THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"Oh, er. Right. That makes sense." You rummage around for the menu with the most coherent hands you've got left, and grab on to the correct option.

Then you're a troll again, and the bits of metal and bone and flesh from your former shape come spattering down all around you. A few severed heads hit the ground like bags of pudding.

"Eurgh!" is your opinion, as is skittering over to Jethro's side. You brush your flat gray limbs clean again, then, cautiously, making sure not to lose your place, you manifest a crisp uniform. The kind Lainey likes, you can remember that, with all the braid and buttons and shoulder spines.

"Well! I think we're just about ready to be professional about all this," you say, very pleased with yourself.

 

"I reckon so!" you agree, just as pleased. As if it was your own effort, not his. You know you're being silly but what the hell.

"Aright. You've got bad bioware that metastisized into the rest of your body, and we need to get it out before it grows and basically does a gruesome tumor thing all over your organs. I'm assuming you knew that. What you maybe didn't know, cuz Sigs had no way to tell you, is that he can get it out with chemotherapy and a sorta psionic magnet dealie in this heal tank you're in, but in the process, that bioware's gonna be sending distress signals up whatever nerves it's latched onto. It's going to give you a whole hell of a lot of garbage data. With me so far?"

 

You nod. "Seems clear enough. The nasty little wigglers never did like anyone poking them, I should think they'd object to some light irradiation, what? And so— I'm to be in here so I can have... some connection to a working sensory schemata? Keep my hand in the whole—" you wiggle your funny, lineless fingers, "—being a person business?"

 

"Exactly. Since you're now pretty much an expert in how much it sucks to be getting barraged with sensory garbage, you can imagine we don't want to put you through another three or four nights of it. But it's not just because it's upsetting. It can actually permanently damage your thinksponge and your psyche. Which is why the Fleet does it on purpose to trainee helmsmen, by the way." You let your disapproval show; Sigmah was welcomed on board despite his opinions on helm training, you're not gonna get spaced for grimacing.

"So that's where the neural link comes in," you go on. "What I'm here for is to train you to use it, and make sure you get lots of coherent sensory input through it, to keep your brain focused and processing. We can play games, explore premade environments, work on your avatar, whatever you like as long as it overrides the junk impulses from the bioware. You're gonna feel like shit a lot of the time, not gonna lie, but I'll be here with you the whole time."

 

You're surprised. "The whole time? Didn't you just say that was a few nights running...? I should hope you've got a little autopilot in there—" you peer exaggeratedly at his head "—so you can step out for a few snack breaks, at least. I don't think anything around here is particularly nutritious."

You kick at a small, ugly scrap of something brown sticking out through the snow. "I say, how am I to eat? Is someone going to have to spoon feed my blithering meat husk? I don't think I could look an ensign in the face that had to pat gruel off my chin, or anything. It's a sad day when a man can't pat gruel off his own chin."

 

That gets another sympathetic chuckle out of you. "You're on an IV, you're getting nutrient solution direct to the vein. I can give you water sometimes to keep your mouth from getting too dry. Me, well, yeah, I'mma have to step out sometimes to grab a meal, go to the ablution block, maybe catch a quick nap. But I'll try and time it so you've got something to work on. You probably won't be able to sleep, but if you can, I'll take my naps when you do." You tentatively offer a hand. "We're in it together, brother. That's my job."

 

"Mm, a liquid diet, I hear that's just the ticket for getting that beach body I always so desired." You clasp his hand in one of yours and give it a good brisk pat with the other. "Well, glad to have you on board, Jethro, and very much obliged. Here's hoping we don't annoy one another too severely, eh?"

 

"For what it's worth, I like you so far! So, any idea what you want to start with? A game, a simulation, something creative, something exciting, something cozy?"

 

"Creative," you decide. You doubt your professional front would hold through anything particularly stressful, but you've had at least a lifetime's worth of sitting around on your backside and mouldering. "I sketch, sometimes, when—er, well, when I'm supposed to be doing paperwork, mostly." You shrug and grin. "I suppose if I was ever to get the time to pick up a few new tricks, this'd be it!"

 

"Cool," you smile, bringing up the menu on your text panel. "There's no reason we can't have fun while we're at it." You send a quick message to Sigs informing him that chemo can start anytime, and then go to the premade scenario menu. "Oh, before I switch, do you want to save your environment?"

He indicates that he does not want to keep this nightmarescape, so you load the Art Studio Simulator scenario, and the world of bones and snow dissolves.

You find yourself in a large, airy studio well-stocked with every kind of art material, from colored pencils to welding supplies. With a brief gesture and a bit of intention, you set up some easels with sketchpads, and a tray of pastels and charcoal pencils in various colors. "Think I could get an art lesson?"

 

"Er— well, I don't know, I've never given one," you say, already distracted by all the supplies. You wander around, nosing into all the bins and little studios. It's like the make-spaces, only pocketsize and sanely organized. You find a drawer of precious stones as big as your fists that can be rolled around and shaped like modeling clay, and pull it out with the intention to bring it over and show Jethro, only to be distracted further halfway across the room by a shelf of fabric and yarn.

"There's so much to do here," you marvel. "And this is all just the one program?"

 

"One program, but lots of simulation modules, yep." You can't help touching the yarn, picking up some lovely carved-bone knitting needles to explore their texture. "This is my favorite craft over here. Textiles. Knitting in particular." You gather up a floppy skein of some shimmery-soft silk/lambswool mix you couldn't afford in real life, and offer it to him. "Touch is the one sense you retained when the bioware started acting up, ain't it? That means it's important to you. Here, feel."

 

"Oh, I thought it was because it was— basic, fundamental. Like what you hatch out with, I don't know. I certainly appreciate being able to see things." You think about it. "But I suppose if I couldn't hold on to my companions, and know they were there and all, it would have been just that extra titch upsetting."

You take the yarn and go oooh, pulling handfuls of it apart into big satiny hanks. "This is lovely," you say appreciatively. "I'm going to drain my tidepool and fill it back up with this, I'll have to make a note."

 

"Dude, if you do that, I will beg to come swim in your pool." You reach out to pet the yarn some more. "That blend's super expensive IRL, but in here we can have as much of it as we want. Hey, you wanna learn to knit?"

 

"Teach me to knit and you can swim in my yarnpool every day," you propose. "Though I hope you've more experience as an educator than I have."

 

"A little, anyhow! I've taught a few people. Alrighty then, pick your poison." You take the bone needles you first gravitated to, and some of the silk blend in a kettle-dyed purply indigo. "My matesprit's color," you explain as you sit down on one of the cushy seats the textile area is furnished with.

 

You rummage around until you find a big skein of simple black yarn, about as generic as a craft item could be, then a pair of grey metal knitting needles. There's no point in messing around with anything fancy when you don't know what you're doing. You bring the items over to Jethro for approval.

"Have you known him long?" you ask. "Your matesprit. Is he nice?"

 

"He is a cutie patoot," you say proudly. You tilt your head at his choices. "Okay, it's up to you, bro, but you know this is simulated yarn, right? You could knit with spun diamonds if you want."

 

You frown at him, puzzled. "Well, no, seeing as how I can't knit at all yet. I could have a pile of yarn made out of the Empress's silky hair and it wouldn't make me any smarter, would it? Simple things are best to learn with."

 

You chuckle. "Fair enough. Alrighty, I'mma teach you to cast on. Take one of your needles in your right hand like so, and we're gonna make a slip knot..."

The first time you tried to teach someone to knit, you kept forgetting to go slow, and leaving them behind, and it was frustrating for both of you. You've learned better since. You don't think Captain Aspera is going to strain your patience, though; he has clever fingers despite the webbing.