hands hovered over the controls. “Then what just powered on?”

Jaemin turned sharply, his medical scanner buzzing erratically.

Haechan looked to the main corridor.

Beyond the reinforced glass, a single console screen flickered to life.

A garbled, distorted voice crackled over the comms. Not OMEGA. Not human.

"They are watching."

And then—the station trembled again.

Mark and Jeno moved quickly through the emergency corridors, their footsteps echoing in the dimly lit passageways. The station was dying around them—walls groaning, ventilation systems struggling to maintain pressure, and the overhead lights flickering like a fading pulse.

The escape pod bay was just ahead.

Mark tapped his wrist-mounted interface. “I’m trying to override the lockdown, but the system’s barely responding.”

Jeno clenched his jaw. “We won’t need it if the pods are intact.”

They rounded the final corner—and stopped dead in their tracks.

The launch bay doors were wide open. The viewing panel revealed an unsettling sight:

The escape pods were gone.

Every single one.

Jeno took a step forward, his fingers tightening around his weapon. “That’s not possible.”

Mark hurried to the control terminal, his hands flying across the interface. The holo-screen flickered violently, struggling to process commands.

Then the log data appeared.

EMERGENCY EVACUATION INITIATED

STATUS: ALL ESCAPE PODS LAUNCHED

TIME STAMP: 00:04 MINUTES AGO

Mark’s blood ran cold.

Jeno read over his shoulder, voice grim. “Someone launched them.”

Mark shook his head. “No—something launched them.”

Jeno’s expression darkened. “You’re saying this wasn’t human?”

Mark pointed at the irregular time stamp. “The station’s AI was compromised before the attack. If it wasn’t OMEGA, then…”

He didn’t have to finish.

Jeno let out a slow breath, eyes scanning the empty bay. The emergency strobes cast eerie shadows against the reinforced metal, making the hollow launch tubes look like graves.

“Then whoever—or whatever—did this doesn’t want us to leave.”

A sharp metallic clang echoed from the far end of the chamber.

Mark and Jeno whipped around.

The maintenance hatch at the rear of the launch bay had just unlocked.

The pressure-sealed doors hissed open.

Something was coming through.

The command center was eerily quiet—too quiet. The distant hum of the station’s failing power grid and the sporadic flickers of dim, red emergency lights were the only indicators that Geonmu-7 was still holding together.

The remaining survivors stood in tense silence, the weight of realization settling over them like a crushing gravitational field.

Haechan’s gaze swept across the room. Seven survivors.

Just seven.

Jaemin was tending to the injured, working quickly with dwindling medical supplies. Mark stood near the central holo-display, scanning the station’s internal status with a deep frown. Jeno kept watch at the entrance, weapon raised, his stance rigid—ready for whatever might come next.

Renjun and Chenle hovered over the engineering console, frantically rerouting what little power they could salvage into life support and station defenses. Every few seconds, an error message would flash across the interface, reminding them how dire their situation was.

And then there was Haechan.

He had never seen the command center like this. Cold. Empty. Leaderless.

The main display—usually filled with real-time data from station sectors—was a mess of corrupt files and static interference. The connection to Earth Command was severed.

Their distress signal had been sent, but there was no reply. No confirmation. No reinforcements.

It had been twenty minutes since the attack started. Surely someone should have responded by now.

Jaemin broke the silence first. “I did a full body count on the way here.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “There’s no one else.”

Renjun’s fingers paused over the console. “Are you sure?”

Jaemin nodded grimly. “I checked every corridor we passed. Everyone else is either dead or missing.”

The words sank in, a bitter truth settling into their bones.

Haechan swallowed the knot in his throat.

They were alone.

Mark pressed a few commands into the central console, trying one last time to ping an external network. Nothing.

He turned toward Haechan. “If Command hasn’t responded yet, they’re either ignoring us—or they never got the signal.”

Jeno scoffed, tightening his grip on his weapon. “No way they’d ignore an attack on a classified orbital station.”

“Unless,” Renjun murmured, eyes scanning the corrupted system logs, “someone doesn’t want them to know.”

The words sent a chill through the room.

Haechan inhaled slowly. “So we assume the worst. No backup. No escape pods. No comms.” His voice remained steady, though his stomach churned. “Then we need to focus on what we can do.”

He turned to Renjun and Chenle. “Can we get long-range comms back online?”

Chenle shook his head. “Not from here. The main relay is fried. Best case scenario, we could jury-rig a transmission from the substation near the docking bay.”

Jeno crossed his arms. “That’s where we just came from.”

Mark frowned. “That area isn’t safe. We still don’t know what—”

A low rumble shook the station, cutting him off. The lights flickered violently, and for a brief second, all displays turned to static.

Then, over the station’s damaged intercom, a voice crackled through.

Not OMEGA.

Not human.

"We see you."

The screen glitched, revealing a single distorted transmission code.

Designation: UNKNOWN

Signal Origin: Geonmu-7—Internal

Haechan’s breath caught.

This wasn’t coming from outside.

The signal was coming from inside the station.

#fanfiction #fanfic #nct dream #haechan #mark lee #jeno #jaemin #park jisung #chenle #renjun #nct dream fanfic #nct dream au #nctzen #science fiction #fiction #space

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moosemann404 · 14 days ago

Text

Grief as Intermezzo

A short one-shot to mist the enclosure while I work on the next chapter (spring break starts Friday so I’ll get to writing I promise)

Also a belated Doug Rattmann Appreciation Day post no I’m not late shhhhh shhshshhshh

Characters: Doug Rattmann, Rick

Words: 1334

A story set between times.

Rick had invited him to a bar, for some reason.

Doug thought Rick was boorish and a bore, and he didn’t drink. He hated spending time with anyone nowadays.

Rick had invited him to a bar, and Doug had accepted.

He wasn’t directed to the standard affair that had become more and more saturated throughout the city, chock full of bodies and the cloying scent of spirits gelled on the floor where they’d been dropped. There were no neon lights and long lists of concoctions, all guaranteed to be too sweet or too strong for Doug’s liking, and there was no overbearing music trying to synthesize enjoyment. There wasn’t even a sign outside.

The bar he’d been invited to had polished wooden floors. It had trim stools situated around an L shaped counter, stained side paneling and green painted accents. Veiled incandescent rods gave the place a liminal, timeless aura, hazed like the moments where dreams became consciousness. Bottles lined the back shelf in an array from brown to clear, labels faced out, and most were only half or quarter full. Only two pieces of technology ruined the otherwise acoustic nature. A battered steaming coffee machine laid up between shelf and register, and a lone cathode-ray tv atop the bar providing the only string of non-organic noise. It was angled towards the pool table in the back of the hall where a group of three clustered, scrutinizing the velvet top like battlefield commanders. They stood eye level with the sidewalk, as the entrance to the dive had been down a flight of rickety, uneven steps with concrete walls instead of a railing.

Only three or four other patrons filled the seats. None spoke. It would only have been quieter in a graveyard.

Rick invited him to this bar, and the bartender knew his name.

“You’ve brought a friend, Rick.” The man’s words curled with a Slavic accent that Doug couldn’t place. He was about the same height as him, and bore down with glinting, brandy-amber eyes. Unused smile lines pinched near his cheeks and grey hairs took up more space on his head than black ones. A casual tight knit shirt stretched over a lithe but spritely body, and his sleeves were pushed to the elbow. “I have not seen this one before.”

“He don’t come out much, Gennady.” Rick spoke over his silence.

“I can see that.” A dimple popped out once Gennady had sufficiently scrutinized Doug. “Let me get you a drink.” He retrieved two shot glasses.

“I’ll just have a coffee.” Doug eyed the pot again, and Gennady’s brow arced comically high, wrinkling his forehead into five distinct folds.

“Coffee? You come to a bar for coffee?” He jerked a thick thumb towards the object of Doug’s inquiry. “This? This is shit coffee; only for those too drunk to find home. You don’t want that coffee.”

Doug had said, “coffee doesn’t actually sober you up,” and Gennady laughed.

Rick had invited him to this bar thirty minutes ago, and they had yet to speak besides their greeting.

Five shot glasses, each emptied in mechanical, practiced fashion, sat upended and dripping their remains onto the lacquer. Rick didn’t look any drunker than when they’d arrived.

“Why did you invite me?” Doug asked once the whispering of the pool players and the raking glances of the others became too much.

“Why’d you accept?” He replied to which Doug had no answer. Rick dragged his bitten and cracked nails down along the curve of his jaw. “I figured I oughta.” He must have perceived the next question, as he continued. “I just… ain’t noticed nothin’ till now. Till that new guy came around askin’ about my equipment.”

Doug didn’t reply right away. He took a sip of coffee that tasted strongly of dirt and bitter reprieve and tucked away the turbulence of the reminder into a tight corner of his mind. “He’ll be gone before the weeks up.” Doug commented blithely.

“Yeah, but-“ Some of the alcohol must be getting to him, as Rick dropped his wide forearms onto the counter and squinted as he tried to focus on Doug. “How long’s he been gone?”

Someone screamed in his ear. Doug paid it no mind. “Two months, fifteen days, seventeen hours and twenty-six minutes.” He idled, then took another sip. “But who’s counting?”

Finally, Rick’s unreadable countenance broke. He fired a buckshot laugh, revealing teeth yellowed by age and tobacco. “Damn straight.” He curled his fingers around a sixth shot that Doug hadn’t seen materialize. “Well, I figured- I thought up in my head hey, when’s the last time someone checked up on you?”

“Two months, fifteen days, seventeen hours-“

“And twenty-seven minutes ago. I know.” Rick finished for him. He tossed back the shot with the same ease as the last five times. “Someone oughta.”

“And that someone is you?”

Rick invited him to a bar, and he invited his ghosts too.

“There ain’t no one else left.” Rick leaned heavily against his shoulder once he started nursing a pint between sweaty sun-kissed palms. Doug didn’t remove him. “They ain’t left no one alone.” Haunted green eyes mapped the wood grain on the counter below them. “Percy went just last week. He’s- they stuck ‘em wherever they put ‘em all. With Kevin.”

“And Alice.” Doug didn’t know what caused him to recall her name at that moment. Perhaps a sense of duty. He watched the last dredges of his coffee sweep the grounds back and forth as he tilted the mug.

“’N Betty.” Rick continued.

“Muriel.”

“Sweet Jane.”

“Craig.”

“That strange fella. Lin?”

Each name became an evocation, a silent vigil, a bastard’s prayer. “…Wheatley.” Doug dared breathe. Rick watched him pityingly, and he glanced the toe of his boot against Doug’s ankle.

A beat of silence. A name sat untouched, unprovoked for fear of what lay at the end of its incantation. They both felt it. The whole bar felt it. It was the genesis of their little ritual. It was the focal point. Neither were willing.

Rick turned the glass over with his pointer finger. He let the rim thump gracelessly down next to the others, all dressed up and ready for their marching orders. “So pardon me. I brought you out here ‘cause we’re the last two bastards who know people who knew people.”

The silence of the bar percolated into the conversation again. Doug drew his shoulders up high and stared wonderingly down at Rick’s collapsing figure. This didn’t feel like a bond being woven, not in the way friendships or unions of solidarity usually were; it felt like a final word before the platform was dropped beneath them. Rick’s jubilant self had mellowed away under the influence. All that remained was a man, just as tired as Doug, just as resigned as Doug, and just as aware of the holes being eaten into their lives.

“I reckon… I reckon my sunsets on the horizon.” He mused tenderly. “They musta gathered a list of when ‘n why we was workin’, and stamped down expiration dates. Mine’s gotta be soon.” Rick sniffled derisively.

“And what about mine?”

“Naaah,” Rick drawled, “beg pardon, but you ain’t got what they’re lookin’ for.” He pat his hand, causing the foam at the top of his glass to slosh over the side. “You lucky son of a gun, you. Cept, I doubt anyone’s really shootin’ all six in this situation.” Rick cocked another grin in his direction. “But you know what? Fuck ‘em. Ain’t nothin’ keepin’ me here ‘cept myself. Once I nab a few things from my desk, I’ll be home free, ‘n those bastards can just try ‘n stop me.”

Doug, now very certain that Rick was drunk, nodded once. “Ride fast, Rick.”

He laughed. “Percy’d yell at me for bein’ impulsive.”

“Wheatley would yell at me for staying.” Doug picked up Rick’s seventh shot and made it his first.

Rick invited Doug to a bar.

Doug fixed Rick the next week.

#portal 2 #portal #learned unhelpfulness #moose’s writing #doug rattmann #doug rattman #rick portal 2 #drad25 #Doug Rattman appreciation day 2025 #dealing with grief #sort of #one shot

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nondivisable · 1 year ago

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Hi! I just saw your post about crocheting even though your hands hurt, and was hoping for some advice. I've had some sort of unspecified spondyloarthropathy for about 16 years, so I'm used to dealing with feet and knees and shoulders but all of a sudden it's in my hands too, and I'm terrified. Putting aside that I'm a musician and this threatens my livelihood and independence, I can't stand the idea that it's going to take away 90%of the things I do for fun, aka crafting. What do you do to keep crocheting through the pain -- or, even better, do you have any tips for working around it? Special hooks I can look for? I knit too, have you gotten into that enough to have needle or pattern recommendations? Do you do any sewing? I'm looking for help, but mostly I'm looking for hope.

if this makes little sense I'm sorry, I've had a migraine all day but I wanted to answer and not forget. I'll edit this later if it's necessary

compression gloves are the actual love of my life. they help my finger joints so much. kt tape as well, my shoulders start to kill me, specially when I started knitting.

for crochet, I know some people put tennis balls on the grips of their hooks to make them more ergonomic. there's also ergonomic hooks but I haven't tried them yet.

knitting: I usually hold my needle and knit (as in move the yarn) with my right hand. I find that this gives me cramps in my shoulder and hand. moving my yarn with my left hand and holding my needle with my right helps me relax both my hand and shoulder, as well as keep a straighter back. knitting is also way easier on my hands than purling since we're at it.

sewing: I absolutely love it, my joints don't. for sewing patches or smaller bits of fabric onto another what really helps me is keeping the fabric taut using an embroidery ring. it helps me make less of an effort with my hands. if you don't have a sewing machine but are looking to buy one, don't buy one of those small, portable ones. I did and I never use it because between having to squint my eyes and manouever with my hands, my body detests it

finger knitting is also really fun to keep your hands busy. if I'm having a really bad pain day but feel restless, I'll usually grab a thick yarn and make a finger knit panel. it can take me hours to finish a small square but it's quite pain free and makes me happy

collage is such a fun technique if you like drawing and painting but find that your hands are kind of failing you. for me, at least, it helps take off the pressure of having to make a neat, clean piece of art , you know

mostly, remember to stretch, take breaks, drink water, be kind to your body. there's no shame in doing your hobbies in bed, laying down, or in ways that aren't necessarily "pretty" or functional; it's okay to do your hobbies for the sake of having fun with them

hope this has helped you and not extremely confuse you <33

#spoonie #chronically ill #chronic pain #chronic illness #ask

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projectgoblin · 5 months ago

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I love the fuck out of my silk quilted jacket but I’m on the creative path for more funky clothes. I’ve decided to make another with machine paper piecing that will attempt a 1:1 copy of my favorite album art for Inmazes by the band VOLA. I am simply obsessed with the album and listen to Inmazes on a near daily basis.

The line work on the album art screams freehand quilting to me and would create such a gorgeous visual effect.

I will be dyeing the background fabric myself, as I couldn’t find anything that looked close enough for my liking, both in “ink splotching ombré” aesthetic and color. This matching will be challenge number one.

I have managed to find an accurate real and close enough matching knit for the cuff but it’s not a rib knit so I’m unsure if I’ll keep looking. I did find a really interesting crimped satin at Joann’s in the right color but I want this to be able to withstand some heavy use and I’m not sure a heavily post weave processed satin will be up to task.

The yellow patch has yet to be color matched so that may be hand dyed as well. Black and white are obviously easily enough to acquire thankfully.

As it currently stands the design of the jacket has a back panel with an extended version of the album art just using more or less an assumption of how the missing parts would look.

The front panels are using a continuation of the background color and quilting used on the back, but lacking any other part of the design. I am heavily considering making the side pockets into a semi welted pocket with the welt in the turquoise in order to pull that design element to the front.

The above design shows a turquoise and gold zipper but for ease of coordination and less matchy matchy look, I’m changing to black with gunmetal zipper. I still want metal not plastic for a higher end finish.

The sleeves are a point of contention for the design as my mind is split in multiple directions. I like the following ideas-

Maze design lasered or woven into the fabric straight from the factory. Easy, no fuss finish for me, very cool looooking

Maze design quilted into fabric. Time consuming but with a lovely result. Design can be continuous over seams with enough planning

Plain sleeve with favorite quotes from songs embroidered down the outer sleeve seam.

All designs would be black on black for subtlety and to create less visual noise

#sewing #seamstress #quilting #handmade #art #wip #fashion design #design #VOLA

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isewvinyl · 3 days ago

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Finished back panel of my Earthly distressed drop stitch sweater! I will look for my foam tiles to block to confirm it measures to the schematic; then block by machine wash warm and tumble dry when sweater is finally assembled. Yarn is Patons Linen (linen/cotton/viscose) in Sky colorway. Making a size larger (XL instead of Lg) in case of shrinkage when my son inevitably washes in hot water.

Kind of obsessed with drop stitches/ladders right now, planning on making the Matrix sweater (Boadecia Binnerts) next.

#knitting #knit #knitters of tumblr #earthly #Erika knight #matrix sweater #boadecia binnerts #always do a swatch test #patons linen

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leiyahime · 11 months ago

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Wollefest Leipzig

What a wonderful day yesterday!!

tl;dr: I need more glass jars X'D

And I'm glad there aren's too many festivals a year XD The way to Leipzig was easy, I left waaay too early so I had time to look around! There was an apple (?) orchard on my way and it looked like a sea of white in the morning sun! It was soo beautiful! (No pictures since I went by car)

Then I met my dear friend at the train station and we walked over to the glass hall of the Neue Messe. The nostalgia. And since the book faire was a few weeks ago the glass panels were already cleaned xD

It was nice and spacious. so it was possible to look at everything. And to leave money *coughs* much money! and to talk to the two people from my spinning group who were there at the booth of the German hand spinning guild.

Soo many colours! Soo much beautiful stuff! *.* I could have spent at least another 100€

And the loot:

front: 70% polwarth/15% Tencel/15% silk from friendly sheep

Spindle: suppoted, maple/coloured wood from the same shop

Nalbinding needle made of horn and scissors from die Garnspinnerin

red Wensleydale locks from... idk anymore

below the locks: 40% wool (Falkland, Merino)/20% llama/20%Eri silk/20% baby camel from frau wöllfchen

violet: 25% Suri Alpaca/25% royal baby alpaca/25% Ramie/25% tussah silk, the colourful bag is 100% tussah silk, and a pair of hand carders *.* (not in picture) from stefis wolle

blue batt: 40% angora/40% silk/20% merino, grey batt: 35% angora/35% silk/25% Merino/5% alpaca from Seidenhase

the bag in the back: 100% baby alpaca raw fleece. So now I know my first scouring project xD also can't reconstruct the booth I got this

the cardboard box: DIY kit for a sewing machine pincushion in grey from Hühnerstall kreativ! was alrady considering to get one last year but I ran out of money.

Not in picture: two stitch markers, a brooch in the form of a black sewing machine and a knitting pattern for wrist warmers.

I only wanted to get 500g of fibres bc of space reasons... well... I failed.

When we were done at the festival, we went to the city to get some ramen for lunch/early dinner which was also very delicious. and after that I returned home (Or almost home. There were traffic problems on my way for which I was waaay too tired so I decided to stop at my dad's and tackle the rest of the way this morning.

Now I'm home and can rest a bit before work.

#fibre arts #hand spinning #hand crafting #fibres #wool festival #Wollefest Leipzig

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uncaaj · 4 months ago

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Fanfic: The Cuppatronic 3000 (Wallace and Gromit)

READ NOW ON AO3!

The chimes of the old mahogany grandfather clock in the sitting room broke through the gentle clattering of my knitting needles. One bong, two bong, three bong sounded before the clock resumed its normal ticking, its brass pendulum swinging to and fro without a care. The Pavlovian response to that particular sequence of bells moistened my chops for a particular set of biscuits we bought yesterday at the shops. I set my latest project (Scarf? Jumper? Too soon to tell) down on the arm of my chair and slid all four paws upon the floor. My master was in the basement tinkering away and therefore was too far or too engrossed in his project to hear the clock chiming for the grandest of all simple British pleasures. Thus it was I who made tracks to the door in the hall with soft pawsteps upon the rug to alert him.

Once in position, I relaxed onto my haunches and threw the door open. There down the stairway was my companion, Wallace, leaning against a cylindrical device as tall as him, splicing wires together behind a rivet-bordered control panel.

I knocked on the door just as Wallace jumped backwards with a yelp. Poor boy must’ve caught a stray spark. It was par for the course with his inventing. You never knew who would hurt who first.

He met my gaze above him and I waved. “Oh, Gromit!” he greeted. “Is it tea time already?” I nodded and gestured my head toward the kitchen. Just as I was about to pad away to begin preparation, he stopped me with a whistle. “No, no, you needn’t bother this time. I shall take it upon myself to prepare tea today.” He straightened his tie and brushed down his green knitwear vest with confidence.

I cocked my head and gave him a skeptical raise of the brow, to which he responded with a nod.

“Now, I realize I’m not as adept a cook as you are.” That was an understatement. “And I know that in most matters culinary, you are the foremost expert.” It felt nice to be acknowledged. “However, I have a machine that will allow even me to brew the perfect cup of tea every time, and if that’s the case, just think of the time it will save you!”

I was even more suspicious now. But it was a deep-seated curiosity that drove my paws down those cold stone steps so I could behold with my own eyes the machine my master had spent the day creating.

Wallace shut the control panel and screwed it into place as I sat once more at the foot of it. The creation would likely fit into where our refrigerator currently occupied, though I’d have to stop Wallace from replacing it with this machine if he began to get ahead of himself. It was fully cylindrical apart from a dome top making it look like the pillarbox down the street. A riveted sign under the top edge of the machine read, “Wallace’s Cuppatronic 3000.” The control panel had dials labeled “Temperature,” “Milk,” “Time,” and “Sugar.” An indentation below the control panel was just big enough for a teacup to slot into, and a nozzle pointed down upon its topside, likely to dispense something or other into the vessel of choice placed inside. I walked around to see three separate clear reservoirs in a row labeled “Water,” “Milk,” and “Sugar” along with a slot labeled “Teabag.” The process and purpose of this machine was becoming clear to me.

“Shall I tell you how it works?” Wallace asked. I would indulge him. Explaining his inventions to others was his favorite part of inventing, after all. Wallace flipped a switch and the aforementioned signs lit up clear as the familiar sound of water boiling tickled my ears. “All you need to do is top up your ingredients as I’ve done, dial in your recipe, and the machine dispenses the perfect cup.” A green light came on to indicate the water was now ready to go. “Now I don’t have a recipe, nor do I know which one you use for our tea, but I’m sure a few simple samples will get us there. Care to be my assistant, lad?” Usually, I was hesitant to play test subject, but unlike the other times, this invention seemed unlikely to kidnap, brainwash, or otherwise inconvenience, so I nodded in agreement. “Righto, let’s begin. I suppose the best way to start is with all dials bang in the middle.”

Wallace turned the dials accordingly and pressed the button labeled “Start.” An unseen voice began to speak suddenly and my ears stuck straight up in surprise. “Two lumps, three tablespoons milk, two minutes.”

“I may have forgotten to mention the Cuppatronic speaks,” said Wallace. “I obtained the necessary voice synthesis chip on our outing yesterday.” So that’s where he disappeared to while I was left with the shopping. The machine whirred to life and I braced myself for a leaky hose or an unshielded wire to throw a spanner in the works as was often to happen. But as those two minutes wore on and Wallace walked over to a nearby workbench to retrieve a teacup, I wondered if for once, I was fretting over nothing. The Cuppatronic hissed as the water inside boiled and converted the loose tea inside into my favorite afternoon beverage. Wallace placed the teacup under the nozzle just as a tan liquid began to stream into it, filling the white ceramic vessel until the stream slowed to drips and a bell dinged.

“Enjoy your tea,” said the machine in its metallic approximation of an English voice. I had half a mind to say thank you for the simple fact that it had worked perfectly. It was fantastic.

“Ha-ha!” Wallace cheered. “All according to plan!” He gingerly removed the cup from its perch and held it up to his nose. The steaming mug wrapped him and me in the familiar aroma of darjeeling comfort and he took a sip. Almost immediately, the giddy smile left him to be replaced by disappointment. He took another sip and smacked his lips together. “I say,” he declared, “I think this recipe needs adjusting.” He set the teacup down on the workbench and I took it for myself to try the concoction. The heavy amount of milk and sugar blanketed my tongue and I couldn’t hide my own displeasure. It was certainly tea, and it was good for someone, but not for us.

Wallace rubbed his chin then retrieved a clipboard and pencil. “I’ve crossed that combination off the list. That leaves 11 more combinations to test.”

My ears straightened and my eyes widened. 11?? This was to be a long afternoon.

+++

Just as I predicted, it did take a rather long time to test the flavor of every single dial combination on the Cuppatronic. Mathematically, Wallace was being kind with his estimation of 11, for as each new combination was tried, he came up with a new combination not previously accounted for. By the time we had gotten to this point in time, we each had a pile of cups and saucers next to us on the floor, some empty and stained in brown, most half-full after we both realized we couldn’t sustain finishing a cup for each test. At this point, we had refilled the sugar, and milk tanks once over and the teabags thrice over, and there was only one more adjustment to test, the last hurdle on this extremely long race.

As the machine settled to stillness, it said once more, “Enjoy your tea.” I rolled my eyes and drew my fill from the cup before handing the rest to Wallace. “Buck up, lad,” he encouraged, “we’ll have scaled the mountain after this.” Indeed, the mountain of tea would be scaled, and I would switch to coffee permanently. I took a sip of fizzy water and swished it around in my mouth before swallowing it down. I needed the clearest palate to pick up on every nuance if we were ever to put this to bed. I raised the cup to my face and looked down at the tea, the same shade of tan as all the others. As I tipped the cup and the liquid hit my tongue, all the pieces slid into place. At last, it was what I was used to. Not too milky, just sweet enough to pique the palate, but with a strong foundation of darjeeling. It was just like I was used to, just like I made it for us every day.

And yet, as I looked back up to see my master’s reaction, apparently it wasn’t quite enough.

Wallace tapped a finger repeatedly on the cup, staring into it as if an answer were floating atop that was waiting to be deciphered. I set my cup down and walked over to look inside as well. Seeing nothing but a beige abyss, I turned to Wallace, placing my hands on my hips. I wanted him to tell me what he really sought to accomplish with this machine.

“I don’t know, lad,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. “I’ve about worn out my mouth for this. The recipe is perfect. It just doesn’t taste the same. …Maybe the tea should brew at 98 degrees rather than 99.”

That was it. We would be here all night if I were to enable this a moment longer. I shook my head and took the cup from his hands. He stuttered, caught between words, clearly at his wit’s end. As if I couldn’t tell. “What do you suppose is missing, then?” Wallace griped.

It was time for me to show him what I knew all along. I took his hand and led him back upstairs and to the kitchen. I sat him down at the breakfast nook and held up one finger, instructing him to wait right there. The kettle was standing vigil upon the stove and once I made my way to it, I lifted it and sloshed the water around. There was enough for my purposes, so I set it back on a burner and turned it on to high. Next, I opened a drawer to the right of the stove and pulled out a little black book, my treasured recipes. The pages flew by in a flurry as I turned to the recipe I wanted and held it out to Wallace.

“What’s this, Gromit?” he inquired, delicately taking the book from me. I tapped the recipe, and gave him a wink. I led the horse to the water and now he had to drink, so I returned to the stove and began doing another breed’s job, retrieving teabags and sugar from the cabinet, and milk from the fridge. This supply thankfully was kept out of the basement during our previous exploits. As I methodically performed the same actions I had done for many a teatime before, a Formula 1 pit crew for hot beverages, Wallace read the recipe to himself, as if I were cueing his actions with mine.

“Brew for two minutes and 24 seconds at 98 degrees.” The kettle began to whistle, and I lifted it off the burner before dousing the heat with the turn of a knob.

“Fill three quarters of the mug and brew for three minutes and 24 seconds.” I deposited the teabag in the cup and filled it, guided by my muscle memory.

“Once brewed, add two and a half teaspoons milk, one sugar lump. Serve immediately with biscuits and cheese.” Wallace looked up. I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. “Gromit, what are you playing at? This is the same recipe as we just tried, to the letter! What makes this different?” I tapped the top of the page then the bottom of the page, telling him he hadn’t yet seen what I wanted him to. Rolling his eyes, he returned to reading while I turned back to finish the cup, never breaking the count of time in my mind.

“The Perfect Tea,” he mumbled, “Revision number…23?” The number sputtered from his throat like a car kicking over on a cold day. Ah, now he was starting to see. With each day and each mug, I’d notice Wallace’s reactions, such as how when he didn’t like it that day, he’d stare at the mug as if it yelled at him, and if it was especially good, his ears would perk up. And each time, I’d make a change, aiming to perfect the cup for next time. It had been years since I’d made the last change.

As I lifted the teabag out with a spoon and delicately added the milk and sugar, I knew the kicker was coming.

“Always remember, the loving touch is important. No matter how hard of a day you’ve had, whether an invention has blown a hole in the roof again, whether a killer robot or penguin or former Bake-O-Lite girl is after you, when all is quiet and normal, you are sharing tea with the most important person in your life whom you couldn’t imagine being without. So put that love and gratitude into each cup and enjoy every moment with Wallace, your master.”

I gave the cup a final stir, and took it into my hand. Wallace put the book upon the table, mouth agape. I held the cup out to him and he swallowed before taking it from me. He looked down upon it, then to me. I nodded. He lifted it to his mouth and drew a small sip. The way his eyes lit up with sparks confirmed my theory. What a machine could never ever provide, the care, attention, and devotion of a living being, had made all the difference. He wanted to save me time with the Cuppatronic but this was always time well spent.

Wallace stood up and approached me slowly. I held my hand out to ask how it tasted, though I already knew the answer. He just needed to tell me. Wallace grabbed the hand and pulled me into a hug. As we stood embraced in the kitchen, he said, “Well done, lad. It’s perfect.” That was all I needed to hear.

Though we could not communicate through the same avenues, the message always found its way to its destination. Quirky though he may be and even misguided at times, there was no other master I would rather have, and a dog’s word is worth its weight in gold.

“Thank you, Gromit,” said Wallace.

You’re welcome, old boy.

BOOM!

We tensed in each other’s arms at the sudden explosion, and resulting echoing crunch of wood and brick collapsing onto the floor. We looked at each other, thoroughly broken out of our moment of sentimentality, then I let all fours carry me toward the basement like a rocket. I flew down the stairs and skidded to a halt upon landing at the bottom. I stood up at my full height and just stared.

The understated chrome dome was gone from the machine, while a frayed hose spraying steaming water from the opening onto the floor, and sparking wires dotted the gaping cavity that remained.

While we were in the kitchen and I was enlightening Wallace, the Cuppatronic had, for lack of a better phrase, blown its top, obsoleting itself as if it knew what was happening upstairs.

Wallace’s footsteps approached behind me and I turned to see him at the top of the stairs, eyes wide and hand over his mouth. After a moment, he removed it slowly and exclaimed, “Oh, crackers!” He swallowed, no doubt searching for something to say to the debacle in front of him. Finally, he snapped his fingers. “I knew I should have used a band clamp for the hot water line instead of a spring clamp.”

Before my paw could meet my forehead, the doorbell rang. Upon opening it, a short and squat older lady in a bonnet and apron was at our doorstep, looking slightly cross. A wagon containing the top in question was in her tow.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Mulch,” Wallace greeted with a grimacing yet polite smile.

Mrs. Mulch huffed. “I have something what landed in my garden that I believe belongs to you.” She then pulled the wagon with great effort until the plastic wheels clattered against our stoop and the dent the top had taken, no doubt from its impact upon the dirt, became evident.

All we could do was show the poor madam our teeth, graciously take what was ours off her hands and apologize profusely. Such was life with my dear master, and every moment was, like our daily teatime, time well spent.

#wallace and gromit #aardman #fanfiction #fluff #humor #mrs mulch #tea #teatime

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