Instead of the mature and reasonable point-by-point lecture you had planned on the way here, you snarl and go for him, teeth and claws, unhinged like you haven't been in something like a sweep and a half and later you're going to be deeply ashamed but right now you only need to tear his head off and paint the walls with his smug fucking face. "Shit—" Heinsz says, somewhere, distantly, and spins you around with a fist in your shirt, an ankle hooked around your prosthetic. You snarl at her, swinging your horns, but you're dizzy enough that you can't get your balance and by the time you manage, she's herded you with your own cane most of the way back to the carts. When you see Kadros over her shoulder you try to go for him again— you're kicked over, dumped to sprawl in the passenger seat. "—Fuck, he was doing really well lately—" "—I think Arguus, get him to—" "Kadros, sir, you idiot, go AWAY." Someone sits on you. Your head hurts. You can't actually hurt Heinsz but she won't get off you and she's not scared of your snapping and you're dumped into the warm desert sand. Your desert. Your hive. "Thank you, Heinsz," you say, deeply embarrassed. "Welcome. Drink some water. Call your buddy. Go over to the greenspaces if you wanna help out, you know no one can manage that department when we're overbooked. We'll keep the Commander away from you till you can keep it cool, okay?" "Okay," you say. You study the sand in front of your face until Heinsz lets herself out, then sigh, deeply, and rub your hands over your face. You are a terrible captain. The worst. You are going to have to be so polite tomorrow. (i think the crew might be a bit frosty with bel over this? taunting erskin like that was pretty darn unprofessional.)
When the rage lights his eyes, when he flares his fins and bares his teeth and comes at you, you grin and lower your horns in response -- and then you catch yourself just as his crew catches him. What the hell are you doing? And just to make matters worse, when they shout at you to get out of his sight and bundle him away, you realize that wasn't the fun kind of rage. That was a genuine feral flipout. You are a terrible first mate. The worst. You are going to have to be a perfect subordinate from now on. You go over to the mop station to hose yourself down, but everyone's glaring at you like you're completely useless and in the way, even though they seemed glad of the help a minute ago. You leave without even bothering to officially hand off your tasks to someone else. It doesn't matter. There are no rules here. Or rather, there are rules like 'when Glasswind shows up, the captain has to dress up like a rentboy and fuck her into submission, and anyone who gets in the way of this very important prostitution is persona non grata,' and no one has bothered to tell you any of them. Back in your quarters, you squirt dish soap in your ablution trap and run the water as hot as you can stand, and settle in to soak the machine grease off your skin. There were no traps big enough for you; your knees stick up absurdly, and you can't get your elbows in. But at least you can pretend you're getting properly clean. Texting Pancho about how much you hate it here helps a little bit. Not much. But a little.
A few seconds after the last text has been sent, and the phone is placed off to the side, it buzzes with an incoming call and switches itself to speaker. "Ohhhh you fucked up, Bel," the phone says. "Commander. Commander Belatu Kadros at your service your very finest grab-ass service, HA."
You sigh and sink deeper in the citrus-scented grease-cutting bubbles, which makes your knees stick up even more. You let your head plonk back against the wall. "What can I do for you, Helmsman Galgal?" You're too tired and bummed out to even get turned on by his voice and his sass. You actually kind of hope you never get turned on again except for a carefully delineated hour or two at drone time. It only makes trouble. You sigh again. You add, "I'm kind of busy sulking right now, so if you only called to laugh at me you can fuck right off."
A whooping laugh that shades into static— the phone spits a few yellow sparks. "You can't tell me to fuck off," the phone says, breathlessly amused. "I'm everywhere, asshole. You're in me right now. You fuck off." Again, that whooping, crackly laughter.
"No one made you call my phone," you point out, but arguing's just not worth the effort. You flick suds at the wall. "Fine, laugh, whatever. I guess it's probably pretty funny."
A while of quiet, save for the phone breathing noisily at him— a microphone held too close to a mouth?— and then he says, "I didn't just call to laugh at you. When. You, earlier..." Another, longer period of quiet. A soft, half-swallowed growl. "I finished my magazines," the phone says.
That growl makes your heart try to race. You turn the cold tap on partway and stick your feet under it. "How about the comic?" you ask, proud of how unaffected your voice sounds. "Because I don't know where to get more magazines, but I do have more comics."
"Do you have additional copies. Of the comic. I." A pause. "I've adjusted your salary to reimburse you for the comic. I destroyed it. It was a bad comic. You can buy a new one now. What was the darkseason soldier even supposed to be a metaphor about? it was so stupid, weapons don't stop being weapons when you try and stop them from being weapons they just BREAK—" static, the phone spits a few more sparks. "You're one. You'd know. Why did you have that comic. What did—" another growl, less stifled. "Buy a better comic."
"That's what the comic's about, Galgal," you say quietly. "How hard it is to stop being a weapon. How you keep finding out you still are one even when you thought you were past it. That's why I have it." Too personal; rein it in. You clear your throat. "Well, I'm only a weapon against paperwork, now."
"It seems you are butthurt, Commander Kadros," the phone says with smooth impersonality. "I have taken the liberty of adjusting your salary for the purchase of diaperstub friction-mitigation powder. Please be sure to properly apply it as per directions on the carton." A tiny, wicked giggle. "And in front of cameras you haven't taped up."
"You're a perv," you point out, and to your shock it comes out almost a laugh. "I'm thinking you're also the reason so much of the paperwork is done on paper. Bit of a prankster? You don't mess with Aspera's phone, though. He knew it was me."
"Not my style," The phone sniffs. "This is," and the phone blares with a pop-up porn video at top volume, some highblood moaning hungrily as he's choked with an enormous red rubber bulge, cerulean tears streaking down his cheeks— the mass of the bulge shows in his throat— three, four hands fisted in his hair— the video closes itself. "I like to wake the Captain up," the phone says, darkly smug.
"He sleeps little enough as it is," you point out. "Just a minute, rinsing off." You pull the plug and turn on the shower. A quick scrub, all you have the energy for, and you're at least free of grease, even if there are a few stubborn grimy bits left. You towel yourself roughly, pull on your shorts, and drag yourself to your recuperacoon, taking the phone with you. "Who's Aspera's kismesis? He hasn't mentioned one, but."
There's a crackly, humming pause, a thoughtful pause. "Me, probably. Maybe. If I were a troll." The phone brings up a picture, bloodswap fanart of the winter soldier. Rustblood. A helm instead of a cryopod. "I'm not, though. You're cleared for takeoff, Commander Kadros."
"No, I --" You stop, looking at the picture. It's pretty good. You save it to your photo folder. "Nice, thanks. No, I'm not going to try and get between you guys, that would be such a dick move." You're relieved to have a reason to get over your dumb crush. Not disappointed at all. It's dangerous that Galgal is funny and interesting to talk to, but you can just stay out of the helmsblock until you forget his long legs and ridiculous eyelashes.
"You're cleared for a dick move, Commander Kadros," the phone says in the same smoothly professional tone. "In front of a camera you haven't taped up."
"Too tired, sorry. Didn't you get enough watching the captain with that frightful hammerhead he had to put on lipstick to welcome?" Yawning, you get out a little battery powered alarm clock. Galgal can't tamper with that.
"I could stand to get a little more," the phone snickers. "You noticed the lipstick, huh, Commander? His girlfriend taught him. It was a glorious Troll Pygmalion up in this bitch the first sweep. I have videos of him poking his eyeball with mascara and then crying. Good times." The phone makes a downloading blip! . "It is an enduring shame that this hapless piece of shit survived me for three whole sweeps," the captain-killer says. "Bump him off for me, will you? Tell everyone I did it."
"Now, now, don't outsource your blackflirting, it's not romantic," you say mock-scoldingly as you look to see what just downloaded. You hope it's Aspera failing at mascara. It is, and it's hilarious. You end up laughing until you wheeze. "I needed that, thank you," you say softly. You turn out the light and lay back in the sopor.
