THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

You hesitate for a long moment, and Spider backs away uneasily: no one pushes you unless you're too dead to tear their head off for it. But, then again, Spider would be pushing Murfey. That's going to have to be alright.

"Only if you treat me nicely, party boy," you tell him, and park your hind end carefully, trying to avoid straining the bandages closing up the big arteries in his thighs. "Goodness, look at us, we're like body-horror tetris." You get an arm slung around his shoulder, butt his horns bracingly. "Here, Spider, just get us strapped into a go-cart, would you? You can chauffeur us, it's a little bit more dignified all around."

Joking or not, Murfey gamely sticks to his end of the bargain, and is distractingly handsy as Spider unhappily maneuvers you all to the hive blocks near Bel's, then bolts once you've made it past the threshold as if you might pop over the back of the chair at any moment and take their face off.

 

Murfey's right arm does not work exactly as advertised, but you manage to chart a course to, and through, the front portal. After some celebratory nuzzling and back-thumping you deposit him on to one of the few sticks of furniture that had been brought over before disaster struck, then wheel off to the kitchen to see if there's any supplies.

"Your lusus shares the same aviary as Kadros's, doesn't he?" you ask, hopping about to peer into cabinets. "I could go— oh, whoop, there he is. No one closed your hive off. Hallo, big fellow, your boy's right through there."

 

"You're not getting plastic food, Murf, your guts are a bloody lacework," you call back. "You're getting a can of chicken stock and you're going to like it, and if it doesn't sieve out through your lap then we'll see about something more solid."

You finish pouring it into a bowl and push it into the microwave to warm, then hunt for a straw. Spoons aren't much fun to deal with when you've still got IV holes punched all over, and you've forgotten whether or not his fancy arm has fine motor control or is strictly for punching things. The bio-techs had to scrape the whole thing down to the shell, boil it, and rewire, from what you've heard, that might take a bit of getting used to.

 

"We had to get it detached fast, and you kept thrashing around," you shrug. "I believe it got scraped along some walls and floors. Then the bioware inside had to be pried out as fast as we could go, while the detached arm itself was struggling and fighting. I believe one of the engineers is writing up a paper on it, the implications for autonomous, infectious killbots are staggering. Also, horrifying. If they ever transfer me to a battlefront I will cry like a little grub."

You bring the bowl over on a plate and set it in Murfey's lap. "There, have a go at that."

 

You wave that off— "Pshaw, it was all on Lainey and Pancho, don't you know, I was as sick as anyone after awhile," and settle into the cushy chair hip-to-hip. He's nice and warm, and curls up gratifyingly against you.

"Your arm's got new wiring, you know, you'll have to go down to Engineering for the tune-up, I'm sure they're about ready to fight each other for the honor. Welcome to being an official Sunslammer lab rat-cum-heartthrob." You pat your own prosthetic knee. "The company's nice enough but the meals are shit, aren't they?"

 

You stifle your laughter—badly—against his scruffy hair, then perk up when you hear someone letting themself into the hive.

"Who's that?" you call out. "Sergeant Pancho?"

 

"With the zoo!" you call out as you foot-nudge the door closed behind you, arms full of bags. "Fuzzies incoming!"

As the fluffy white flood scampers and flutters toward the tanglebuddies in the comfy chair, you set down your treasures on the counter and start stocking the cabinets. "I stopped by the commissary, Murf, this is all on your chit. I'm gonna cook for you, though."

"Aw, Doc, no, you don't have to do that. You've been working so hard."

"You're my friend, shut your mouth," you grin. "What was in that bowl, and are you still hungry? How about you, Erskin, have you eaten?"

 

"I heated up cluckbeast stock for him, ma'am," you report. "I didn't think it'd be a good idea to test his internal repairs on anything solid. And, er, I had some grubtoast before I went and fetched him here. I'm not hungry."

You don't feel full, so much as— not hungry. The thought of eating anything else today is vaguely distasteful. Then your lap is full of griffin— she even takes pains not to put any weight on the rotten bits of your leg— and you are getting your hair preened. You sort of melt, distractedly.

 

"I'll save the cooking for later, then. But have you seen the fresh produce they have on this ship? Not much quantity, but the variety and quality is excellent. Explains how everyone's immune system's working so well despite the financial problems Bel was telling me about. Good job, Captain," you beam.

As you clatter around with kettle and cups, you ask Murfey questions about his recovery. You determine that he was probably released a little too early, but he'll be fine since he doesn't have any active duty to get back to. His bar is still at the blueprints-and-wiring stage, so he can't pull his stitches trying to put up drywall or anything. As for your new baby brother...

You set down the tray of coffee fixings, coffeepot (the good stuff, donated from Bel's stash), and cups, and give Erskin an expectant look. "All right, let me see it."

 

Confused and intimidated, you pick up Itsy and proffer her hopefully. The look on Pancho's face tells you that you've guessed wrong.

 

"The leg, you goofball," you sigh. "I saw you wincing when Itsy stepped on it. It's worse than yesternight, isn't it?"

 

"Oh, right. Er. Don't suppose a show of valorous stoicism's going to get me out of this one, what?" you sigh, setting Itsy on the floor. "Here, should I park myself anywhere special?"

 

"I don't know, are you going to ooze on Murf or his upholstery?"

"I'm here to provide hugs as needed," Murfey puts in solemnly.

You snicker. "Murf, you are so high."

"Sal's on his best behavior, he didn't switch to the cheap stuff after you went off shift. The world is kind of pink and soft around the edges, it's great."

Turning back to Erskin, you say seriously (and not unsympathetically), "Go on, take the prosthesis off, let's see the damage."

 

"I'm going to ooze on both of you," you warn, and wriggle carefully out of your shorts, then tuck them between your leg and the chair. Bandages come off next and are dropped to the floor. The flesh underneath is a ropey pink and brown disaster, and you swallow hard.

"Blurgh," you say, as lightly as you can, and flip the catches of your prosthetic. Then you pull the pins out, wishing cravenly that Pancho was doing it instead, it hurts like pulling teeth and you hate having to do all six yourself, but they're out, you drop them too, huffing shallowly, then lean back against Murfey.

"I genuinely can't manage this part," you explain, rubbing sweat off your forehead. "You need to tear it away, see? Where the flesh and bioware and, er, crusty business, sort of come together. I get scrambled in the head halfway through if I have at it myself, and then I'm stuck. Needs to be done all at once, fast."

((this all is very, very unlikely to be standard procedure))