THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"I'm sure I've got some photos around," you say as casually as you can, pretending your ears aren't coloring. "Somewhere."

 

"Somewhere. I'm going to find them. I'm going to put a bounty out. Then when I have them, I'll pin them above the desk in my office and every time you come in to nag me about things I will point at them and laugh cruelly. You will be so ashamed. I'll never have to do paperwork again."

 

"I already do most of your paperwork for you, you little truant. You'd only be sabotaging yourself by ensuring you get distracted staring at my pictures for hours at a time. 'Ah, how adorable, what a wee sugargrub, aaah!'" you sigh mockingly, taking your hands off the steering to press them over your heart.

 

You take the opportunity to grab the wheel and yank a hard right, just to scare him, then veer the cart back on track just before you slam a wall.

 

You grab his chair as the sudden course change starts it rolling, but of course he's got hold of the cargo bar and wasn't going anywhere. You snort theatrical annoyance, not really all that miffed. "By the way, how many ensigns have you run over with your terrible driving? Just for my own information."

 

"Oh, probably thirty or so. I have to keep my own magyks topped off, for your own information."

The corridors are starting to look logically arranged and freshly-scrubbed. There's a really respectable level of tagging on various wall plates, presumably by the various construction and furnishing teams— paint, too, not just halfassed chalk scrawls.

"This area's really coming together, isn't it? Looks like the competition between Whitey's fellows and our own departments is going well. Who did Murfey use for his establishment?"

 

"Oh, about half and half our people and Whitey's, at least to begin with. He was going to just use ours, but then, he never was much good at politics. I set him straight. Drop the occasional hint about one of them being maybe too busy to take on the extra work and maybe they should drop out for their own health, and -- you should've seen them go. Well, you'll see the result shortly!"

Whitey's bunch has managed to nearly hide the entrance to Murfey's area in the glare of their lights, but it has maybe the opposite effect of the one they wanted. Because Murfey isn't really playing on the sense of vision. He's reaching out to reel in passersby with the scent of greenery and the movement of cool air, a faint sound of trickling water, a comforting darkness with a faint hint of pink glow like moonlight on leaves. It's visceral how much you want to go through that archway with its convincingly aged gold-leaf-and-red-lacquer dragons.

You park the cart near several similar vehicles and usher Erskin into your childhood friend's miniature wonderland.

The double-story space is painted black with little twinkling lights high up, and hidden ventilation grates blowing a noticeable breeze. Trees in big ceramic planters rustle invitingly between the tables. They're not tall enough to really arch over the tables yet, or teasingly half-hide the 'stars', but they'll get there. The floor is cast resin terra-cotta tiles, the tables and chairs are bent-aluminum patio furniture, and the bar is real wood with a red canvas awning over it. It's all a little makeshift still, but the atmosphere is nice, and the cup candles on the tables give off a scent of real beeswax. Where he got that, you don't even know.

The man himself is coming out to greet you by the time your eyes adjust. He offers his hand to Erskin first. "Good to see you, Cap, we all missed you like blazes. And -- holy shit, ain't you fancy!"

 

You hop on to your one regular leg to give Murfey an enthusiastic hug. "Yes, the near-death experience changed me inside. I hear the call of the void now, you know! I am, as the common folk might describe it, 'hardcore'."

 

"Sure you are," Murf laughs as he returns the hug with uncomplicated joy. "Deuce bribed you with blowjobs, didn't he?"

"He did it all on his own," you reply primly. "His wellspring of sass is inexhaustible."

"That, I don't doubt. I got a real nice table for you guys, come on this way."

 

"The blowjobs came after the dress-up," you inform Murfey. "By the way—" you grin wickedly at Bel, "—as instructed, I am compelled to talk about how Commander Kadros is amazing at giving head. Just wanted to put that out there. Like he asked me to. Would you like me to discuss it with the rest of the bar, Bel? I wouldn't want you to feel in any way slighted. Maybe we could get you to give a workshop."

 

"Are you volunteering as my demonstration model?" you say, proud of how casual you sound. You have to raise your voice somewhat to be heard over the welcoming and fondly mocking hoots and whistles Erskin's presence inspires in the bar's patrons.

"I wouldn't say amazing," Murfey puts in.

You glare at him. "Seriously, Murf? You're gonna go there?"

"Not that I wouldn't subscribe to your instructive videos or whatever! Especially if Cap's in 'em." He winks at Erskin as he pulls your chair out. You swat his hat off, but he just catches it and puts it back on. He removes the table's other chair so there's room for Erskin's four-wheel device.

 

"Looks like we've got our first patron," you say, thoroughly enjoying Bel's blushing game-face. "Maybe we should have an audience suggestion section of the broadcast, eh?"

You turn around in your seat, elbow on the backrest, and point sternly at the hooting mob.

"I'm only back because you lot of reprehensible trashbloods can't sort your bloody shit long enough to get a damn lick of work in!" you yell at them. "I gave up being dead for this, show your captain some fucking respect!" Someone throws a toasted bean at your head. You bounce a tiny plastic bear off theirs.

 

"My entire establishment is going to be an abbatoir of glitter before you guys are done, ain't it," Murf says mournfully.

"Yeah, but we're also going to order a lot of food and drinks."

"Sweet." He hands you menus.

 

"Menus!" you say, impressed. You make admiring noises over the font choice and paper quality. You do not at any point bother to read it: you are unwell. You get an exemption.

"What do you recommend?" you finally ask Murfey. "I'll have that, in quantity. And a small cup of something as severely alcoholic as you can get it." Your digestive apparatus was all shriveled and cranky from disuse the first night and day you were out of the tank, but is fairly well sorted out by now and ready for as many calories as you care to load it up with.

 

"Shall we do dim sum?" you propose.

"The twelve piece?"

"For starters, but just keep it coming until Captain Singularity stops consuming matter."

"Gotcha. I've got just the cocktail for you, Cap. Bel, you want my weirdest microbrew, am I right?"

"Depends on how weird it is."

"Fairy Bullet Cactus Lager."

"Need it."

"Thought so." He winks smugly and is gone.

"I bet he ordered that just for me. I'm so choked up. What a good friend."

 

"Enabling your poor life decisions isn't exactly a mark of friendship," you say, gesturing at yourself. "It's more a mark of morbid fascination. You actually voluntarily drink microbrews? Are you going to instagrowl it?"

Technically, you're not one to talk, since most of what you imbibe is locally-sourced and hivemade in exclusive bathtub-size quantities, but at least no one around here's inane enough to call their creations microbrew to your actual fucking face.

 

"I will if you'll pose with it," you offer, and laugh. "I'm not a hipster, Erskin, I'm just fascinated by all the different ways people brew beer. And it's not like you can brew in large quantities in the Fleet. So it's either the big Imperial subsidy brews, which all taste like used hydroponic solution, or microbrews. Someone's making beer out of cactus? I want to know what it's like! But you've reminded me --" You scoot around the arc of the table to put an arm over his shoulders and lift your phone high. "Say spades!"

 

You twist around and blow a rasberry against his throat just as the flash goes off. You are the very soul of romance.

 

You study the resulting picture: his cheeks puffed out, your grin going skewed in surprise. "A masterpiece. We're so beautiful." You kiss him and take a pic of that too.

Murfey returns with your drinks. Yours has a clearly hand-drawn and computer-printed label showing a fairy bull skull over crossed pistols, a very good sign. Erskin's cocktail is light green and citrus-smelling, with a hot pepper and a pickled grasshopper impaled on a little plastic sword. "It's a Gravity Sling," Murf explains. "It's like a Gin Sling, but inescapable."

 

"Ooh! I and my toxin sponge salute you," you say, chomp the grasshopper and pepper, and knock the whole thing back.

"Wow!" you say, after a minute of hiccupy coughing. "I say! Well then! Alright!" You thump your gills and wipe your snout. "I want another of that, good lord. But with two grasshoppers. Also give me your—"

You steal Murfey's hat and stick a few small, cute pins into the band: a bear, a cat, and a yellow rose.

"There, we can't have anything less than the baddest of motherfuckers slinging us rough and rowdy types our booze," you declare, and return it.