THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"No. No, I—" you swallow harshly. Your voice is a rough croak. "I—it was. It was for nothing. I didn't have any business being there. I didn't have any business staying there. It— I went and— I just wanted my lusus back when I went down to, to ask the Emissary, that's all, I was a kid, I was stupid. And I got sent to the fucking desert for it, I should have, I should have grown up, I could have been a real troll, I could have learned everything I needed to know and been a proper Captain and not needed to spend half my tenth fucking sweep learning to FUCKING SPEAK." The last is a tearful, furious roar. "THEY HAD TO TRAIN ME LIKE AN ANIMAL."

Well, you've resoundingly lost the fight not to cry. You lean against Jethro and weep shamefully. You're a mess. A disgrace.

 

You can't even try to talk yourself out of wrapping your arms around him and making shooshing noises into his hair. "Shh, it's okay, ain't no shame. You went through some hard shit, ain't no shame in having a rough time with it. Look how far you come since then." Your old accent is pretty much taking over, but you don't feel like pretending you're not a hick, not when Erskin's being so honest. It takes your breath away how honest he is. "Look how much your folk love you, Erskin. I seen 'em hangin' around the door of the block, just wanting to hear you're okay. I dunno about a 'proper' Captain, but you done grew up to be a good one."

Maybe it's presumptuous, maybe it's not for you to say, but you add it anyway: "I'm proud of you."

 

You laugh, a little wetly, a little bitterly, and press selfishly further into his hold. Tuck your face against his shoulder. "This is a disposal ship, Jethro. This is a dead end, emphasis dead, this is where they send you to die, I can't stop it, I can't— I can't be good enough, ever. They still die no matter how hard I work, it doesn't— it doesn't fucking matter if they like me for it, it's not enough. These trolls are sent here to me and they die and one day I'll, I'll— be dead like I'm supposed to. Something will get me, this, this bit with my leg almost got me. Something will. And this garbage chute of a ship will tick over even faster under someone else. I can't stop it."

The secret tears out of you: "I'm so tired."

 

"I don't blame you, man," you say softly, petting his hair. "It sounds fuckin' exhausting. And I think you're a goddamn hero for busting ass like that, my hand to God I do. I think you deserve to relax a lil bit."

 

You sniffle again. Shake your head against his shoulder. It's only virtual, but his hand in your hair feels tremendously steadying.

"You and all the rest of my so-called friends," you joke weakly. "It's a conspiracy, I'm sure. A mutiny. Who'll take care of you lot if I'm sleeping on the job? God, it's been so many weeks."

 

"You been takin' care of folks the whole time. Let somebody else have a turn. Don't hog the game console." You give his shoulders a squeeze.

 

"No, I haven't been, this— this whole time— oh, you mean before. Before I also spent weeks being useless. I haven't been on my game in ages. Hell, what a mess."

But you don't exactly get moving. It is very dark and warm.

"Am I going to be alright?" you finally ask. "Is my— leg, and brains, and the rogue bioware all over, and everything. Have you fixed them? Am I ever getting out of here?"

 

"Yes," you say firmly. "Not so long now. Bet you're feelin' a little less gross already, right? You kept your focus while the bioware got purged out, you did so good, and you're gonna be fine. We're just waitin' on Sigs checkin' you over and giving the all-clear."

 

You give a final, convulsive shudder of relief, then go slack against him.

"Well. Then... at least there's that."

 

"I can go ask him how that's going, if you want. But uh... well, I kinda don't wanna stop hugging you. I hope that ain't weird."

 

"No, it's nice that you're here," you tell him. "You're... part of all this. A good part. Can't you multitask?"

 

That makes you smile really hard. "Yeah bro, I can multitask."

Instead of logging out, you bring up a text pane and send Sigs an email. And then you dream up a nice, comfy, moon-warmed rock to lean back against, tuck Erskin more comfortably against your shoulder, and cuddle him to your pump biscuit's content.

 

The calm warmth is soothing, and the pressure. This little bubble of a program you're in is ridiculously indulgent, even decadent, but you're— you are tired. And you'll be getting out soon, won't you? You can afford to settle in and enjoy yourself, if it won't be for too long.

Virtual or not, you enjoy the way Jethro runs his claws through your hair enough to purr from it, and to go all soft and dozy in his arms. It's so nice.

 

A little over an hour later, you get a response from Sigmah, and relay the gist to your sleepy barnacle: "According to Sigs, the chemotherapy was a success. No sign of the lil' fuckers left in your bloodstream. He wants us to come out of the VR dealie so's he can check you over."

 

You yawn, rub your eyes, stretch. You're suddenly aware of being in a virtual reality, unsure what sensations you're supposed to feel or ignore.

"How do we get out? Can you just, er, turn the machine off?"

 

"Yeah, you can do it yourself if you like, or I can do it for you if you're having trouble locating your actual hands. Don't just yoink the rig off your head, though, you'll get vertigo and a hell of a headache. Gotta shut it down proper. There's a button right around here..." You imagine a copy of the rig onto your virtual self, and point out to him where the shutdown button is.

 

You fumble, trying to get hold of your actual hands-- it feels like operating a mechanical lifting enhancement, distant and clumsy. And very heavy... then you must have gotten the button, because your body sort of closes in around you, real and immediate. Still terrifically heavy, though.

It's dark. You open your eyes. Jethro is still there, puzzlingly.

"Did... Is it off?" You paw at the headset again.

 

"Looks like. Just sec..." You set your own rig aside, ruffle your sweaty mohawk into some semblance of not-flattened, and then reach to help Erskin with his own rig. His hands are shaky, poor guy, he must feel like an overcooked noodle.

Sigs is over at his desk, pretending he's gotta check over all the samples again or something. Giving Erskin some space to wake up in. You make a mental note to congratulate him on his bedside manner, he's been working hard on it. Taking your cue from his theatrical preoccupation, you tell Erskin gently, "Take your time, bro. You been in the heal tank a while, you're gonna be clumsy at first."

 

"I— yes, certainly, I feel like I've been stuffed full of straw. But... you, you're..." real. You should probably have known, but he just showed up when the VR program did, you'd ended up assuming he was some sort of avatar of the program itself. Helpful and comforting... you've maneuvered one of your shaky mittens up to touch his face with just your fingertips, feel his warm, solid skin. Yes, he's certainly real. He looks sharper, here, sweaty, tired, pockmarked in a few places and nicked in others, chapped lips. A chipped tooth. Real. You pull your hand back abruptly and feel your face flame all the way out to your fins.

"I'm sorry," you blurt out. "If I— at any point—I didn't know you were, an actual, I mean, a proper— I hope I didn't offend!"

(of course erskin is nice to computer programs. he's friends with arguus and galley and probably has no real clue what the state of troll AI even is)

 

You crack a grin, ears heating. "Naw, bro, I don't mind a bit, it was real pleasant." The implication that he wouldn't have hugged you if he hadn't assumed you were virtual... well, you'll think about that later. For now, you guess it's best to stick to practicalities. "How're you feeling, now you're back in your own senses? Anything hurt? Any tingles or numb spots?"