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The damage they took during that last, reckless ram to Weatherall’s rogue destroyer should not have left them alive. It should have ripped through their hull without trouble and left the crew, the stowaways, and the poor old hire-ons floating lifeless into the black expanse of space, propelled by flame and flash alike. It should have been their end, and it would have been a righteous one at that. Not a perfect or even expected end—no one on the Wurst had decided that unit was meant to be their last—but one that would have been remembered as foolish, desperate, and overwhelmingly noble.
Instead they are here, back at Madrugada Station with the knowledge that, for the first time in a rough nargon, they do not have to worry about any one of multiple factions descending upon them with the threat of arrest or death. Two malton units since they sputtered into a vacant dock, leaving wreckage among the asteroids, and the mechanics are only just finishing up their repairs. Despite the event not too far off from the station and the absolute tatters The Wurst had been left in, the expected curiosity or suspicion-laced interrogations had not come. A welcome, in a way. Answering to the likes of UFTP workers, no matter how outside the grand plan they may have been, wasn’t an exact desire of anyone. JibJob workers given the go ahead to return home for a time, the remnants of the crew—along with a few added strays—had been granted seclusion to lick their wounds and calm the wracked constitutions after such an intense fight. No one had strayed too far from the ship, fatigue heavy in the air. Now, marbecs prior to a fresh new shield and hull, the dock is lively with those moving in and around the bay doors.
Norman Takamori has set himself away from the brunt of the crowd. The dock is no more than a large strip of steel stretching out into the mere edges of the station’s artificial gravity, nothing beneath it but further walkways that span far below. He stands near the edge, hands behind his back. A natural frown sits comfortably across his expression as he stares out at the moon they, apparently, had decided to save.
You know it was more than just that.
“Too much to understand,” Norman gruffs quietly.
I can explain again?
With such a strong rush of exhaustion Norman knows there is nothing he would enjoy less, not right now, not while he’s still worrying over memories from the Brigade that were truly supposed to be his own rather than repressed beneath a metal craniobolt. There is too much on his mind.
Right, okay, comes the voice in his head once more. Got it.
There’s another thing Norman needs to acclimate to; anything he thinks, feels, and experiences is shared with more than just himself. Only the barest hints of privacy.
Amidst the frenzy of new information and a decision needed to be made in the blink of a ribec, he hadn’t been given much time to think over the particulars of agreeing to symbiosis. Too much had changed in too little time, and Norman had never been one to make the best choices while under stress and expectation. With the general acknowledgement that everything has been bettered with his absence, it had seemed easier to simply submit to whatever was readily presented. A way out. A way of reconciliation among the crew who, for reasons unknown, didn’t and still don’t mind keeping him around in some respects.
Norman had told himself that this new weird thing, this symbiosis, would only get a trial run. After, if change is something he cannot accomplish and progress is made in reverse, then he will ask for the dark haze of being fully taken over by someone who knows how to live his life better than himself.
It wasn’t a terrible place to be.
A bolt of something he thinks might be anger originates from that foreign conscience. He can’t catch the subtleties of it, quick that it is, before the feeling dies.
Norman tightens the clasp of his hands where they rest behind his back. There’s a learning curve to understanding emotions that aren’t even his own, but he does wish he didn’t have to rely on simply time in order to master it. He wishes two malton units were perfectly acceptable.
Some of the dock workers shout about wanting to finish up before lunch. He nearly turns around to warn they better not rush his ship repairs just for a damn meal, but he staunches that thread of action. He doesn’t have a right to say those words anymore. The freighter is named The Wurst, not The Red Hot.
“Do you have a name?” he asks under his breath. No need letting anyone think him unsound, talking to himself staring off into nothingness.
Are you asking me?
“Who else would I be asking?”
Of course I have a name, it says reproachfully. I know you’ve heard the crew. They call me Skip.
Norman rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Figures. Thought they were just doing it on purpose. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to tell them not to call me Skip.”
You don’t like Skip? comes with an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.
“I’m— I was their captain. It was too familiar.”
Skip prods at the hem of their connection.
“It’s fine, I guess,” Norman says with as much indifference as he can muster. “As long as they’re addressing you with it.”
It would be a little confusing having two Skips.
Norman doesn’t need to say how that isn’t the only confusing thing he’s woken up to. Skip hears it all the same.
Being back on the ship is somewhat uncomfortable.
What his crew—his former crew, his current co-owners, as hard a pill that is to swallow—have done to him isn’t a full mutiny, but it certainly falls under the umbrella of it. He’s still here, he still gets to be the pilot, and he’s still addressed as Captain, sometimes, but he doesn’t have full run of the ship any longer. What he says doesn’t always go.
Some of the residual leadership duties fall to Skip, just on account of having driven Norman’s body for over a nargon, but most of them fall rather to Margaret.
Out of all the changes he’s come to live with, that is the least surprising. She’d already been the main source of income for The Red Hot, and the only one save himself that Norman had felt was any sort of competent. With his sudden absence, he’s glad it was her who stepped up and put the whole crew back on track.
The increase in funds plays no small part in it. Norman can certainly get used to living comfortably, despite no longer having claim to the captain’s quarters.
Skip seems content enough to stay in the gunner bunks. They aren’t too far off from the bridge, fairly central, but with an android who doesn’t sleep the only organics left sharing with are the clones.
Norman never really respected Barry before. He could appreciate having a body to fill one half of the gunner stations, another one of which he could get away with paying terribly underhanded, and of all the crew Barry always was the one who looked the most physically threatening—a perfect fit for the proldier lifestyle—but he didn’t like the guy. He didn’t like anyone. Nevertheless, Norman isn’t oblivious. Live in close quarters with anyone long enough and their histories sort of get absorbed by proximity alone.
So he knows that this new Barry, violet-haired and worn-weary and quiet, previously a marauder stealing aboard The Wurst under the sole objective to cause harm, is the one his own Barry had hated with all his being. Norman doesn’t want to call it hope, seeing the casual way the clones interact. He knows the situations are somewhat different.
The two are stood at the wide steel table in the middle of the room, cleaning out the array of weapons between them. Body armors doffed, dressed down to matching black underclothes for the late marbec. Barry Syx barely looks up as he enters the quarters, asks in a mild, distracted tone, “Hey Skip, you ‘bout to sleep?”
“I guess,” Skip says with a shrug. He’s in the front for now, so much time spent around the crew that Norman has naturally migrated to the safety of the back of the mind.
“We can take this out in the hall, right Barry?”
Nyne nods.
Heading to a bunk that looks moderately slept in, military corners loose and rumpled, Skip waves Barry off with an indifferent, “It’s all good, baby.”
Norman has really only known this cerebroslug for a handful of malton units. Even in such a short period Skip has said some questionable things, sayings and vocabulary that Norman doesn’t think he himself has ever uttered before. The thing’s almost like a pull-string, loaded up with phrases he can utilize across various situations, and Norman has a suspicion that Barry had a hand in a vast percentage of them.
Sitting down on the mattress, legs crossed, Skip asks him, All okay?
“They get twenty martrons,” Norman grumbles.
“Got it, Cap, twenty martrons!”
He needs to remember to speak to Skip in his head. Some of it comes easy and instinctively—the strong emotions, the surface-level thoughts, his inner dialogue—but direct conversation usually eludes him. It’s more than just a habit to speak to someone else using vocalities, it’s his species’ whole biology. There is no mind-link like the robotic and androidic consciences, there is no psychic-link like the fair number of extraplanetaries.
It’s a learning process.
It’s a learning process, Skip agrees.
Norman runs a palm across the bedding beneath them. It’s a little scratchy, a little too thin. Cycles ago had seen him shelling out an inappropriate amount of credits to mod his own quarters to the nines, and yet he can’t remember ever taking into consideration what the rest of his organic crewmates were sleeping on. Even if he had, Norman doubts he would have given a shit.
He grimaces, just to himself. He’s already been faced with the obvious realization that he’s acted a complete prick for most of his adult life, but some things dig a little harsher into that wall he’d built around himself—sleeping on cheap bedding in a ship he was proud to own certainly being one of them.
Something out there must not want him to stray too far maudlin, for Barry interrupts his thoughts with a shout of, “Hey Skip, think fast!”
A bright magenta blotch streaks from across the room and lands in their lap. Skip picks it up by the brim, soft felty leather beneath his fingers, and hums in reflective satisfaction as Barry adds, “Forgot to give it back to ya.”
“What the hell is that?” Norman butts in, frowning at the absolute eyesore in their hands.
“A cowboy hat.”
At least better in explaining further context, Barry says, “His souvenir from Baustin. Skip— uh, Skipper, you missed a damn good time, lemme tell ya.”
Baustin was a damn good time.
“Baustin, New Texas?”
Yep.
“Yeah. Where Plug’s from.”
Slowly, with emphasis on each word, Norman says, “That makes too much sense.” To his surprise, Syx lets out a bark of a laugh. It gives Norman pause enough for him to stutter, unused to that level of camaraderie with any of these people. He’d expected more hostility.
“U-um, how… Did he buy this?”
It was the sheriff’s.
“He killed the sheriff for it, man!”
Norman, incredulous to the point of informality, thinks, What the fuck? so stridently in his head that Skip laughs aloud, then says, “He wasn’t a nice person.”
“Guy was a real dick, yeah.”
Barry Nyne looks up then, an uptick at the corner of his mouth, and adds his own voice to the chatter. “That’s the, uh, the ‘get nasty’ thing, right?”
“Get nasty! Skip?”
“Get nasty.”
Syx grins. “Hell yeah man.”
Like a couple of pull-strings. It makes the offense from another moment of being out of the loop among his own somewhat-peers a little less irritating.
I will show you later.
“You’ll, um,” Norman clears his throat and shakes his head when the Barrys look to him with a question, focuses on speaking with thoughts alone. You’ll show me?
The memory, yeah. Instead of just trying to explain it.
Huh.
It’s pretty cool.
He knows that Skip has seen his memories. That’s just how the slugs work, perfectly adapted to hijack a body through the brain—and that does mean everything held in the brain. It’s easy for them, or at least it should be.
Norman hadn’t thought it possible to work the other way around. Skip’s in his brain, he isn’t in Skip’s.
I guess, uh, that’s another symbiosis thing? he asks.
I guess so.
The clatter of an abundance of firearms pulls his attention back to the Barrys. Easily do they grab armfuls of their newly-cleaned guns and belts and—moved from one massive pile on the table—drop them into a similar pile onto the bunk closest to the door.
“Is that where those go?”
“You can’t be everyone’s dad, Skip!” Syx says, a partial laugh undercutting the jab.
Skip merely shrugs, then says, “Turn off the light while you’re up.”
Your obsession with playing father figure is really weird.
I thought you always wanted to be a dad.
“Mother Void, help me,” Norman mumbles with a shake of his head, decides to ignore that for the time being. It’s truly too late for it.
Barry does flick the lights off without any more complaint, even as both of the clones dip out the room with vague comments of finding Sid and Aurora, more than likely hanging out in the theater. Left in dark dimly lit by LED runners along the baseboards, he gets settled for sleep.
It’s rarely a quick affair. Norman had always quietly envied his fellow cadets who could in a moment drop their head to any surface and be snoring in ribecs, for unless he was taxed to the point of literal fatigue, Norman would lay and await unconsciousness for half a marbec, more on the worst units. Betrayed by his own bastard brain with thoughts that never shut up—old paranoia, frivolous recollections, decisions he’d make with fervor that by sunlight would be either forgotten or shunted back with such disdain. It’s not insomnia, though for a time he thought that was the correct diagnosis, self-imposed as it of course was. He simply has personal and laughable issues with relaxation and letting his guard down.
Therefore after a handful of martrons spent in dark silence, eyes closed and simply waiting, when a paralyzing numbness suddenly spreads to his limbs Norman startles with a sharp spike of panic that only heightens when he tries to sit up and finds that he can’t.
What’s wrong?
“What’s— what is— what are you doing?”
Shutting us down for sleep?
“Well stop it.”
Feeling returns in a snap. He moves his limbs to test them, brings his hands up to his face and breathes deep but shakily into the palms.
The past few nights you fell asleep quickly. I was only trying to help.
Skip’s voice is pure concern, an apology. And he’s right, the past few nights Norman’s been out like a light thanks to exhaustion and having to recover from two deep stab wounds that very nearly killed him. The med pack helped, but he’s not as young as he was in his heyday. His body needs rest to recover from something like that, and it certainly took that rest the moment he allowed it.
“You… you’ve done that before,” Norman says. “You did that while, you know, I was… gone?”
I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to.
“No, it’s—”
My first night in this body I didn’t sleep at all. I had to be told how to do it. Once I found the specific parts of this brain that needed to be shut off for sleep, it just seemed pointless to wait for it to happen naturally.
Norman’s trying to fault an alien species who has the barest sense of human customs, when realistically he doesn’t think he has the right to. Heart rate leveling out, he says, “It caught me off guard. Just don’t— don’t do it again. Get used to waiting, I guess.”
There’s a pause, longer than Norman would like, and then Skip is reaching out along their tether to lay pressure on his thoughts. It’s not pushing, not an intrusive talon trying to dig further, but he says, You were frightened, in the air of someone who knows there’s more to be said, more that Norman isn’t willing to divulge.
“Yes,” he agrees without any further explanation, and once more settles back. The bunk mattresses have little give, and he’s more on edge than he’d been before. A distraction would be beneficial here.
Hesitant, back to the hovel of his mind, Norman suggests, Why don’t you show me Baustin instead of trying to put me under.
With relief, Skip does just that.
It’s almost like watching a film, if the image was vignetted with a blur and the sound was somewhat muted. Behind closed eyelids plays a memory not his own, shown through the lens of someone having a genuine time exerting the full strength of their skill set.
He sees purple first, that same bright magenta now at the side of their bunk, on the head of a thick-shouldered beard of a man. The titular sheriff he won’t ever care enough to ask the name of looks to be talking to Margaret, all cavalier grins and a leaned-back posture Norman despises even from here, and— oh, he’s trying to swindle himself out of paying them for a well-completed job. Slick and underhanded and only asking for a band of proldiers to set him straight.
“Whattaya think, Skip?” comes to his left, comes from Barry, comes in a tone that invites chaos.
Norman knows if Skip had left the body’s pain sensors on that he wouldn’t have been able to raise his leg that high and that perfectly ballet-straight up to the sheriff’s shoulder, but it does provide a great opening for the horrid gun-boots he insists on keeping to get off a quick shot before any of the Lone Star Directorate can react.
It’s impressive, the amount of damage Skip manages to deal in a matter of ribecs, jumping and hiding and throwing blade instead of bullet, using the ill-begotten jetpack to set up shop in the rafters of this grease pit for a good bit of the fight. It’s doubly impressive that he’s the one to find the quickest and somewhat obvious solution to the sheriff’s cowardly vanishing act—without even knowing the word for phone—and then not hesitate in the slightest to crash through a window and finally end what he started. And Skip had attacked the other deputies down on the ground fighting against the rest of his crew, but his target had always been the sheriff. A thick rush of triumph bleeds out from the memory, underscoring the final clean shot, red laser to the throat, that brutally severs the man’s head from the rest of his body.
Norman still can’t help but to mentally roll his eyes seeing the origins of get nasty, but Skip mounting the sheriff’s head to the top of a bright pink cactus for no other reason but to gloat, is a contrasting intimidation in and of itself. He can relate to the wide-eyed bewilderment of the crew, spilling out of the diner with newly acquired weaponry in their arms just before the memory fades quick into black.
“You’re really not—” Norman tries, finds his voice a broken wisp in the empty dark of the room, and yawns to the point of his jaw popping. You’re really not a bad fighter.
Skip nods. Right on.
Right on. It’s close enough to a fitting response that Norman doesn’t even notice the catchphrase. Probably helps that you weren’t feeling pain there. He’s still a little—a lot—sore, is sure to be so for a good nargon more.
A silent apology rides atop the calm Skip sends over the line.
Yes. Well. It was very fun to do.
Norman means to reply, another lighthearted jab at all the ways the slug had unintentionally messed him up, but the requested distraction acted as favorably as he’d hoped, and sleep pulls heavy at him. He means to reply, but one moment in silence leads easily into the next until it all wavers into nothing.
The cerebroslug’s first invasion into Norman’s body was truly that—an invasion. It had been painful, and he hadn’t known what he had just put himself in the path of by sticking his head in that crate and rummaging through their failed haul. For how slow he’s seen the slugs move while out of body, Skip latching on and initiating a full takeover happened much too fast for Norman to even notice anything was wrong, until it already was. He had felt pain, and a violating sense of something forcing its way through his head, then all he’d been left aware of was the swift darkening of his vision and a dizzy loss of balance. Between that and waking up in a UFTP prison station, there had been next to nothing. Just a blind timelessness intercut with hints of emotion from the one fronting his body, too weak to base anything off of.
(Of course, the one exception being Norman seeing himself, a reflection in the ship’s tiny bathroom mirror, with that same something talking directly to him. Trying to recall that one-sided conversation now feels like a fever dream, but it’s laced only in understanding and a bitter acceptance.)
Norman had been awake for the first one. Only from the detailed recap he’d received does he know that each successive time Skip reattached himself to Norman’s brainstem, Norman was incapacitated, had been forced into incapacitation in order to welcome in someone more preferable.
When faced with a repeat of letting in that same cerebroslug while awake and completely cognizant of that decision, Norman—ignoring the disturbance of meeting mouths with this sweaty and meek stranger that his crew were only too shocked to see—had braced for the worst.
There had still been pain, but compared to the full pair of stab wounds in his stomach Norman had hardly even winced. More prevalent was this slick and slimy feeling guiding itself through his sinuses before a pressure he could only compare to a heavy head cold settled over him, some sense of movement occurring amidst his brain. A martron of discomfort, then a bright and taut connection sparked into existence, joining the interstices and wells of his mind to those of another, familiar in the faintest sense.
Okay. This is new.
The voice itself had been strange, and had come from inside but separate from his thoughts—similar enough to how their Aguatunesian communicates that Norman hadn’t startled too badly. It mirrored the softly warped and deepened tone the slug had spoken with at their reflection, having to make use of Norman’s established vocal cords, and he remembers finding that surprising. He’d expected, subconsciously hoped for even, for the slug to sound a lot less like a full person.
“So we’re, you know, good?”
All good.
For something that would have been more of a revelation under any other circumstance, they’d had much to do elsewhere than to give their new symbiosis a thorough examination in that moment. Simple introductions, a quick mechanical check-in, and just enough understanding for Norman to pilot his own body alongside someone else standing on the bridge. Soon enough would he be able to face his new reality with more than a fleeting, distracted glance. Soon enough would Norman have to try.
Half a nargon is spent in comfortable vacation. The Wurst isn’t wanting for credits, nobody is out actively searching for them. They have time to relax with no destination ahead.
Mindful not to waste fuel units meandering through open space, the crew of The Wurst find themselves docked far from the Phoebus System, in a corner of the universe none of them have visited before. Antipath Station isn’t as grand or bustling as Rec 97, but there is still plenty to entertain themselves with until restlessness has them in search of a new job contract. Local eateries, live shows with an array of talents, even a section that seems almost carnival-esque. No casinos, so Barry’s Big Win is standing strong with no competition to contend with. There’s a spread of hotels throughout the station as well, growing ever the more luxurious the closer they are to entertainment, and, unlike the nuns off on planet Lavada, they do not splurge on the fanciest place with a separate room for each of them, no matter how many credits they may have to their name. A modest hotel with three rooms between them all, just enough space to be comfortable.
It’s been a novel, delicate process, spending time amongst the crew Norman never allowed himself to get too close to before. Skip calls them friends, calls them family, and though Norman isn’t quite at either of those designations yet he isn’t an outsider ruining the routine, either. They might have walked on eggshells around him the first few malton units, but with Skip as sort of familiar mediator softening the reunion between captain and crew, there are no outwardly awkward acts.
It makes everything easier, especially the mornings before splitting off in different areas of the rec station to follow individual interests, where those of The Wurst gather for complimentary breakfast in the hotel dining hall.
They’ve been at the Epoch Suites long enough now that, when they push a couple tables together to hold the entirety of their party, the hotel servicers no longer bat an eye. It’s a better breakfast than what they get on the ship, if he’s being honest, yet that’s only thanks to the variety of choice. Norman’s not afraid to say that eating more than just eggs prepared in different ways is good for the body.
He’s nearly done, anxious to get on with the unit, when Sidney skates over and plops herself down in the open seat beside him.
“Heya Skip, I gotta question. A request, really.”
Skip comes to the front and nods to her. “Okay.”
“D’ya think the next place we park could be somethin’ with an atmosphere? I’d like to be able to take Aurora on her runs again. It’s been a while.”
Skip tugs at Norman’s thoughts with the same question on his mind, and Norman agrees with a mental frown, unsure as to why Skip needs to check in with him on that. He’s obviously made favorable decisions with the ship’s travel before, and Norman can say he trusts him to continue to do so now.
“Okay, yeah. We can do that.”
“Oh good, Skipper doesn’t mind, then?”
Skip gives her a small nod, can’t help but to mirror her grin. Sidney’s always had an infectious sort of glee.
“Nelsium isn’t too far away, if you’re looking for suggestions,” Lucienne says over the far end of the table. She gets a confused look from everyone, whatever moon/planet/dwarf she’s referring to not registering as anything recognizable. “Really, Nelsium? Nobody?”
“Not everyone has your knowledge of the Kaiser Belt, babe,” Margaret says with a hand to Lucienne’s shoulder, though the babe is more dry and sarcastic than a true token of affection would be. It’s difficult to get a read on those two.
“Oh!” Riva—psychodrone patiently waiting in their seat, handful of psychic donuts long gone—exclaims with a raised hand. “I think one of my siblings started their gallivant there. Does it have a really big ocean?”
Lucienne frowns. “Um, maybe! I always stayed more in the cities.”
“Well. If it does, I think that would be a wonderful place to stay.”
“We could boot up Smash ‘n Grab there,” Gunnie says, grin wide and an expectant glint of glee in his eye. Barry wordlessly gives him a high-five.
They haven’t touched the app in a good while. It would be nice to get back in the groove of it all. Pull up the listings, read through all the junk as more entertainment than consideration, find the needle-in-haystack golden goose egg post offering up thousands of credits from what always seems like just the right amount of a risk-reward payoff. An adrenaline rush that ends with them getting paid.
Sounds easier than how I was finding work, Norman says.
It is. A lot of it is useless, though. Not really worth the time.
Despite the warning, Norman knows that prior to their fortunate million-credit gladiator winnings, the app kept The Wurst afloat. Well, he pushes his own primness down, you all did well for yourselves with it before.
“I’m with Gunnie, you know,” Sid adds. “We both don’t really do well with water, but Aurora does! If there’s an ocean, I think we should go there. We can go runnin’ on the beach!”
No one else raises any objections, and with plans sorted for the time being, breakfast plates scraped clean, Norman takes his leave. He isn’t the first to split off—he’s trying to change, he is changing, and sitting down with everyone for more than just the minimum required amount of time is one of his first steps in doing so—but once Margaret has stepped away back to the room, Norman feels he can’t be faulted for following suit.
The rooms of this hotel are labeled as suites, so while their group has to triple up on each one, there are enough beds and enough space to not feel so cramped and on top of each other, especially counting the couple of them who don’t need organic sleep. Margaret is unsurprisingly still in their room when he makes it back up to the fourth floor, travel laptop out on the table and unaware of anything except for what she’s focused on typing up, spine straight and expression hardened.
Probably should leave her alone, Skip says, as if Norman was planning on striking up a conversation.
“Yeah no,” he mutters, stepping over the mess Gunnie made the night before by tripping over his own mechanics kit and telling them he’d pick it up eventually, heading to the en-suite. “Let’s just take a shower before everyone else comes looking for somethin’ to do.”
The first time Skip had gone to shower off, to clean the grime of malton unit-old sweat from a stressful battle away, Norman had pulled the reins and stopped them right in the middle of the hallway, just outside the communal showers. He couldn’t, in that moment, recognize that Skip had been in his body for plenty long enough that it would be near impossible for him to not see the entirety of his body, but natural human shame and privacy had not allowed Norman to take that first step into total transparency for upwards of a few marbecs. It had taken even longer for him to realize that there’s a high probability that Skip, being an alien creature with no concept of sex and gender outside of their hosts, thought and still thinks nothing amiss about the bodycraft.
There’s no hesitation now. Steam engulfs the fluorescent-lit room in no time at all, water turned to the point of near-scalding. It’s much hotter than he would ever previously use, and it turns his skin red and touch-sensitive, but it’s a compromise of taste he agreed to, and he’s getting used to it.
Skip usually goes quiet during these times, on account of the original panic and trying still to ease it, Norman doesn’t know. It’s not like they have a constantly running dialogue no matter the situation, but something about the silence always seemed decisive to Norman.
He’s nearly done, a quick bathe to give him enough time to dress, but while rinsing out his hair his hands skate across the back of his neck, over the slight bump at the very base of his skull. He knows that’s where Skip is, where his body has latched on to the brainstem, but he hasn’t yet given himself the chance to inspect it; the first time he felt the thing had given him such a shock that he’d forcefully ignored it just to keep his composure in the face of Skip questioning what had startled him so.
For what he can do now, Norman lets the spray wash over him while he feels around the edges of the bump, mapping out the smooth oval it makes. He’s surprised it doesn’t hurt, and, curious, he lightly presses down—
Watch it.
He jumps, withdrawing his hand immediately as if the scold had physically burned him as well. He sends an apology with a wince, closing his eyes against his own thoughtless action, yet he still had managed to feel the firmness of a real presence there under the skin, not just a voice in his head but a whole organism.
With a loud reassurance, Skip says, I just don’t want you to accidentally squash me.
“That can happen?”
Your skin isn’t armor. So yes.
Norman’s stomach turns at the thought.
Skip hums, some sort of emotion leaking out over their connection. Then, in the pitched tone of Norman’s own voice, low and glottal in the way Skip speaks, says aloud, “You wouldn’t have done anything. I know it, and I think you should know it, too.”
That’s not what I’m worried about, he says only just loud enough for Skip to still hear it. Biologically, the back of any humanoid’s neck is a weak point, but now that Norman knows that a well-aimed shot or even an unlucky accident could harm more than just his own body, he’s already entertaining the idea of a neck brace.
A confusing contrast to everything Norman is growing ever more paranoid about, Skip snorts, then laughs outright. “A neck brace?” he asks, and it comes out teasing.
Embarrassed and angry about it, red in the face, he hurriedly rinses out the rest of the suds before shutting the water off and grabbing a towel off its hook, wrapping it around his waist. “Alright, we’re done here. Get hurt all you fucking want,” he grouches. Then, a muttering afterthought, “Damn slug.”
His heat has the unfortunate effect of only further laughter from Skip, a thrum of amusement radiating from him. Norman does not notice the slight contented relief Skip has at the successful diversion of wherever he was beginning to spiral, too caught up in drying and getting dressed and ignoring the churn of muddled emotions in his chest.
“It’s very concerning hearing you laugh to yourself in there,” Margaret says as soon as they reopen the bathroom door.
Norman can only snort in response.
Nelsium is a small, colorful planet. Foregoing any ship nurseries at the outset, The Wurst rests parked on a stretch of flat rock plains beside the swath of beach Riva, as well as a few others, had insisted upon exploring. It’s barren this early in the morning, crystal pink sands misted over where the heat of the sea meets the cold, cold air of this planet.
“Yeah! Good girl, Aurora!”
Barren, save for an android and her dog, and Norman heads down the gangplank to join them.
Aurora is kicking up sand and splashing through foamy deep teal water as she pounces after the quick and slippery terrapins Sid digs up, her gun hand noticeably covered in the wet sand. They hadn’t been half a marbec planetside before Aurora had sniffed out her favored prey along the shoreline, and she’s yet to grow tired of chasing after them all. Even now she’s a bit bloody around the muzzle, bright green viscera caught in her needle-like fangs.
Really is a beautiful dog, Norman thinks passively. He doesn’t expect it to cause Skip to bark out a laugh that echoes across the beach, breath fogging in the air.
How is that funny?
Will you be mad if I tell you not to worry about it?
The briefest pulse of traditional brigadier indignation is smothered by Sidney, alerted by the laugh, calling out, “Mornin’ Cap! You ready to run?”
It was not Norman’s idea to use the marbec before anyone else wakes—the one he usually gets to himself—to join Sid and Aurora on their morning runs, but Lucienne made a passing comment about staying fit while living on a starship and Skip had latched on to that concept in a heartbeat, wanting to keep his host healthy any way he can. And Norman isn’t a stranger to getting a quick jog in, but it’s been a good few cycles; this is the one time he’ll let Skip turn their pain sensors off.
(That had been an important conversation, regarding the pain sensors. For the handful of things Norman had to compromise on, that one had him firmly standing his ground. Maybe for Skip’s alien biology it doesn’t make sense to let the body feel pain, but Norman isn’t going to kill himself just because he doesn’t realize he’s broken a bone, snapped a tendon, or simply overextended himself. Pain is a good, natural limiter.
(Getting out and getting pure exercise, though, he’ll rescind that decision a little bit.))
The sand here is denser than that of Amercadia, more firmly packed together and easier to walk on. He still leaves light indents of his footprints behind as he crosses the shoreline to them, coming up short only when Aurora bounds over and snarls welcomingly, muzzle right at eye level. The fear Norman originally felt at the aggressive nature of this royal blue mastiff, no matter how beautiful it is, died fairly quick under the realization that the only sounds Aurora makes are naturally terrifying. He pats her on the flank between the spines, in as close to a pet as he can get. The water steams off her skin.
To Aurora, he says, “Yeah, yeah, hey girl.” To Sid, “Mornin’. You gonna let me stretch this time?”
She does and, though she has no need to do so herself, mimics his movements beside him. The stretches are the same ones he used in his university track and field career, remembered and unchanged all these cycles later, and he gets to spend ten martrons silently counting, only just long enough for Sidney to finally clap him on the back and push him into getting a move on.
Though the morning air on Nelsium is colder than either Norman or Skip would like, it’s nothing close to dangerous, and the brisk pace Aurora sets for their run has them perspiring quick. For how much of a fuss Norman drummed up prior to getting dragged into tagging along on these outings, he doesn’t mind the workout, perhaps even admits to enjoying it. The aftereffects of exercise are always good for the brain, good for the body, and Sidney doesn’t really chatter on like he initially expected her to. He assumes she’s taking in as much of the sights of this small corner of the planet as he is, flat stretch of beaches subsumed by rocky outcroppings that jut from the earth, shrubbery growing off them in an odd periwinkle moss. There are no signs of life here aside from the flora and fauna, no homes or storefronts or docks decaying the natural environment. It’s more than he can say for the world he grew up on, where there’s little corner of the lands left that haven’t seen the disintegrating touch of humanoids.
You ever want to stay planetside? Skip asks. Like maybe for longer than a few malton units?
Do you?
You seem like you enjoy this. Atmosphere and… stuff.
Norman scoffs through his labored breaths. It’s a good break but, no. I like being out in space, I like being on the move.
You don’t want to settle down?
“Do you want to settle down?”
Sid, a half-pace ahead of them, glances over her shoulder and then—clocking the unmistakable bewilderment on his face—begins to roller skate across the hard-packed sand backwards. “What are y’all chattin’ about back there?” she asks with a wild grin, not at all out of breath.
“Thought we agreed to keep quiet on these runs, droid!” he calls over the wind.
Hey now.
Oh, she and the Barrys can say it, but I can’t?
Sid is rather unfazed. If anything, her grin widens at his attempt to dodge the question. “You know, I really thought y’all were gonna hate each other,” she says. “Glad y’all seem to be, uh, really gettin’ along.”
The red in his cheeks is from the cold, and the exertion. Nothing else.
Um, ignore her, Skip says. Even on his end of the brain is a thin thread of embarrassment, though Norman doesn’t care to look too close at the source of said embarrassment. He wouldn’t want to find it a result of Skip being ashamed of him. But to answer your question, no. Neither do I.
Then why even ask?
Skip shrugs. To make sure.
You gotta give me more than that, pal.
To make sure our goals are the same. I’ve had problems with that before.
“Can I say one more thing?” Sidney asks, slowing to jog beside them. Aurora begins bounding in circles around them all.
They go to reply at the same time—Skip to agree, Norman to tell her absolutely not—and garbled gibberish comes out instead. It’s a quick shoving match to use the vocal cords in which Skip wins the contest, inwardly smug as he says, “Sorry about that. What were you saying?”
“Oh, I— It’s fine!” Her eyes are wide, curious. “Well, this may be rude to Captain Norman but, I just really never expected y’all to work out!”
Skip frowns.
“I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m glad y’all do! But. Well. The Skipper I knew would have never been able to be like this” —and she uses her non-gun hand to gesture to their whole body— “for very long.”
It isn’t an unjust observation to make. It might score a bit into Norman’s ego, but it has every right to.
“What I’m tryin’ to say is… I think you’re good for him, Skip.”
“Okay,” Skip nods, an almost imperceptible smile at his lips. “Do I say thank you?”
She laughs. “Sure! And, uh, Captain Norman?” and as she meets his eyes—really meets his eyes, not Skip’s—her voice turns sincere, sharp-edged and solid. “I have started to believe you’re tryin’ your best to be kinder. That doesn’t mean I’ll completely forgive and forget everything you used to say to us, but. It’s a good start.”
Norman dips his chin in a nod of thanks, unable to hold her gaze for too long. He says, “And I wouldn’t ask you to,” and the words come out waterlogged.
She slaps him on the back hard enough for him to cough through whatever appreciation had lodged itself in his chest. “That’s what I like to hear! Now come on, we best turn back now or you’ll miss breakfast.”
By the time they return to where the ship’s settled, everyone else has woken and made their own ways to the beach. The dual suns have risen on Nelsium and turned the cold early dawn air too-warm, perfect for a unit of relaxation and vacation.
Skip bids Sidney goodbye as Norman steers them quickly toward the bay doors, sweating and sticky and—with their pain sensors flipped back on—legs aching, a stitch in his side. A shower can solve all of those.
They pass Gunnie on the way up, a fair distance from the sea with his datapad in hand, sitting cross-legged in the sand. His brows are knitted at the cause of whatever he’s working on.
“Morning, son,” Skip says, doesn’t take it to heart when Gunnie barely responds, only a half-wave without looking up and an unintelligible murmur of acknowledgement.
Norman pulls them up short. Takes a partial step closer to get a better look over Gunnie’s shoulder at the screen. “Not a problem with the ship, I hope?” he asks.
“What?” Gunnie does look up at that, top half of his cyborg body spinning around to meet Norman’s eye. “No. It’s my— my personal, uh, stuff.”
He crosses his arms and raises a stern eyebrow.
Gunnie pulls a face, explains, “Message. From my dads.”
Norman wishes he hadn’t asked. This is out of his jurisdiction, never a fan of his own parents and barely close enough to the crew to warrant having a chat about any of theirs. He really just wants to wash off, carve out some time for himself, but knows if he steps away now Skip will never let him hear the end of it.
Gunnie never spoke much about his parents, though prior to the slugging Norman did all he could not to gather more information than absolutely necessary about him or anyone else on his ship. Anything known about his crew was usually a result of overhearing conversations and being the unwilling audience for them sharing their stories, out of an attempt to be closer and to maybe get the stick out of his ass, he’s sure. But even then, the young man seemed to keep the topic of his family held close to the chest.
Norman shifts in place. “Um, do you… is everything okay?” he asks, trying and failing to sound casual about it.
Gunnie looks equally uncomfortable with the question, more than likely because Norman’s the one asking it.
This really should be you, he sends to Skip, who says nothing at all. Only a mental hum.
“Everything’s… everything’s fine, yes,” Gunnie says in the tone people use when things are decidedly not fine. “It’s my own stuff, family stuff, you know.”
Norman does know. Maybe not in the exact way Gunnie means, but he can empathize with anyone suffering the weight of their parents’ wants and judgements, and that includes whatever now plagues his engineer.
“I see. Well, nothing too bad, yes?”
“No, uh, nothing like that,” he says. “Now, thank you, but— uh, yeah. It’s fine, you can go.”
He blinks at the thoughtless wave Gunnie gives as he turns his back to Norman, then, after a moment to decide if he actually should let it be, he does just that. There’s a time and place for everything, and if Gunnie wants to confide in anyone about his parents Norman doubts it’ll be with him. Norman doesn’t need it to be with him. He just needs to know that the ship’s engineer and budding pilot-in-training is anchored enough to stay with them, not near to returning home on behalf of some message, no matter the sender.
He’s back aboard by the time Skip speaks his mind.
You think he’s okay?
I think he’s a grown man, and can take care of himself.
Maybe.
Not unkindly, Norman says, You care too much.
The reproach he can feel Skip wants to say doesn’t come, at least not in so many words; it instead suffuses across the mind, petulant.
Just. Leave well alone, yeah?
Leave well alone?
Exactly. If he wants to talk about it, he will. Don’t try and force it to happen, it’ll just make it worse. He shakes his head, humorless sigh of a laugh on his tongue. Trust me.
Skip doesn’t like it, but there’s an honesty to Norman’s words that give him enough reason to follow his advice, a truth that says he’s been there before. He says nothing more, but tucks a reminder into the back of their thoughts to keep an eye on Gunnie, just in case. Norman nods his allowance.
The gashes in his stomach have healed to the point of a soft remaining redness. There’s a thinning scab, the skin ridged where it’s gone and stitched itself back together, though not much pain anymore. Not unless deep pressure is applied. Therefore Norman—somewhat distracted, partway dressed with a clean shirt still on the bunk in front of him, hair damp—can mindlessly run his fingers over the skin without wincing, simply testing the taut give of the barely-there wound.
Think it’ll scar? he asks.
Scar?
Yeah. You know what a scar is, right?
He can feel Skip rooting around in his metaphorical word banks, taking from Norman’s own knowledge and experience. Then, Oh. Yes, of course I know what a scar is, and his hand trails up to Norman’s chest, though those are faded pale.
A corner of his mouth ticks up, Norman not able to help the way a certain fondness spreads. Well? he says.
Do you… want it to?
He shrugs. He has no real preference either way. Scars are cool, sometimes. I did get stabbed with my own dagger, though.
There’s nothing from Skip for what feels like a long time. The quiet of their connection is unnerving, like Norman’s missed something important, said something he shouldn’t. He’s just about to reach out and check if something’s wrong when Skip finally hums a note of disagreement and says, I wouldn’t really like having a reminder of the time you nearly died.
Norman has been in a lot of fights. He’s a prideful guy, and from rural Kansas schools to inductions into the Brigade to that long uphill battle of his first cycle in the lowlife proldier community, that pride never got him anywhere but further outcasted with a black eye and bruised knuckles, with singed hyon beam wounds and stiff joints in his trigger finger. It’s fair to assume he has a disparate perspective to getting hurt, but for Skip to point out just how close to death he was in that moment still somewhat rocks him.
Yeah. Well. Guess that takes the fun out of it, huh?
“I don’t think you understand,” Skip says, cadence suddenly sharp. “You got hurt because of me, because they wanted me. And then I just left you to deal with the pain alone.”
Norman frowns, takes a ribec to notice the cauldron of anger and shame emanating from Skip—such familiar emotions he’s surprised they aren’t his own—and throws on the shirt. “How long’ve you been beating yourself up over that?”
Just now.
“Huh. Okay.”
I haven’t really thought about it. Which is probably not good.
“I actually don’t think you need to give a shit about that. You did what you had to.”
It’s… I— Skip sighs raggedly, more of a growl than anything. “I agree. I did what I had to at the time. Doesn’t mean I don’t also feel like… like I should have thought about more than myself.”
Wasn’t your fault, he gruffs, discomforted by the sincerity and regret lining Skip’s tone.
“It’s how I was raised,” he continues as if not hearing Norman. “How I grew up, in a House that taught us hosts were nothing more than something to be used, so. So maybe you’re not the only one here who’s looking to change.”
It’s more than Norman expected to hear. He pauses beside the door, brows drawn in concern.
“If something like that happened now, I wouldn’t blindly jump ship to leave you with the mess. I need you to know that.”
I do, Skip, I— But he doesn’t. He doesn’t really, and not from any contempt held for the cerebroslug but rather a sort of realistic point of view. If faced with the opportunity to worm himself out of a harried situation and into a better position for his success and livelihood, surely Skip should take that without worrying over the mechanics of his bodycraft. He explains as much, and simplifies it down to, You should do what keeps you safe.
I guess.
Come on, he goads, halfway between amused and irritated. I have been perfectly fine by myself my entire life. Don’t think you need to coddle me over some injury just because you were there for it.
“It’s not—” Skip cuts himself off, tightness in his shoulders and neck. “Look. You are the first host of mine that I’ve actually been happy in. Excuse me for wanting to protect that happiness.”
Void, okay. I get it. He rubs the back of his neck, inadvertently over where Skip is, in a try to lessen the tension there. His chest flutters at the motion, at the kind words too. Let’s leave well alone now, huh? How ‘bout we do that?
Skip hesitates for a ribec, then snorts. You have a hard time hearing nice things about yourself?
It’s unnatural.
Hmm. That single hum, Norman knows, promises mischief, and he mentally swats at Skip and whatever the hell is running the gears in his mind.
Fine, Skip acquiesces. Now are we joining the rest of them, or what?
If we have to.
You know it’s just a courtesy for me to ask you that. They begin to head back through the ship, dressed in clothes he won’t mind getting salt of the sea on (old cargo shorts, a souvenir shirt from the Martini Nebula, certainly not one of his).
“Weren’t you just saying somethin’ about no longer just using your host?” Norman asks, then calls out a muffled cry of surprise when Skip tugs at his thoughts none too lightly. “I’m gonna figure out how to do that, just you wait.”
Everything’s a learning process.
Gunnie—who, by the time the two of them stepped back out onto the beach, had seemingly put aside his datapad as well as his distant mood—offers a suggestion of checking in on the Smash ‘n Grab app after a fair few marbecs idling around the sand.
It makes sense he’d be a bit bored, what with him and Sid the only two unable to really get close to the water. Even Riva has foregone their psychodrone to be able to fully swim in the Nelsium sea, having asked the helpful pair of clones to carry them out to it. Most everyone else is soaked to the bone themselves, hair and clothes sticking to frames and skin already reddened by the alien suns. Norman spent much of this pastime observing the marine life carding about their group without fear or apprehension. Nothing too threatening, the largest of which had been some sort of ray species that didn’t do anything but glide past him in chase after the smaller fish. Had still given him a shock, though, one that Skip had laughed at without apology.
The crew have gone sun-tired. The offer for a bit of an adventurous stretch divides their decisions.
“I don’t know, Gunnie,” Margaret says. “Aren’t you tired?”
“I haven’t done anything all unit!”
“Yeah, we’re kind of bored here,” Sid adds.
“Right, yeah, sorry.”
Gunnie gestures to where Margaret tossed her outerwear, phone somewhere amidst the lump of clothing. “How about we just see what’s around? Might be nothing, but we can pull it up just to look at the prospects, right? No harm in that.”
She rolls her eyes goodnaturedly and leaves Lucienne among the surf to entertain Gunnie.
However, booting up Smash ‘n Grab “just to look at the prospects” was never going to end with just looking at the prospects, not with this crew. For where they are on the planet, the large metropolitan region isn’t too far north, and Margaret calls back that there are quite a few job requests resting in their inbox. It’s no surprise that a four-figure credit payout is more of a calling than sitting about the waves all unit.
Therefore though most of them could do with a cold drink and a nap, Norman finds himself back on the bridge, cutting through atmosphere to liberate some sorry old-money family of their prized cervines and cart them just outside of the city. It’s all a play at some rival family feud their employer was more than forthright with explaining over messages, which they all had found somewhat amusing and plebeian. On the flight over, Skip questions just how they’re supposed to get a handful of none-too-small animals aboard The Wurst—they got lucky once, with Aurora, but there’s no telling what would happen if they try something like that again—but Sid of course steps up as resident animal handler and assuages any concern there.
For what Skip prefaced him with about the kinds of high-paying jobs that popped up through the app, this one is rather uneventful. Certainly more outlandish and complicated than the type of work he was picking up in seedy proldier bars, but nothing to cause any sort of hot exiting.
Up until they actually try to get the cervines on the ship, that is.
The things are massive, hooves as big as his head and horns to match, and they do not want to go lightly. They’re loud, too, stomping and rearing at the ground even as Sidney and the Barrys attempt to calm them, and off across the lavender-colored fields comes shouting and the sound of hover engines starting, all from the main family manor they thought they’d be far enough away from to go undetected.
“Okay, it’s time to go!” Norman shouts, already backpedaling away from the agitated animals and the oncoming group of undoubtedly armed riders heading their way. He doesn’t think twice about raising a hand to cover the back of his neck. “Leave those things, come on!”
“But our five-star rating!”
“No, yeah, we can’t not finish the job!”
“Uh, hey guys?” Margaret adds her own strained voice to the mix. “So Norm’s definitely right, we have got to go.”
“Marge—”
Blasters go off, rounds zipping past their heads and into the dirt at their feet as the hover bikes race toward them.
“Nope, fuck the rating! Everyone on, come on!” she yells, but the Barrys must confuse her rationality for doubt, and instead reach for their repeaters.
“Don’t worry Marge, we can take ‘em!”
“Yeah this is, like, no sweat!”
Margaret growls in frustration, nearly stamps her foot to the ground. “We’re not killing any of these guys, okay? They’re fucking farmers, ranchers! So put your guns away and let’s go!”
At their momentary hesitation, even Skip, more authoritative to the crew than Norman’s heard before, barks, “That means now!” and everyone gets their asses in gear.
If they won’t listen to Norman, they’ll listen to Margaret and Skip, and that’s enough for now.
The cervines scatter once The Wurst’s engines fire up, shields saving against the brunt of the pistols the gang at their stern wield. Thankfully, their bikes have no attached weapons to fire with.
Let me pilot, Skip snaps as Norman habitually goes for the controls, not rude but stressed.
“You think you’ll be better at it?”
He’s distracted, doesn’t pull up in time to avoid clipping a few trees, and the ship shakes with the contact. Norman winces.
This isn’t a debate, Norman.
They’re still getting hit, radar alerting him every time they accrue a bit of damage. The gunners are calling to them over the comms, asking what they should do—are they taking these guys out or are they just full running? Norman hears this, sees this, burns through his annoyance and shoves down his pride.
“Void! Fine,” he concedes, and feels his body move on its own as Skip tenses down over the controls. Through the comms, he tells the gunner channel not to engage. “We’re hightailing it now! Gunnie? Get us ready to jump.”
“We’re jumping already?”
“Y’all really wanna stick around?” he calls, accent slipping back into his speech just as another rider joins in beside them, this one hauling a heavy grenade launcher that locks right onto their hull. Norman braces himself for its impact that never comes; with a lurch The Wurst makes a harsh left turn and the explosion levels out the trees behind them.
Skip pilots well. Quite well. Despite his complaints about giving up the helm now of all times, Norman finds himself not exactly minding this front row seat to some impressive maneuvering skills. Skip gets them out of danger, and he does so fast, works their hardware to its utmost limit and flies like the ship’s an extension of himself, and Norman regretfully has to admit that somehow, this slug knows how to pilot better than he ever could.
A tendril of pleased smugness seeps through their connection.
Norman rolls his eyes. “Don’t mean anything,” he says, searching for an excuse. “You got all this fancy new equipment on board, just makes you look better.”
If we weren’t in the middle of a chase right now…
“You’d what?” he calls Skip’s bluff, albeit lightly, and Skip laughs at him, tugs at his thoughts same as before. Doesn’t even break concentration with pulling a tight turn before gaining altitude as he does so, either.
Riva, in their sphere of water behind them, says, “Captain, I think Gunnie’s trying to get your attention.”
Chatter from the comms floods back into his ear; he hadn’t exactly been paying attention to it.
“What is it, Gunnie?”
“Uh, hey, yeah. We’re ready to jump FTL. We going?”
He blinks, briefly entertains the idea of berating him for asking such a stupid question, but in the end just stresses, “Yes!”
“Okay! Everyone hold on!”
And just like that, they’re gone. Out from planet Nelsium’s atmosphere and back into the welcoming embrace of the void. The stars blur past them in bright white lines across the glass of their prow, guiding them to their next destination. Whatever adrenaline from the threat of battle has dissipated, strained out of them by the speed of hyperdrive itself, and he rests easy at the back of the mind, allowing Skip to keep them on course.
“So. How’s symbiosis?”
It’s early morning. The fluorescent lights of the ship cafeteria are too bright against the backs of Norman’s eyes, still too tired to be much of a person, but Skip cares enough to pilot their hands and drink from the paper cup of coffee, it steaming and dairy-free. At the question, preceded by the shuffle of someone sitting in the chair opposite them, he cracks an eye open with a hint of a glare stemmed only from how early for conversation it is.
“Hey Margaret,” Skip says, never any less than friendly. “I think it’s good, yeah.”
“That’s good. Glad to hear that.”
There’s something in her voice that Norman doesn’t like, not in an aggressive or argumentative way, more in the sense that he can feel a thorough one-on-one coming along. She’s not yet in her daily blazer, no one else yet awake to see her dressed down, hair pinned back from her face, phone nowhere to be seen. A matching paper cup of coffee is clasped between her hands. Just before taking a sip from it, she adds, “Really glad, Skip, but I kinda wanted to ask Norman what he thinks.”
Skip nods, says, “Okay. Makes sense.” Norman can feel him fall back to let him front alone, and he has to quickly grip the cup before it slips out from suddenly loose fingers.
Traitor, he quips, manages to try a slight grin at the burst of amusement lacing through their connection.
Margaret lifts a brow, a glint in her eye. “That you, Captain?”
The grin turns strained. “Good morning, Margaret.”
“How’s symbiosis treating you?”
“Is this finally that one-on-one you were talkin’ about?”
“Had to corner you sometime,” she says with half a shrug. “You’re a busy man.”
He knows that’s not true. Norman does less now than he ever did before, which—taking into account the extensive amount of business and financing he actively avoided working on while he’d been in charge—is almost impressive. He pilots the ship, still a shared event, and he makes general, seen-but-not-heard appearances at ship nurseries and union meetings, and he tries best he can to get along with everyone else while he does so.
“Well it’s like Skip said,” and he mirrors her shrug. “It’s good.”
Margaret hums a small note of something he can’t quite discern.
“What more do you wanna hear?”
“You’re not thinking of kicking him out, are you?”
Norman frowns immediately, harsh lines of confusion and offense smearing his previously indifferent expression, goes to snap at her something ugly just on instinct alone. An instant before he can do so, what feels like a push at his thoughts comes hurried and tense. Skip doesn’t say anything in addition to it, but the nonverbal elements are heavy. The push turns to a weight of companionable presence, not unlike someone dropped their hand on his shoulder, and the tension levels out to a calm placation. It’s as physical a contact allowed for in this state, and he’s sure Skip catches the sincerity of his gratefulness in the moment.
Norman has never felt it worth anything to hide his annoyance through any aspect of his life, so while Skip halts the impulsive words, that slight sneer remains.
“No, Miss Margaret, I am not.”
“Okay,” she says, all white palms of surrender. A smile graces her lips, just slightly, finding amusement in his clipped tone. “Not that that wouldn’t be a thorough discussion we’d have with all of our co-owners, but I’m glad it hasn’t yet come to that.”
Norman takes a breath, then another long pull from his coffee. That phantom weight on his thoughts remains.
“Listen, Norm.” Margaret reaches a well-manicured hand out, not to touch his own but rather just to rest on the table between them, a broaching contract. “I’m not mad you’re back, none of us are. Turns out when you’re not the sole authority over anyone, you’re only a little bit off-putting. And that’s fine! Take as much time as you need to shake off that traditional Amercadian—if I may speak plainly— bullshit that I know you know isn’t healthy, and everyone is gonna continue to get along just fine, okay?” She tacks on an expectant grin, one that dares any counteraction.
Cowed by someone half his age, Norman gives a curt nod and reminds himself that she does, in fact, have every right to talk to him like that. They all do, and falling back on that misplaced righteousness threatening to spill over isn’t going to do him any favors anymore.
He knows himself well enough not to test his own resolve, though, and thinks it best this conversation to be over.
“Well that was productive,” he says. “Can I finish my coffee in peace now?”
Margaret sighs, says, “I had hoped for a bit more, but sure. Guess you earned it, hm?” and stands from the table. Before she turns the corner, heading back to the captain’s quarters to put herself together for the unit ahead, she makes sure to rub a little salt on the wound and adds, “Talking to you doesn’t have to be difficult, Norm. You’re the one who makes it feel like pulling teeth.”
And then she’s gone. No one else is awake this early, and he’s left alone in the cafeteria once again, just as he’d wanted.
Sorry about that.
Well. As alone as he can be anymore, but Skip falls in a much different category than them.
I could feel, um. You didn’t like that.
“No. But she was right.”
“What?” Skip blurts, alarm evident in one word.
“Not the—” Norman scoffs, sends a prompt, Calm down, and says, “Me. About me, and my fucking bullshit with the Brigade.”
Oh. Yeah. I get that.
“How could you possibly get it?”
I have— I had, uh… issues with my, um— you know, the other slugs. I would have been just a, uh, just a tool. Like you were.
Norman was a bit distracted during the firefight, prioritizing keeping pressure to the wound in his abdomen and piloting the ship well enough through the asteroid belt to keep those still on it safe. He does recall, with stark bemusement, Skip removing one of the old gun-boots from Norman just so he could—in a stranger’s body—stomp out the life of another slug with victory and finality and the echoed bang of a single, solid shot.
I should have done that differently.
“It was pretty brutal,” Norman agrees.
No. I mean he deserved worse.
A chill runs through him, both at the most violent tone he’s heard Skip use and the shuffle of images flashing behind his eyes.
They’re alien, in the most literal and figurative of ways. Cerebroslugs don’t have eyes themselves, have no senses out of host besides touch and psychic awareness, but a different sort of psychic than most other communicative species. Norman doesn’t see these memories, not as he can see the table he’s sitting at, but he sees them. He’s aware of them. He’s given insight into the life Skip had cycles and cycles and cycles before. He sees an unfamiliar slug with all the bearing and entitlement of a monarch, seething down at him and declaring him worthless, seething down at him and declaring him a mistake, seething down at him and addressing him as son as if the very word would poison. Sending him away only until he was needed again, for personal gain alone, being predatorily gleeful to find him after all this time running, telling of the plan that would without remorse render son and all of House immortalized in legacy alone. Norman feels the sorrow and the hopelessness and the hate all the way through. They’re only flashes, but they’re enough.
Your father, he surmises.
Skip releases a held breath, harsh and loud in the relative quiet of the room. “Yes. King Prilbus.”
Norman makes a note of that, of the name.
The title, too.
“Royalty,” he says, not nearly a question, just a bit of an observation. Never would Norman have assumed the slug living in his head were from a patrician family, yet it does make the explanation of the whole Fang thing more clear.
Skip frowns. Hm. I guess.
“Well… shit, yeah,” and he leans back in the chair, runs a hand over his graying hair. “Family shit is always complicated. But, sounds like yours was kinda ‘means to an end’ more than anything.”
I don’t think I know what that means.
“Like you said. You were a tool, not a— not a son.”
Oh. I see.
Norman isn’t the one to clench their jaw. In an effort to ease the anger swamping the far end of the brain, he tries to mirror what Skip has done to him many times over now, and just thinks and forces himself to feel calm. It perhaps works for the wrong reasons, for while Norman sits here with rapidly cooling coffee, close to popping a blood vessel as he tries so hard to send calming thoughts he’s not sure are even getting across, Skip eases over and says, “Please don’t, you’re going to hurt yourself,” in only a vaguely humorous manner. Moreso the words are kind.
Anyways. That was— sorry, Skip apologizes after a moment of quieting company. We were talking about the Brigade?
He shakes his head rather than answer in so many words. There was steam behind that line of course a martron ago, but it’s since fizzled out. There are countless things more appealing, currently, than to dive into the dissonance of talking about his brigadier units as though they were an innately bad thing rather than something to be proud of.
The thing is—Norman doesn’t like the Brigade. He resents them for many reasons, including but not limited to: building a hierarchy based on sucking up to the top dog instead of pure results and diligence, discharging him cycles before he was meant to cash out his pension on grounds he had thought ridiculous and abrupt, and of course the obvious memory abrogation, though the latter had less to do with the Brigade and much to do with Gust Weatherall in particular.
He severs that line of thought before it has a chance to become noticeable.
None of that reasoning, however, detracts from the fact that Norman is at heart an Amercadian. He has been sculpted and molded by his home and by their obsession with the Space Brigade, and he would not be who he is today without them. Perhaps now is almost too late to realize the harm in that, but an old Terran saying seems appropriate here—better late than never.
He doesn’t say any of that. If some of it spills over in the mind, that will only cause further clarity, without him having to step up and speak it into existence.
That’s okay. Talking about things can be hard.
Can I ask you something?
Uh. Yeah. Of course.
Norman would rather keep the topic on Skip. He doesn’t think he’s ready to face his own traumas and setbacks, and the remarks Skip made about his father sparked enough of an intrigue to further that branch instead.
“You said your father was called, uh…”
King Prilbus.
“Right. And you told me your name was Skip.”
I… did. Yes.
Norman can feel him withdraw slightly, and hesitates on his question, but he is so thoroughly running it over and over in his mind that there’s no hope of hiding it from Skip, and isn’t surprised when he says, Go ahead and ask. I can tell you want to.
As cautious as he can, Do you have another name? A slug name? This seems like something to keep within the haven of their thoughts. It’s morning, and it’s early, but they are not the only ones on The Wurst. They don’t need accidental eavesdroppers just looking to grab breakfast.
A split ribec of queasiness spikes over their connection, and Skip says, I do. I don’t like it.
You don’t like your name?
I— I don’t know. It’s complicated, I think. Skip takes a drag from the coffee, cold and gross, and doesn’t even wince. To me, it just reminds me of House Frangus, and I really don’t like them.
But they’re all gone, right? He remembers vague comments about that, after everything. Doesn’t that change things?
I don’t know. Maybe. But I think it’ll take some time.
Norman can understand that, to a degree probably more than first assumed. And maybe it’s just another notch for Sidney’s praise of the random factor, but for two entirely different sentient beings’ paths to cross in such a significant way, with coincidental and comparable histories that still cling with bilious talons, it does give Norman the soft-bellied, affectionate feeling that the two of them were meant to be this way. Here, together, in whatever this symbiosis is.
In a fit of impulsivity, Norman reaches across the connection with a hope to mimic the hand-on-shoulder sense Skip imbued on him earlier. He can’t know if it works, but there is a reciprocal warmth that runs its course through his chest.
It’s Valdrinor. It comes as a murmur, bestowed with that same warmth. My given name is Valdrinor.
Norman repeats the name, barely audible under his breath, trying the syllables on his teeth and tongue. This feels like a rare avowal, one he should treasure and treat with a certain care he doesn’t usually exhibit.
Nobody else knows it. And I don’t want them to. But, Skip says, voice still coming low even in their mind, sharing a space so close, I trust you.
You shouldn’t. It’s an automatic thought, not a response but a reaction that Norman has from his own instinctive deprecation. There’s a push to that thought, a hard shove that has Norman blinking in the wake of a clearing headspace, harsh words against himself muted for the time being.
“Sorry, I—” he coughs, clears his throat. “You can. I won’t—” I won’t say anything.
Thank you.
And… Norman can feel blood rush to his face, on the simple account of being candid and kind, I know you don’t prefer Valdrinor, but it’s not a bad name. I kind of like it.
There’s a skitter in his chest that doesn’t come from him, and it only worsens the red of his cheeks.
I’ll be honest, it’s been aeons since I’ve heard that name spoken without anything negative behind it.
It changes things.
A little bit. Maybe. Yet a hint of a grin edges alongside Skip’s words.
You could always try Val.
It’s Skip’s turn to repeat the name, and he hums in consideration. Again he says, Maybe. To the crew, and to everyone else, I’m just Skip. But I don’t think I would necessarily mind if you wanted to give ‘Val’ a trial run, as you say. Depends on the situation.
Alright, he nods, bites the inside of his cheek. I’ll keep that in mind.
It’s appropriate timing that in the ribec following, Zortch comes down the stairs and gives a half-wave of greeting before dipping into the kitchen to start on the JibJobbers’ egg bar. Soon enough the rest of the ship will be up and milling around the mess hall, and Norman doesn’t fancy hanging about with the screenwriters and deejays when they do. He’s got a bridge to tend to.
Neither of them had been lying to Margaret by saying symbiosis was going good. Skip once mentioned to him that it had taken a bit of adapting on his end, unused to sharing a brain with a host that’s still cognizant and communicable, but Norman believes he himself has taken this in stride. The one roadblock only being when they attempt to use the body at the same time, movement or otherwise, but they learned to predict the other’s choices on that front in no time at all.
Which is why—as he wastes time bouncing the modified fetch ball Sid uses for Aurora’s target practice off the wall of the bridge, just to himself—when instead of catching it his arms lock up and the ball goes soaring past them for the third time in as many martrons, Norman already knows that Skip is doing it on purpose.
“If you do that shit again, I’m gonna go stick my head in a freezer.”
Skip just laughs at him, even as the ball audibly bounces down the steps of the bridge out into the hallway behind them. “A freezer?”
“I will find a freezer.”
Funny, he huffs. Can we go ahead and bed down now?
“Bed down? Where’d you learn that?”
Margaret has some weird books.
Norman presses his lips together and shakes his head, ignoring that. “Well, no. Still gotta make the rounds.”
Right. The rounds. Can we do those? Norman goes to respond, but Skip catches the vocal cords before he can, using them himself in a borderline garbled, “Because it’s late. Gunnie already went to sleep and I didn’t even get a chance to tuck him in.”
Gunnie is about sixty fucking galactic cycles old. I think he’s fine.
Skip makes an exaggerated I-don’t-know noise, and Norman, like in many situations, has a hard time deciding whether or not he’s pulling his leg. It could truly go either way with this slug.
“Sure, fine, whatever,” Norman says, throws his hands up in defeat. “But you pilot, since you’re so eager. And pick up that ball, don’t just leave it sitting around.”
Sidney was the one who first insisted upon doing a thorough sweep of the ship when docked on low-security stations, yelling about it as she was shoving that haggard man off at Madrugada the crew kept calling Loose Duke. She usually does one of her own, both because she despises the thought of any further stowaways and because she is one of the few inorganics with the physicality able to make those sweeps. Ever since Norman heard of just how many people had boarded The Wurst and gone undetected beneath this crew’s nose, he’d decided leaving that up to one person would be foolish.
Besides, he’s stepping up and acting like a right captain for once.
Most everyone is asleep for the time being, or at least back in their respective quarters. There are a smattering of JibJob workers—more strangers than Norman ever was able to convince aboard before—still up late, bright screens only inches from their faces, but the only crewmate Norman passes is Riva. They don’t initially say anything, swimming through the water runners every so often; when they do finally greet Norman through their psychic channel, they aren’t in view at all.
“Captain, is Skip around?”
As expected, Riva has continued to treat him just as they always had before. There has been no avoidance or awkward conversation, though Norman doesn’t think they’re capable of such, that clean and impenitent honesty a balm to every interaction. He’d apologized—on account of Skip’s prodding that an apology was absolutely warranted—to them and to everyone else, and maybe it’s the fact that Riva would have realized if he was less than truthful with his words that Norman feels there’s a level of understanding between the two of them.
Therefore, Norman softens his tone around the obvious, “Of course he is, he’s in my head,” then takes a mental step back to allow Skip free reign.
Hi Riva.
“Hello Skip! I have a favor to ask of you.”
Okay.
“Great! Could you give me and the Captain some privacy to talk, please? Are you able to do that?”
After a ribec of tentative silence, Skip says, Yes, I think so, and Norman stills. He can’t imagine any discussions that Riva would want privacy for, though the sudden hail so late in the simulated nighttime marbecs and the odd back-and-forth passing makes a bit more sense.
“Oh, thank you so much, this will only take a moment. Skipper should be able to tell you when to come back.”
They can’t take a sidebar with a psychic actively communicating with them, so when Skip lowers his voice to ask, That’s fine, right? all Norman can do is send a wave of reassurance and then promptly shove him back.
“What’d you need, Riva?”
No time wasted beating around the bush, they say, “I’m going to return to Aguatunesia. My gallivant was wonderful, but I do think it’s time for me to go back. I miss my home.”
He pauses, looking for the words least likely to highlight how out of depth he suddenly feels.
“That's… understandable.”
“I don’t want to tell my friends,” they continue, either unaware of his tension or uncaring. “I don’t want them to start missing me before I’m even gone. I can’t tell them, but you’re not really my friend, so. I—- sorry, but you know, it’s—”
“No, I get it.”
“Yes. So. You’re not my friend but you are still sort of my captain, and I do think I need to tell somebody where I’m planning on going, just so they can know I’m okay.”
“And when, um, when will this be?”
“Ahhm… soon!” they say, and he can hear the tight note of stress in their voice. “The next couple of malton units, probably.”
“Huh. Okay.”
“Okay! Thank—”
“You know it’ll be impossible for me to hide this from Skip.”
“Right… yes, that might be difficult. Well! It’s the thought that counts! Just tell him to keep it a secret, please.”
Norman grimaces. Riva had talked of the crew, their personal worry being about how their friends are going to take this news, and while he is partially anxious over their reactions Norman is more concerned with losing their communications officer. He has options filling Riva’s position, but— well, perhaps now he’ll be able to pawn that decision off to Margaret.
They’re waiting on a response, psychic channel still open. He says, “Sure, Riva. I’ll… yes, I’ll do that for you.”
“Great! Thank you, Captain,” they rush out, then cut the channel before he can say any more.
The ship is quiet. They’re meant to have been doing the rounds, but Norman hasn’t paid much attention to his surroundings in a good martron. He’s somehow wandered down to the lower deck, theater ahead of him, and the entire room is lit in the dimmed light of the ever present LED bulbs lining the baseboards. With a worn exhale he crosses over to sit down on the couch, resting his legs from standing at the helm all evening.
Norman doesn’t know how Skip managed to give them privacy—lest he was saving Riva’s feelings by lying, unable to fall dormant and unaware in time but just as capable to stay silent, an eavesdropper—but he’s still very much present. Norman can feel the barrier of Skip’s mind beside his own, reaches an intention out to graze against that barrier, prod him into returning. Skip does so with a warm reciprocation of the touch, and Norman has only a ribec to savor it before his surface thoughts are known, and Skip similarly falters in the wake of unfavorable news.
Oh. Okay. I get why they asked me to give you privacy now.
“Yeah,” Norman pulls an apologetic face. “Sorry for, uh, finding out this way?”
Well, I think it’s okay. I honestly thought something worse had happened. Riva isn’t one to have secrets with any of us.
“Didn’t realize you were worried.”
I’m always worried when it comes to you, Skip says, but continues on before Norman’s able to fully register that. I’ll miss them but… I’m more worried about the others. They’ve known Riva longer. I’ll—- yeah. I’ll make sure not to mention it until they’re gone.
“Guess they’d appreciate it,” he says, then pauses. In that pause the lights out in the hall flicker. For how suited up The Wurst has gotten, there will always be signs that this freighter is no more than an old discontinued mess unit. “Probably need some backup lettin’ the rest of the crew know.”
Oh. Yeah. Right on.
Norman settles further into the couch, plush enough to aid his search for comfort, and rests his eyes.
Don’t fall asleep here.
You know that’s impossible, he says, eyes still closed. He gets a good long martron of silence, white noise of the continual hum and buzz of the ship at rest. Then, with a startled yelp Norman will deny making to the unit he returns to dirt, his body leaps up off the couch as Skip lights up his cerebellum and claims pilot once more.
We’re done, okay? There’s no one hiding in the ship, and we aren’t sleeping on the couch.
Norman cannot do much but follow mentally tugging at their tether just in childlike retaliation for disturbing him. Conversation with Riva set aside for the night, he’ll decide what, if anything, to do about their imminent absence soon enough. Things will be just fine.
According to maritime law, Norman’s the best—and only legally sanctioned person aboard the ship—to marry Plug and Bambi, but he might just be the worst to ask to speak on behalf of marriage itself. The only personal experience he has with it is through his parents, who divorced when he was barely six cycles old and despised each other to the point of pitting Norman in the middle of all their arguments, who both remarried and seemed only happy when they had the chance to flaunt that second marriage to one another, who treated him fine, it could’ve been worse, but did instill in him a certain reluctance to form any meaningful, close bond with another person. And he never did, not really, not any further than he needed to get by in life. Romantic relationships were a hassle, tedious and dull, always something he didn’t want to deal with, or didn’t feel like he—as the person he is—should be granted.
He comes up blank trying to find something kind or appropriate to say, standing between the two hitching up this late into their cycles with a glimmer of love in their eyes, so bizarre to witness.
And how long again have they known each other?
Not long, Skip supplies.
His counterpart isn’t much better to give a speech on human marriage. Norman doesn’t know much about the customs of cerebroslugs, especially not ones of the militaristic, parasitic family Skip hails from, but he can’t imagine it’s anything at all similar to humanoids. He’s proven right, too, when Skip awkwardly passes the torch to Riva as soon as he begins speaking, who takes it in stride despite being similarly off base. At least they know enough about love to hold a cup full of it.
As they give their genuine and rather personalized speech, Norman can’t say where it comes from, but he does feel that tonight will be Riva’s last aboard The Wurst. It’s just this sinking premonition he has, listening to their kind words as they describe the grand structure of romance and family back on their home planet.
He isn’t very quiet with that thought. An urchin of sadness ekes out from Skip, followed quickly by nothing at all, like maybe Norman wasn’t supposed to get a sense of that.
He doesn’t mention it, focusing enough on actually marrying Plug and Bambi to push that to the back burner.
It’s a short ceremony, fortunately and expectedly so. The reception is what everyone, including the bride and groom, is looking forward to—the dancing, the conversation, the flowing alcohol. That latter most one drives a fair few people, glasses of spirit already in hand by the time the first dance is over. Their lone Bar Buddy is making the rounds, popular despite its affinity for shaking everything ordered from it. He makes a note to ask Gunnie if he ever plans to repair the damn thing.
Norman stays away from the champagne. He’s not fearful of it, isn’t looking at those drinking it just waiting for their heads to pop like corks. He even knows that Sid knows what brand to avoid (she’s picky with her bottles, had looked up Gusty Vines once out of curiosity and declared that even if it wasn’t made with rat poison she wouldn’t touch the stuff on account of its price tag alone, for The Wurst deserves only the most expensive, tasteful champagne), so really this avoidance of his is more pathetic than anything, but Norman can’t help but to steer clear. There’s a blockade, some barrier in the signals from his brain to his body that has nothing to do with his co-pilot, and he sticks to glasses of aerated, shaken wine.
He’d prefer to pass time on the outskirts of the party, away from the brunt of the noise and socializing, but a hand lands on his shoulder the moment he begins to step through the crowd and turns him around.
“Skip, hey,” Zortch says, somewhat out of breath as though they had run from opposite the entire ship to find him. Even dressed for the occasion in their most extravagant royal robes and dangling jewelry, they still have their bright red cap on, worn backward to tamp their braids.
“Princeps,” Skip nods in greeting. “Hi.”
“Ya got a spandec?”
“What?”
“Come on, let’s talk,” they say, and make sure he actually follows by pinching the sleeve of his shirt.
Skip lets himself be dragged to a quiet corner of the casino, partly behind the slot machines that at the moment are unused.
What is this about? Norman asks.
Why do you think I know? It’s not the answer he wants, and Norman knows he’s sulking even before Skip chides him for it with a scoffed, “Baby.”
Zortch blinks at him, red in the face. “What?”
“Was calling Norm a baby.”
There’s a beat of hesitance where the light in their eyes dims, then they laugh and wave a hand as if to dissipate his words.
“Well hey, so, kind of a downer, but,” they sigh and continue with a slight, apologetic wince, “I don’t think I ever said, you know, sorry.”
“For…?”
“For getting possessed by your dad and then stabbing you.” Blunt, to the point, and not what he expected.
“Oh. I see, yeah.” Skip nods, then hums a note of disagreement. “I don’t know if you really need to apologize for that, though. Seems not healthy to take the blame for something outside your control.”
Doesn’t this sound familiar.
This is different. I made a choice, they didn’t.
“I get that, totally,” Zortch says and steps closer, drops a hand on Skip’s bicep, and Norman’s overloaded with a wash of confusion as Skip frowns and looks down at the contact, then back to Zortch. They grin up at him. “But I don’t want you to think any less of me for it.”
“O-okay?”
“I mean, really, I felt just awful after figuring out what happened. He used me to get to you, and after you all warned me to be careful!” They shake their head and press a hand to their heart. There’s something in their tone, a sickly sweetness that begs recognition, that Norman doesn’t like. “I really hope you don’t hold it against me, Skip.”
Skip blinks down at them, unsurprisingly at a loss for words. In the pause where they expect him to say something in return, a glass shatters somewhere amidst the celebration, and Skip looks toward the sound.
Zortch, either unaware of the small commotion or uncaring in this moment, their moment, reaches up and turns him back to face them.
“Skip, do you—”
“You know I actually left the body after that,” he blurts out before they have a chance to finish whatever proposition they mean to suggest. “Norman was the one who had to deal with being stabbed.”
At the second mention of himself, Norman realizes the disappointment Zortch plainly shows in their expression can’t at all come from any previous dislike of him. The Princeps didn’t know him before, had never met him until the adrenaline of that last battle had faded and Skip—who they had always seen as the one in possession of this body—had come back sharing with a stranger. Besides, in any other context outside right now Zortch has been nothing but genial to Norman. Maybe less conversational than the rest of the crew, but never so blatant as this. Which makes the close privacy Zortch pulled Skip to join them in all the more obviously planned, and Norman is glad that at least Skip seems aware of this development.
They nod, say, “Right, of course, the captain,” and take their hand back from his arm to fiddle with the beads of one of their necklaces. “Apologies to him, of course. Right.”
“Thank you,” Skip says. “That means a lot. I care for him a great deal, so um, yes. Thank you.”
This should be the perfect time to take their leave of this continually awkward encounter, and if Norman were in sole charge he certainly would, uncaring of anything but his own comfort. Instead Skip just stays, and takes a sip of the wine.
Zortch narrows their eyes. “Wait. So what am I getting right now, are you two— You’re not partners, are you?”
“Oh. Yeah, we’re partners.”
Norman tugs hard on Skip’s thoughts, forceful enough that Skip startles and spills some red over the glass.
What’s wrong?
Partners?!
Aren’t we? The question makes his heart jolt, but Skip sends glimpses of memories of them piloting together, both the body and the ship, and he knows Skip has just misread this. Skip isn’t wrong, in the stringent of senses, but it also is not the correct connotation.
I don’t think they mean those kinds of partners, Skip, he hisses, strained. Norman’s red, but he isn’t angry—at least not at Skip, the Princeps is another matter. He wants so desperately to be able to retreat right now, detach himself from his own brain and just walk away, garner a bit of privacy with the mortification currently engulfing him in his entirety. He also really wants to tell Zortch to back off, as disastrous as that would end. It’s too close to being real.
“Oh! Well, okay!” Zortch backs up, bumps into the side of one of the slot machines. “I would’ve never… Void, okay, well! Congrats, man.”
“Okay?” Skip has that certain sort of grimace on his face like that of a kid learning to smile, brows knitted.
“Yeah, I”m… totally happy for you, yeah. If not me, then at least someone, I guess?”
“I— huh?”
They give him a firm, lingering pat on the shoulder and another, calmer grin, and say, voice pitched low and conspiratorial as if Norman wouldn’t be able to hear it, “Still find me if you wanna dance, though.”
Norman is being tested. Sure, maybe this is something that Skip needs to figure out between Zortch and himself, but right now his temper is surely being tested by Mother Void herself. With an impulsivity he’ll examine later, he pulls Skip back just enough to shove himself toward the helm and bite, “Not happening, he’s good.” He doesn’t wait to see their reaction besides a set of wide eyes, spinning around and marching straight to the opposite side of the room, towards the smattering of tables and chairs brought in from the mess hall. The drink sloshes close to the rim when he slams it down on one of the tables, and he drops to sit with a harshness that betrays his attempt at mitigating Skip’s concern, crossing his arms over his chest and one leg over the other, foot tapping in the air to rid himself of some of that excess energy.
Wow.
Don’t.
You don’t wanna talk about what just happened?
Norman deflates. He really can be an embarrassment at times. Still, he says, Not really, no.
They sit here, on the outskirts just as he’d wanted, in silence. Norman drinks, and watches the happy mingling and dancing continue on around him, and tries not to feel too relieved when he catches a flicker of blue and pink still in the water runners. They sit in silence, but only for a moment, before strong and obvious thoughts—almost like he’s purposely sharing them—filter through; from Skip, of Zortch. Mostly memories from their time prior to Norman’s reintroduction, but he doesn’t want to look too close. He scoffs, almost too quiet to be anything more than a release of a held breath, and turns away as if he can physically look away from whatever Skip’s thinking about. He’s sure his expression is positively petulant.
Hurt, too, though that’s his own fault.
In a snap those images are gone, replaced by an incredulous awe. I’m right, Skip says.
“What are you talking about,” he mutters around the wine.
You’re jealous.
More heat than he can blame on the alcohol flames to his face. That’s not what’s happening, he says, and Skip rolls his eyes.
You can’t lie to me, Norm.
Curse this fucking brain slug to the furthest black hole, but he’s right. Even if Norman weren’t already a piss-poor liar there’s not much he can do besides total shutdown of his thoughts to hide any truth from Skip, and if he ever did begin to try to do so it would be an obvious alert that he even had something to hide. Can’t win either way.
Then I don’t need to talk about it, huh? he says. Since you got me all figured out.
There’s no need to be defensive.
Well, I’m— he pulls a face, fiddles a bit with the glass just to give his hands something to do. Takes a stand in the house of humility for once and concedes, Maybe that was a bit much. I just, I don’t know, didn’t like them… doing… that.
Skip attempts to hold back a grin, but of course Norman can feel it.
“You really enjoy my uncomfort— me being uncomfortable, don’t you?”
It’s not that.
“You sure?”
Yes. Skip’s the one to take a sip of courage, finishing off the last swig left in the glass. He clears his throat, then aloud says, “I— Okay. Honestly? I don’t really know the Princeps.”
Well they seem to wanna know you.
Skip lays a weight on that thought, a heavy pressure, a silent disapproving hush. He continues, “So, well. Whatever you’re worrying about? You don’t have to.” And when Norman doesn’t immediately respond, moreso trying his best not to think too long on that worry and that want, he presses with an accompanying hold on their connection, “You really, really don’t.”
It’s almost too much for him to take. He can’t do more than nod, once and a little staggered so, and barely gets out, That’s— um. Alright. At least his foot has stopped his restless tapping.
“Come on,” and Skip stands, taking Norman with him. “Let’s go get you another drink. Maybe you’ll loosen up a bit.”
“You talking to yourself over there, Skip?” Sid calls as they head toward the makeshift bar, where plenty more have gathered.
They have a couple more glasses of wine, and a singular scotch and soda that the Bar Buddy hands to them as well as to everyone else, and Skip decides they can’t just waste it. Norman’s not drunk, thankfully yet, but his mind is pleasantly hazy enough to sport a grin at every friendly comment anyone makes, his walls down for the time being, a short drawbridge of connection. It’s one of the reasons he rarely imbibed much while simply captaining the crew of The Red Hot. When drinking alone, he used to just get depressed and frustrated, musing over how much of a downhill spiral he led his life into, but if he ever had a few peers around, even those he would come morning think annoying once again, Norman finds he’s a terribly easygoing drunk.
It’s rather humiliating, and he just hopes the end of the night comes soon.
A song comes on overhead that Sid seems to recognize and enjoy. She gasps, and calls with no direction out to the room, “Barry! Let’s dance!” and is skating away from the bar without a second glance back.
Wanna sit down? Skip asks, once the realization that they’ve been left only with a handful of JibJobbers they don’t know the names of sets in.
“Well I don’t wanna dance, that’s for sure.”
Shame. We’d make a funny picture.
They aren’t the only ones taking a breather from the social. His previous seat now filled with a Girl Guide that probably shouldn’t be here—but who is he to care about the business of a kid who regularly scams and deals adults—Norman claims a spot in the far corner instead. It’s easy to pass the time here, forgetting for a moment the premonition felt at the start of the ceremony.
He’d seen Riva already, somewhere among the large water pipes at the ceiling, but hasn’t cared to keep them in his sights at all recently. He doesn’t see them now, either.
It’s appropriate, then, that a strong feeling of love comes quite out of the blue, broadcasted directly into his brain. He knows it’s from Riva from the distinct psychic signature attached, and he knows that this is their goodbye. He knows that they have gone.
It sobers him up in a snap, to feel that splash of Skip’s own immediate gloom spill over. Any enjoyment, any leisure at thankful cause of the party and alcohol is soured, and they have only Riva to blame (in the loosest sense; hard to blame someone for following their best interests).
He and Skip are not the only ones to get that message, it seems.
Gunnie approaches him first.
“Hey, uh, Cap? Riva send you anything?”
Norman dips his chin once in solemn agreement.
“Okay… You seen them anywhere?”
Now’s the time. This is what Riva asked of him, and he’s getting better. He’s going to stick to his word. After a nervous clear of the throat, he says, “You won’t be able to find them, they’re— they’re not here.”
Gunnie’s posture straightens just a bit. “Oh, Norm— Skipper, hey, ah, didn’t know, um. Anyways.” His mismatched eyes narrow as the words register. “So you know where they are.”
“We should get everyone together. Then I’ll explain.”
“You realize how bad that sounds, right?”
Norman sighs and gives Gunnie a pleading look he doesn’t think would have been easy without the alcohol. Gunnie raises his hands in surrender and chatters on about how weird that looks on his face, to cut that shit out, man, but it has the desired effect.
Not long later are they gathered down the hall from the casino-venued reception. Music and laughter echo mutely off the metal, framing the crew’s worry in stark contrast. Sid can’t stop shuffling in her skates, Barry has his arms crossed and looks to have worn at his lower lip. Margaret and Gunnie are staring right at Norman.
Skip?
Sorry. Yeah?
Skip’s withdrawn as well. It’s one thing to know your friend will be leaving, it’s another to face the absence in the moment. Norman wouldn’t mind giving him that space to mourn, but he wants Skip there with him while he breaks the news to the rest of the crew. He doesn’t have the best feeling about its outcome.
You’ll be fine, Norm.
“Well?” Margaret’s voice pulls him from their thoughts.
Margaret always puts on an act of competence. She’s the face, a trained businesswoman, only scattered when there are near zero stakes. Even she, while meeting his gaze, has an upturned knit to her brows, frown edging the corners of her lips, and her question comes out wavered. She can tell something is wrong.
“Yes, well, um—” Norman clears his throat once again, straightens up and clasps his hands behind his back. “Riva is… Riva’s left. They took me aside a few nights ago and said they were going back to Aguatunesia. They—”
“A few nights ago?”
“Wait, what?”
“Riva’s gone, like gone gone?”
Everyone talks over each other, their worry and small grief over their friend turned to reactionary anger with an easy target to blame. He lets them, just hopes their voices aren’t traveling back down to the reception. This is shameful enough.
Sidney steps forward, hurt and artificial tears on her face. “How long? How long exactly?”
“Two nights.”
“And you weren’t ever going to tell us.” She doesn’t ask it, doesn’t pose it as a question. It’s a statement, a fact said with little heartbreak and much unfiltered I-should’ve-seen-this-coming disbelief, because she, like everyone else, knows that it wasn’t difficult for Norman to keep it from them. He’s spent a cycle with them prior to getting slugged where he would have ate his own hat before letting them in on any personal conversations, and he’s still quite unsure if he can yet call them friends.
“You were just going to let us find out like this.”
“Really, really not cool, man,” Barry adds.
He is using every ounce of willpower to keep himself and his sharp tongue in check. A hundred galactic cycles with his own brand of ingrained behaviors is not going to seamlessly fall away within a rigon, but Norman does hold himself back. He clenches his jaw and tightens his grip on his own hands, sure if they were in view he could see the knuckles turned stark white. It’s a testament to how far he’s come that Norman does not take the easy way out and shove some of this blame onto Skip, not because he necessarily wants to but because he wasn’t the only one to know about Riva’s plan, so why is he the only one getting talked down to as if he was solely responsible for ending their gallivant?
Val, please—
“You’re right, Norm.”
Skip says it out loud, and though it’s only directed at Norman his words also have the convenient effect of stopping the remainder of the crew in their torch and pitchfork tracks, all looking to him for guidance.
“Skip?” Gunnie raises a brow.
“I’m not going to let you guys be angry with him,” Skip says, loosening some of the tension out of their shoulders as he does, meeting everyone else’s eye where Norman couldn’t. Not for the first time does he have the fleeting thought of just how much better Skip is at being a good, decent person. “I know you might want to, but… well, I also knew. Riva didn’t want to tell anyone else they planned on leaving. They asked us to keep that secret.”
“So you weren’t being selfish?” Sidney asks. “You were actually looking out for someone else?”
Answer her, Skip pushes him forward, but stays at his back as the present support Norman needs. They’ll give you space to explain now.
And he does just that. Recounts the conversation he had with Riva as best he can remember—from Riva requesting to speak to him alone, without even Skip overhearing, to them wanting it all to be kept secret until they had already departed. He’d been interrupted before having the chance to explain this all at the start, this crew not the best when it comes to patience, and though he’d been painted in a familiarly reprehensible light he thinks now they’re finally listening to him.
“Riva said the main reason they didn’t want any of you to know,” he says, “was so that you wouldn’t miss them before they’d even left.”
The quiet that remains beneath the muffled sounds of the continuing celebration is no longer that of shock and discontent. Rather there are four expressions of varying levels of acceptance, all dour and, ultimately, sad.
“I guess they weren’t kidding about that Aguatunesian exit thing,” Gunnie says.
“And we thought it was funny at the time.”
“Yeah, I think we actively made fun of it.”
Margaret speaks for the first time since he broke the news. She looks in need of a quick bump, or a cigarette, or maybe just some yogurt. “Well,” she says atop a deep and tired sigh, “I’ll have to let the others. Don’t think the JibJobbers will really care… maybe Raymond, but… yeah. The Princeps and— yeah. Okay.”
Norman doesn’t want to be the one to turn this into a business-focused discussion so soon, meaning he’s doubly glad that Barry’s the one to say, “So, um. Who’s gonna end up being our main comms, um, officer?”
“Right. That’s definitely another thing to figure out.” Margaret seems to be mentally adding to her endless to-do list, picking at the hem of her sleeve.
Sidney drops a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe we should just go back to the reception for right now,” she suggests.
“Yeah. Damn. Riva sure knows how to time things.”
There’s nothing more to say on the matter.
They return to the casino. Some of the less drunk attendees glance over at them all with a silent question, but otherwise nobody notices the shift. Norman, retreated from the body’s helm to avoid any further socializing that isn’t with Skip, brushes up against Skip’s thoughts with appreciation.
Skip grabs another glass of wine for them from behind the Bar Buddy’s back. I didn’t do much.
You made them listen to me, he says. So, you know. Thanks.
Kinda seemed like you were back at zero again, with all them.
Yeah, well. I get it. Shit’s not gonna go away that easily, he says, and gives a light humorless laugh. “Humans we, uh, definitely hold grudges.” Throat dry, he takes a deep gulp of the wine like he’s drinking water, and pulls a face as it goes down stinging, potent.
We’re going to feel this tomorrow. Skip gestures with the drink, and Norman only half-smiles instead of admitting he’s right.
The reception winds down not long later once Bambi, a bride on her wedding unit who may request anything she wishes, shuffles around to all of the attendees and very softly but broaching no disagreement tells them it’s time to find somewhere else to spend the night, that she has some slot machines to tend to and doesn’t need all this commotion around them. It’s funny to watch, especially with Gunnie at her side insisting it’s best she get back to the gambling when anyone hesitates to leave. She comes to them as well, lays a liver-spotted hand on his forearm and says that she knows he’s the captain but he needs to follow his friends out of here, and gestures to some of the crew waiting on the threshold of the casino.
They stand to leave, and Gunnie hisses at them from behind his hand, a quick psst to get their attention. “We’re all gonna head downstairs and watch a movie. You in?”
“Who are you asking?” Norman asks, ready to fully recede into the mind, maybe catch a couple marbecs of sleep before anyone else, but Gunnie frowns.
“Both of you, I hope?”
“Oh. Um. Okay then,” and he nods. “Sure, thank you.”
Gunnie gives them an odd look before running off to continue to follow Bambi, still needing to shoo away a few people who don’t seem to notice the casino emptying out.
What was that about holding grudges?
They’re better people than me, Skip.
And I think you sell yourself short, Norm. When Norman doesn’t reply, he adds, You’ve already noticed the differences, though, so I think you just have— I think it just might be hard for you to admit that to yourself.
Drunken deep diving into his psyche is not on any to-do lists for tonight, and Norman says as much. Remember I’ve got a freezer on standby.
Oh yeah? And what would you do without me?
Skip says it like a joke, like he doesn’t realize just how close to the truth that question is.
“You sticking around for the movie?” Syx asks once they sidle up to the group.
Skip’s the one that smiles, knows it will both work as an answer and to get a laugh, but the alcohol’s worked Norman loose enough to remark, nor angry or upset, just a pure observation, “I’m surprised y’all want me there, too.”
He’s not aware enough to notice their expressions change—to discomfort, to shame, but all of it trained inward, as if at their own expense. As if they at least know there’s an opportunity to make up for the heated discussion before and this, this invitation, is it.
“Wouldn’t be right otherwise,” Sid says, somewhat prim.
“It’s not 200 Fast 200 Furious, is it?” he asks. Sometimes it feels like that’s the only movie on board, permanently stuck inside the old video player.
“We actually found something new to watch.”
“Yeah, bought it off of Plug’s ‘Hut,” Barry Nyne adds.
“The shop where everything’s a little shitty?”
Syx barks a loud laugh while Margaret ducks beneath the clone’s arm and teasingly corrects, "Um, it clearly says butt-ugly, not shitty, Norm, so…”
He shakes his head, unable to bite back his contentment. Skip is no help, either, clear warmth of his own happiness and humor at this moment overwhelming anything else Norman could even have felt.
“So it’s probably pirated!” Sid says.
“Recorded on a grainy camera, or something, yeah.”
“It’s got the ticker at the bottom and everything.”
As the crew talk amongst themselves they slowly start making their way down the hall, a courtesy for Gunnie to eventually catch up before ending the night all together, piled onto the theater’s singular couch. The morning is sure to see a slew of passed-out proldiers with no regard for personal space, an apology and a welcome in the form of sharing comfort.
Norman follows, diligently.
They do, in fact, feel all that wine come morning. Norman’s barely recognized he’s awake before a headache is already spiking at his temple, and feels that no matter how many marbecs of sleep he just had wasn’t enough; he’s sure to have dark bags beneath his eyes.
This is why I don’t drink, he mutters. I’m not that young anymore.
Skip only grunts in reply, the feeling mutual.
A hand taps his shoulder, multiple times as though he wouldn’t immediately look to see who touched him, and only then does Norman gather his surroundings.
They’re still in the theater—he, as well as everyone else that crashed here after the reception. Norman’s slouched on the couch between a set of well-unconscious clones still snoring away despite a smattering of JibJobbers attempting to work around the ship crew passed out in their space. The hand, though, is Margaret’s, reaching across Barry Nyne where she, too, looks as though she’s just awoken, hair mussed and mascara a bit smeared. The rest of the makeup he’ll have to set someone to washing out of the armrest, it seems.
When Margaret notices he’s turned to look at her, waiting for whatever she needs, she sits up a bit more, a bit less leaning on Nyne’s shoulder, and stops her tapping. The hand stays where it is though, thoughtlessly touching.
“Hey,” she says. “What about the Princeps, for our new comms officer?”
Norman almost wants to laugh. Of course, of course she would suggest that, because, well, barring any hiccups Norman has with a Princeps just trying to live their best life, in reality it makes the most sense. Zortch is just as psychic as Riva is, friendly and communicative, and has been aboard The Wurst long enough now to be a certified member of the crew. Better than taking in outside help, meet and get a feel for an entire stranger.
“What about our chef?”
“Lucienne’s a great cook, actually.”
He does laugh at that, but it hurts his head to do so for long.
Margaret rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “So? Good plan?”
Remember, Skip says, still sounding hungover but with a sincere reassurance layered atop his tone. Nothing to worry about.
Norman hums, then gives Margaret a nod. “That sounds perfect,” he says.
“Great,” and she pulls herself up off the couch with a groan he resonates with. Before she leaves, Norman calls her name.
“Thank you,” he says, and it doesn’t at all catch in his throat, “for figuring it all out.”
She smiles at him. “‘Course. We’re all a team, yeah?”
A team. Right. He doesn’t exactly mind the sound of that.
This is a terrible plan.
This is a terrible, harebrained, risky to the point of dangerous plan.
In the midst of a Crown and Scepter offshoot holding, Norman waits alone outside a locked blast door at the end of a vacant gray metal hallway, wanting to pace but knowing his boots will make too much noise to do so properly, arms crossed over his chest. The instinctive, stupid habit of reaching out to Skip finds him once again flinching at the emptiness there, and he chides himself. Norman waits alone, truly alone in a way he hasn’t been for a rigon, and all he has to assuage that thought is the knowledge that Skip isn’t far. Somewhere on the other side of this door, hopefully hijacking some poor soul’s brainstem to snag the information their momentary employer needs.
He hadn’t readily agreed to this plan, but outnumbered five to one means he sits here, alone, with only his vibro weapons and the tenuous hope that no one spots him for company. He’d tried to argue for going with everyone else to the opposite end of the building, where they’ll be poised to ambush these Crown and Scepter associates should Skip have difficulties getting exactly what they need, but apparently—just like on Myrmidon Station above Onolo Dos—they know how to best work amongst themselves, and the most suitable place Norman could be stationed is strictly on extraction.
Let Skip out into the air ducts, stand silent near the exit, and be the getaway vehicle for when Skip needs to jettison back out of here.
This is not a good plan.
This is a terrible fucking plan.
Fifteen thousand credits is just barely worth it.
Despite Norman’s pessimism with being shunted to the ‘sit and wait’ position, as a good half marbec passes without incident he begins to relax. Perhaps not the smartest decision while surrounded by potential threats without an immediate exit strategy, but he can only keep up the tense preparedness needed for this for so long.
Therefore when the blast door slams open with a clang that reverberates down the hallway, hitting the wall beside him in a ribec flat, Norman jolts and is too slow in reaching for his pistol had the person behind it been anyone but one of his crewmates.
Barry Syx stands there, a little wide-eyed, a little out of breath. Without any further discussion, he grabs Norman’s shoulder, pulls him through the doorway, and says, “Let’s go.”
“Where’s Skip?”
“He’s fine, we just kinda need you right now, Cap.”
Barry doesn’t drag him through the halls, but it’s a near thing. At first, Norman follows out of confusion and needing to find wherever the hell Skip is now, but the further they get through the maze of metal the more sounds of a scuffle filter out from their destination—yelling, banging, the pitched screams of hyon laser shots—and he begins to hurry after with a tight grip on his gun.
He knows what he’s expecting. Crew holed up, taking cover, getting fired on by more combatants than predicted even for a Crown and Scepter offshoot. He’s just about correct, too.
They turn the last corner and the hall opens up to a room with multiple cubicles spanning the floor, thin partitions riddled with bullet holes singed black around the edges, still smoking from the guns. Their entrance isn’t an unseen one, and quick as a flash are they being fired on, security detail alerted to a new enemy. Barry uses his own body to guard Norman as they scramble further into the room, able to take a few hits without issue that Norman would have definitely felt the next morning, and before they get behind reliable cover Norman gets off a couple shots from around the gunner’s bulky frame. He can’t tell if they hit, but at least he’s doing something.
“What the hell happened?” he shouts over the racket. “I thought you guys said you had this under control! I swear to—”
“Hey man, don’t start any of that shit right now, not the time!”
Norman isn’t trying to harp on his team, he isn’t, but that nagging thought in the back of his brain that says he could’ve put together a better plan than whatever this is stays clinging.
“Okay,” Barry continues and points the barrel of his gun down a few lanes of cubicles, “Marge and Gunnie and I, uh, I think Zortch too have already gotten out alright, but everyone else is over there, so soon as we join ‘em we’re runnin’, got it?”
Tersely, he nods. Even without the direction, Norman can tell where they’re headed just by the sheer number of grenades being lobbed out from that corner alone.
“You got your jetpack on?”
“What kind of question is that?” he asks, but when Barry takes a look over their cover and fires off a couple blasts, he switches it on.
On Barry’s mark they move, ducking behind further destroyed thin office walls and using weapons when given opportunity. Norman gets hit twice, nothing vital, but he grimaces at now needing to set aside time to stitch up the holes in his jacket. After what seems like too long but is realistically half a martron taken to cross the room, they finally fall inside a corner cubicle alongside the last two gunners, panting.
“Oh good, you found the Skipper!”
Sidney, even in the face of a firefight, has yet to fully drop her grin, but it’s wavering, and before Norman can look any further at that waver’s source she’s thrusting something bright green and slightly slimy into his hands.
“What the hell—?”
“He’s okay! Just put him back in your brain! However you do that,” she shouts and tosses a handful of grenades that detonate in a crackle of electricity somewhere further behind them.
“I— What?” A jolt of panic, and Norman cradles Skip’s slug body a little closer to his chest. “What happened? Why is he out of body? Is he— you said he’s okay?”
“Whoa guy, calm the fuck down,” Barry Nyne shouts, heavy repeater lodged firmly at his shoulder, blasting over the wall quick as ever. The clone has grown into himself, unit by unit, in contrast to Norman’s previous thought of all of them being the same—from the obvious DNA sequencing all the way down to the specific thoughts that run through their heads. It’s good, he knows it’s good, but sometimes it rubs him the wrong way when Nyne is so much more verbally aggressive than Syx. He keeps reminding himself that it isn’t insubordination, mostly on account of Nyne not at all being his subordinate but also because that’s just how the guy is, even cordially. “He just had a little trouble with the Crown and Scepter fuckheads and they found him out, no big deal.”
“No big— they— they don’t have cold blasters, do they?”
“Nope! He jumped out once the body he found was knocked unconscious! Handy Annie brought him back to me,” Sidney grins. “Didn’t want him accidentally coming into any of us, but there’s nothing but krystals up there for me, not like he could find a brainstem even if he wanted to!”
“That's… smart, okay. Um—” Norman looks down at Skip. He seems just fine, he’s not paralyzed, slightly moving in the honestly pretty gross, sluggish way across his palms, but he isn’t going anywhere. He isn’t trying to shoot up his nose or anything, is just laying stagnant in Norman’s cupped hands. “I don’t— I can’t make him go back in my head if he doesn’t— How the hell did y’all get him back in before?”
Before she even gets the full sentence of, “Well, we kinda used to knock you unconscious,” out, Norman remembers exactly that.
Well. They won’t be doing that. Not now, and hopefully not ever again.
It feels a little silly, a little humiliating, drawing Skip up to his face as if he can persuade him to enter it. Norman knows fuck all of what he’s doing, is in the mindset to try anything, see if it works. There’s no cerebroslug in the galaxy that can do anything more than feel around, physically and psychically, while in this state, but apparent logic has left Norman if he thinks Skip can hear him losing his patience, hissing under his breath for the slug to just get a move on, already.
In piteous contest with his harsh tone, he runs a comforting and concerned thumb over where it rests at Skip’s side, at the soft give there. The memories flash in quick succession, barely a ribec in passing—of the malton unit on Antipath Station, Skip warning of his vulnerability even beneath Norman’s skin, of the scuffle aboard The Wurst, Skip stomping his father, how easy it all was. He’s struck all of a sudden by the realization that this is the first time he’s seen Skip, actually seen him, and the surge of protection is fierce. Norman takes the opportunity to linger on it; he’s sure if his thoughts were known, Skip would scold him, bite at him that he’s survived well over a thousand cycles. Norman tests his mortality any chance he gets.
“Skipper!” Syx shouts, glancing over his shoulder. “What’s going on, you got him back?”
There are hyon beams actively raining down on them, solid walls behind them. This meager coverage will only last so long. They’ll have to make a run for it with a synchronous push through the guards, and Norman is miles away with his hands busy shielding his partner.
All of a sudden his words won’t come. He stutters, half-syllables and starts of sentences he doesn’t even know the end of. It’s a different kind of stutter than an angry one, where his face goes bright red and his lips curl into too much of a sneer to speak. This is alarm, so unused to being at a loss for what to do.
Norman’s stuck on a stutter of a repeating I don’t when Barry drops to a knee in front of him and takes him by the shoulders. It’s a heavy weight, and he shakes him once, just enough to wrack his brain and get his tongue working again.
“I don’t know!” he shouts. “He just won’t go!”
“Well we have to! Come on!” Barry gives him a strong clap on the shoulder, looks to Skip in his hands and adds, “Barry and I’ll cover ya, just keep your head down!”
Norman takes a steadying breath. He’s not used to having anyone willing to count on him, to rely on him, to actually need him, moment for moment, but damn if he’s not going to be a coward about it. Therefore when the gunners all give the nod of a go-ahead and together stand and fire weapons, he doesn’t second guess his steps in following close behind them.
It’s a mad dash through the open floor of the offices, and a harmful one at that. Norman takes a decent amount of damage, gets hit bad in the shoulder curling around Skip when a hyon beam comes too close for comfort. He wishes he could wield his pistol, fire a few rounds back at the wall of guards near the exit, but he can’t risk holding Skip with just one hand, not for too long. Instead he just tosses a dagger, quick and from the hip, into the arm of the closest one before stepping a bit further behind Barry for that cover he promised.
He’s not looking behind him. All the shots are coming from the doors ahead, where they’re trying to clear enough to safely flee the building. He’s not looking behind him, so doesn’t realize anyone’s on their six until a dangerously bright flash of pain bursts at the back of his head, but by then it’s too late. He drops, and has enough sensibility to keep Skip out of harm before everything goes dark.
“—not sure, we still just have to wait and see.”
“Vitals look good.”
“Yeah but, I don’t know, it might be better to just let him rest first.”
“You don’t think that’ll be the first thing he asks when he wakes? ‘Where’s Skip, where’s Skip?’ All he seemed to care about before we got over to the others.”
“Look, I know, trust me it was all the Princeps wanted to talk about after the reception too, how apparently they’re sweet on each other, which—look, I’m not gonna question it but when the hell did that happen? I feel like at least Skip would’ve mentioned something, zero filter on that guy.”
Everything comes slightly muffled around him. Norman can feel sheets, wires and tubes, all cold. The pillow at his head is thin with little give, and his neck is stiff like he’s slept on it all wrong. Groaning, he shifts and tries to get a bit more comfortable, and as he moves a blinding headache erupts through his skull. He squints his eyes further shut as if to block everything out; coming to already exhausted and in pain isn’t the best sign.
“Norm, hey, you awake there?”
That’s Margaret, even with her speaking through what sounds like a wall of a water he’d know it by the name she uses, the only crew member cavalier enough to show such affinity with him.
Norman barely cracks open an eye, lest the light of the fluorescents aggravate his headache further. Margaret’s as expected there, sitting beside the bed with one leg crossed over the other, calm and unscathed, so unlike how he feels he’s almost annoyed just looking at her. Barry’s there too, Barry Syx, his hair down and a few nicks and scrapes on what Norman can see of his face and arms already healing up. At least he looks tired as well, looks like he fought his way through a Crown and Scepter operation and took a heavy toll for it.
(He looks like he carried an unconscious man and his brain slug out of danger and into safety, likely putting himself in even further danger by doing so, and Norman reminds himself to have a thorough chat with him about bravery and stupidity and, ultimately, gratefulness.)
“Just barely,” he responds. It’s still odd, but moreso overwhelmingly gratifying, to see the actual relief and welcome flash across their faces. Those feelings stay when, as he goes to sit himself a bit more righted in the bed, not keen to chat while horizontal, Barry reaches out a hand to help, even moves the pillow to his back. Behind his eyes begins to form the telltale pricking of tears, ones he’ll blame on the migraine and not on any sappy sentiments of companionship. It’s almost too much for an old man like him.
“How you feeling, Cap?”
He only grunts in answer, then asks, “What happened?” After they rushed ahead to the exit, he doesn't recall much, at least not clearly. It’s muddled, only the general knowledge that he took a lot of hyon beams and not a lot of cover.
“Well, first: we all got out relatively okay, and we did so with the data we needed to get paid, so no concern there. But—” and here Margaret only gestures to Norman, lying in a bed in the med bay.
Barry adds, “You remember taking a bunch’a hits there?”
He shoots the clone a withering look, mutters something in the positive.
“Yeah, so, we got distracted by the guys over by the door firing at us, didn’t notice ‘till it was too late someone come up behind you. They hit you real damn hard in the back of the head, butt of the gun I think. It broke the skin but we were just glad it didn’t smash your skull in.”
Reflexively, Norman reaches for the back of his head. He feels where Barry means, where they stitched the gash back up, hair shaved just around it, still sore to the touch and stinging if he messes too long. He then drops his palm to his neck, noting the smoothness there.
“Sure was fuckin’ lucky Skip hadn’t gone back in your brain yet.”
Relief courses through him so heavy it’s dizzying, then a burgeoning confusion.
“Where is Skip?”
Barry coughs into the back of his hand, trying for some reason to hide a smile.
“Back with Sid right now,” Margaret pipes up. “Zortch is keeping a channel open for him, so he knows what’s going on. You, uh, wanna see him?”
“Of course,” he retorts with a harsh scowl. Still a little loose-lipped from the aftermath, he adds in a low and telling grumble, “I want him back with me.”
She laughs and raises her hands in faux surrender. “Alright! Don’t get your britches in a twist, now.”
“I’ll go grab them,” Barry offers, already heading to the door. The two of them play a game of ‘ are you sure, I can do it’ that Norman rolls his eyes over and settles back against the pillow, placated for the time being with the promise that he has perhaps only martrons to wait before welcoming Skip back.
Once Barry’s out of the room, Margaret turns her watchful eye on him, and Norman sighs.
“What.”
“You know what.”
“I really don’t, Miss Margaret.”
She stands from the chair only to sit at the edge of the bed, and though she’s not a tall woman she does right now hold an element of overbearing authority that gets under his skin. He thinks at first that she’s angry, however with what he couldn’t fathom, before she purses her lips in the way she does to hold back a grin, and says, “What’s with you and Skip?”
He frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t have to be coy, Norm, the Princeps already told me about you two.”
His heart leaps to his throat at the suggestion in her tone, and he clears his throat in an attempt to swallow it back down. “Oh, that, I—” a flush rises unbidden to his cheeks. “Listen. That was a misunderstanding, okay? A complete— there’s nothing— Skip and I are just— we’re—”
He can’t seem to explain himself, and Margaret’s amusement and glee grows the more he tries, her brows rising and a disbelieving smirk stretching across her face. “Mother Void, listen to yourself,” she whispers through a laugh. “There might be nothing yet, but there’s not nothing with you.”
“Please stop talking.”
“Norman!” She draws his name out in a cajole, lightly taps his knee.
This is mortifying. Insufferable. His face is blazing and he can nearly hear the blood rushing in his ears.
Lower, conspiratorial, “Does he know?”
Norman shakes his head, any sense of privacy thrown out into the vacuum of space with the understanding that one, she won’t let up until he talks about it, and two, perhaps talking about it is exactly what he needs to do. So he drops his guard and admits, “I don’t know, it’s… he’s in my head, but he doesn’t see everything. Same with me, you know?”
“Sure, whatever you say.”
“Right. Well, sometimes I think I’m obvious, and Skip just oblivious. Well meaning, but oblivious. That thing with Zortch, yeah, all a weird misunderstanding, but, uh…” he trails off. If he recalls that conversation correctly, there had been an instance afterwards where Norman had thought maybe, perhaps, Skip had clocked exactly what’s been ruminating in the back of Norman’s mind, and maybe, perhaps, he’d acknowledged it in kind. Though, it can just as easily be wishful thinking and a rose-tinted bias.
“You know,” Margaret fixes her bangs, acts all professionally innocent, “he really does care about you, Norm.”
“Fuck off.”
She practically giggles. “I’m serious! Why would I lie to you? To a man with a concussion? That’s just sad.”
“It’s not a lie if you believe it, but it also isn’t true.”
“Totally understandable. Still wrong, though.”
“Margaret—”
“Can you listen to me for a ribec?”
His shoulders slacken, any defense he had pulling a shitty disappearing act, and he throws his hands up like a child. “What do you— What, then?”
“He cares about you. A lot. You know you were out for two malton units?” He didn’t but that explains the short stubble he needs to shave. “He’s been worried sick, barely wanted to talk to us if it wasn’t about how you were doing. And we offered, of course we did to let him in to, like, Barry or something to see you, but he really didn’t wanna do that.” She laughs a little when she adds, “His words? Said it would feel like cheating on you.”
Norman blinks at her, unamused.
“Cheating on you, Norman! How is that— How are you not more, I don’t know, freaking out about that?”
He shakes his head. “Look, it’s just because I’m his host, alright?”
“No, no, it’s different than before! It’s not just a, you know, ‘caring about the host’ kind of thing. And it’s not like with us, his friends. Of course he cares about us, too, in his own way, but it’s…” she shrugs. “I don’t know. It feels different.”
“I’m sure it’s just the symbiosis.”
“I’m sure it’s not. But hey, what do I know, huh?”
The door opens, and as Barry comes back she stands and steps away from the bed. Norman at first is a bit peeved, just at being interrupted before getting a chance to explain all the reasons why Margaret is wrong, that there’s no reality where his tenuous… attraction (because that’s what it is; while nothing physical, it is still in the basest sense attraction) to a damn cerebroslug would ever be reciprocated. Improbability is one thing, impossibility is another, and Norman is sure this falls under the latter.
All that gets swept to the wayside when Norman sees Skip again, this time carefully carried in by Barry. Like a bug caught by a kid, he’s in a small glass jar with what looks like a damp towel at the bottom, holes poked at the top.
“Didn’t want him to dry out,” Barry says as he hands the jar over to him.
Norman, already reaching for the lid, mutters, “That’s considerate,” though he’s pretty sure that was never a concern.
“Yeah, uh, so we’re gonna give you space, before you open that,” Barry says. “He’s real, uh, real antsy.”
He’s not the only one, but Norman keeps that to himself.
“Don’t let him get you out of that bed, either,” Margaret points with a much sterner look on her face. “You got one more unit of rest to get through.”
Barry throws a thumbs up in a silent all good? from behind her back, always the support. Norman waves them both away, out the door, until the med bay is empty save him, and save Skip.
He opens the jar.
That discomforting pain of Skip’s reentry has not lessened from any time before, in fact it almost makes the headache worse, but Norman doesn’t mind. He can’t find it within himself to mind, as it were, seeing as it’s the only way allowing Skip back to his rightful place at his brainstem. So he just winces along with the movement and the pressure, and when the spark of a rekindling of their tether ignites in his thoughts he immediately reaches for Skip.
It is as though his whole being were wrapped in an embrace when Skip meets him in the middle. There’s relief, and a fretful inspection of Norman’s status, before he says, I’m glad you’re okay.
Been in a lot of fights, Skip. This is nothing.
Skip shakes his head at the deflection. You’re an idiot, he says, but it’s hard for Norman to take the insult to heart when he can hear Skip smile.
There’s something to be said about Norman’s progress—an appraisal and a compliment—that he is so keen in welcoming Skip back. It no longer feels like a chore, to keep him in his head, nor does it feel like he is acting solely under the basis of the crew’s expectation, to keep their happy little family safe and unchanged by permitting a cerebroslug to live alongside him. Coincidence caused Norman to be the one among them slugged, and he doesn’t know what would have unfolded had he not been the first to stick his head into that crate of imitation powdered egg substitute. He certainly wouldn’t be here, life bettered and fulfilled. Sidney was right, that Skip is good for him, and to admit that about the android comes with no trouble.
You know, Skip says after a restful moment of reunion, I expected to be more angry with you.
He scoffs a laugh. The hell? Why?
For getting yourself hurt.
“Well sorry. I’m not psychic, how was I supposed to know what would happen? He didn’t even fucking shoot me!” Skip only hums, and Norman, who’s been holding on to a few words about that disaster against Crown and Scepter since the beginning, adds, “And what the hell happened to you, huh?”
What do you mean?
“Well you weren’ paralyzed, but I still had to carry you out of there. Why didn’t you jump back into me?” There’s less anger than there is hurt laced through the words.
“I didn’t even know you were there, Norman.” Both him using the vocal cords as well as the point Skip makes gives Norman pause. “You were supposed to be away from the fighting, I figured one of the others had me. I didn’t exactly want to jump into them.”
Why— “Why was I kept away from the fighting? It’s not like I couldn’t be useful. More useful than sitting around twiddlin’ my thumbs just waiting for you to come back.”
He doesn’t want this to become an argument. Bizarre, as he’s certainly no stranger to starting them, living in them, but he just got Skip back. He only wishes to point out a few things, including but not limited to the decision to keep him on the opposite side of the offices. He has an inkling, a suspicion, now that he’s had a bit more time to think on it.
“You were useful— would have been useful where you were already.”
“I would have been left behind if Barry hadn’t come and found me.”
In the mind, a bit defensive and quiet, I wouldn't have let that happen.
“I don’t think you would’ve had a choice,” Norman matches his tone to Skip’s. Suddenly he feels tired; Margaret had said he needed at least one more unit of rest, concussed as he is, and the ache is turning into a migraine.
Skip sighs, roots around in the brain and inhibits at least those specific pain sensors, and Norman no longer feels like his skull is about to split open. Then he eases back over to wrap their thoughts once again in that comforting pressure, a mental lean against Norman’s side.
Sorry. Could’ve done that sooner.
Norman waves the apology off.
After a beat, Skip admits, I just don’t want anything to happen to you. If I have to leave the body, I just want you to be safe and out of the way.
“Val, you—” Norman sighs. He’s feeling a lot of things right now, at the cause of a slowly dawning understanding of just how much Skip would go out of his way to protect him, from seemingly everything. All of it is conflicting. Most prominent, though, is the disbelief that anyone would ever even have that desire, that need to keep him safe and taken care of. It’s a far cry from the independence he grew out of necessity in the Brigade, from looking over his shoulder at every chance he got, from believing that anyone and everyone were out to get him.
It’s humbling, and forms a warmth in his chest, but still he says, “You can’t ask me to do that. That’s impossible to guarantee.”
Yes, I realize it’s not realistic.
Slowly, easing into a showing of his hand and heart, “Well… I could look out for myself more. I didn’t have much of a reason to before, but… but well, now I do.”
Yes, um, that’s— Skip nods, and Norman can feel his cheeks redden. Right on.
“Right on,” Norman repeats with only a touch of sarcasm, and yawns. Even with two units of sleep under his belt his eyelids feel heavy.
You can sleep.
He doesn’t really want to. He’d rather hoard as much time as he can with Skip, alone, before any of the crew come back to check on them. He must broadcast that, must pull a displeased face, for Skip soothes him, We have all the time in the universe, Norm, and lays a fog over the mind, a helpful pull back to rest.
I’ll be here when you wake.
As promised, Norman is released from the clinical watch of both Margaret and the somewhat middling med bay equipment the next unit. The Wurst is idling in dead space, hidden for the time being after the fiasco they instigated with the most prolific movers and shakers of the galaxy, in an area comparable to the Martini Nebula yet much more remote, much less colorful. Without even a Krystals ‘n Things or subpar food at a Worfle Horse to pass the time with, there’s not much they can do but sit and wait.
Mechanics kits and weapons servicers get brought out, spread across various decks of the ship. Norman doesn’t have much to work on, nothing to upgrade like his crew members. What he does have is a sewing kit, and a jacket with some extra bullet holes shredded through the canvas to stitch back up.
His mother was traditional in her teachings, when he was young. She deemed it necessary to instill in him the basics of the household, said if he couldn’t cook or clean then he would never be anyone’s candidate for marriage, and much of the time they spent together occurred as such lessons in between his finishing of grade school take-home sheets. Norman hadn’t realized at the time how outdated his mother had been, and had always looked forward to the lessons. It was one of the only times he could get her to talk to him about something other than his father.
So he learned how to make a decent few meals, how to best get grime off a sink and to mop a floor, and, of course, how to thread a needle.
You could just buy a new one, Skip points out.
Norman’s sat on their bunk, jacket across his lap as he stitches a tear at the shoulder together, an easier fix than putting a patch on the finger-width holes torn through the rest. “I probably could,” he says, a bit distractedly.
And it’s true, he could. They certainly have the credits for it, it wouldn’t be a splurge like he so continues to think any sort of spending is. And he’s not cheap, or stingy, or any of the other words used by previous proldiers he’s been unfortunate to know. He’s simply resourceful. Realistic. Grew up not the most well-off and holds tight to anything he has. This jacket is not the only piece of clothing he owns that has scars, different colored threads running through it indicative of how old it is.
He’s working with yellow right now, fingers deft at fitting the needle and keeping the stitches straight and all the same size, hunched over with a singular focus on the repetitions.
I guess it’s a useful skill to have.
“Uh huh.”
Seems like it took a lot of practice.
“Huh, yeah.”
Norman barely even registers the conversation as one, blinders on as he works quick. He doesn’t exactly want anyone else to know he can sew.
Where did you learn?
“Huh?”
Mother Void… Skip mutters, and thankfully does not mess around with the body but does push at his thoughts to grab his attention, shouts his name to do one better.
Thread between teeth, tying of a knot, he sends, Yes? with a deep puzzlement.
Who taught you how to do that?
He’s sure his momentary freeze does not go unnoticed. It’s only habit for him to lock up when asked anything even remotely concerning his family or how he grew up, too personal for him to just casually bring up in conversation. However he realizes that he is not the only one here who has a past that shames them, and of course it isn’t that he’s worried about Skip knowing, doesn’t even really mind the idea of sharing it with him. He’s actually almost surprised Skip doesn’t already know, that nargon of free reign over his life, body, and mind a good opportunity for him to learn everything.
(Though, Norman knowing himself, if he had come back to his body sharing with some alien slug who suddenly knew everything down to the nose about him, he likely wouldn’t have thought at all to be cordial to said slug.)
A lot has changed. He’s quite proud for it, for that decision and determination to be better, for the hitch-start learning that his allowance of genuine care for others doesn’t make him weak or easy to take advantage of. Norman can’t praise only himself, of course. He wouldn’t be here without Skip, without someone willing to see the dry roots of goodness in him. His closest companion, who he should and can share his life with.
Grabbing a piece of scratch cloth from the tin, Norman says, My mother taught me.
Oh, Skip nods. Can I see her?
I’m sure you can find a few memories in there.
They spend the marbec as so, Norman carefully mending and pricking his fingers every so often, Skip parsing through old, old memories of his childhood, and his parents, and whatever else he can find that far back that perhaps even Norman has since forgotten. Norman lets himself watch as well, images hazy as he’s not the one recalling them. He sees the cycles following their divorce, young as he was yet still aware enough to notice being used as a pawn between the two of them, self-centered narcissists who shouldn’t have become parents in the first place; of his father, who asked after his schooling and then failed to recognize any response, distant but not cold, a hotheaded bastard he’s sure to have subconsciously modeled himself after; of his mother, who was watchful and strict and never satisfied with his accomplishments, but who he spent the most time with and who he loved dearly. It’s pitiful in retrospect, and he can tell Skip doesn’t like it either, though he does find those scarce moments. Moments where Norman feels wanted and secure, all encompassed by his mother’s homemaking lessons. A hand over his as she shows him how to fold an omelet, together spring cleaning their small house while she plays her old music, herself handing him a thimble after catching his amateur thumb enough to bleed on the needle.
That thimble he kept as a piece of her, after he left. It’s lost to the void now, cycles ago, though however much grief he felt at its loss at the time no longer has a home here. More of a distant hurt.
An even more rare moment that flashes behind his eyes, of her finding him in his room with tears wetting his cheeks and having the reaction to first comfort him, settle herself on the bed and wrap him in a tight hug, no words passed between them. Later in his life would she ignore the same, or chide him for ruining the makeup she spent so long on, or simply roll her eyes and tell him to get over it. But that one, that memory of his mother’s love when he needed it, is deeply treasured, and deeply mourned.
A lick of understanding finds its way over from Skip as he—in the fickle search for more instances of his parents’ goodness—comes across one of the first times Norman can remember being in front of a mirror and realizing something was definitely wrong about everything he saw reflected back at him. Norman pauses in his stitching and pats over his own heart with a smile, and nothing more is said upon the matter.
There truly isn’t much to find, scrounging around the recesses of Norman’s mind where much of what he’s all but forgotten rests with cobwebs on their threads, but Skip seems to enjoy himself nonetheless, taking the opportunity he’s been given to fully dive into all of Norman’s withholdings.
Thank you for that, Skip murmurs some time later, releasing his hold on Norman’s thoughts and falling back beyond the connection of their tether.
No need to thank me, he says. It’s as much yours as mine now.
He pins the line of yellow back up onto its spool, tosses it back into the tin. The jacket is once again in working order, or as much as it can be with a smattering of new scars adorning its hide.
I’ll have to repay the favor sometime.
Thought I’d already seen what I needed to about your father.
Skip tilts his head to the side. Well, I guess. But I’ve been alive for longer than I can count. There are more interesting things than Prilbus for me to share.
Tidying away the sewing kit, Norman lets his intentions skim and brush against Skip. A small quirk of contentment pulls at the corner of their lips. Then, sure, he says. I think I’d like that.
Norman opens his eyes, and he cannot move. Not an uncommon situation overall, but also not one that he particularly looks forward to. While other cadets got night terrors involving shouting and lashing out while still unconscious, he always had to deal with the terrifying threat of sleep paralysis. An awake state where neither his brain nor his body know he’s awake, fighting with his own self just to be able to move, to speak, to breathe.
The room is dark. It— it should be dark, that’s not an issue, but for some reason he thinks it important to note that the room is completely dark.
Simultaneously having trouble inhaling and beginning to hyperventilate, Norman tries to move his arms to sit up despite knowing he can’t.
Skip, a little help here?
Silence.
Skip. You alive in there? Even in thought the question wavers with his ongoing panic, and when Norman reaches for that tether and finds nothing, finds only emptiness at the edge of his mind, the base of his throat starts to burn.
Silence again. But the silence isn’t just inward. There is no background hum of the ship, none of the barely audible breathing or bedsheets rustling from the slumbering Barrys.
He’s wrong. The room shouldn’t be dark. Not this dark. The Wurst is his ship, one he’s had for cycles, one he bought outright, one that’s been his home ever since he was kicked out of the ranks he thought he’d stay in forever. Norman knows every last nook and cranny of this old freighter and that includes the dim runner lights along the edges of the halls, rooms, and stairways.
Tears prick the corners of his eyes, reactionary. He wants so desperately to be able to talk, to yell for Skip, to make any noise at all, but he can’t. Skip’s not here. Not yet.
A light comes on, too bright. Norman squints in its suddenness, the white fluorescent bouncing off white walls and white linoleum floors. It’s a large room he’s in, a familiar room only in the vaguest, sickest sense. Bare and cold, glinting metal of the wall outlets and the counters and the tools at his side and the table he’s strapped to. The air smells sterile, and of blood, and he’s not of the mind to know if it’s his or the last cloying remnants of the young cadets.
He’s back at the Planetary Institute of Cognitive Cyberscience. As far as he can tell, the room is empty save for himself; he cannot turn his head to look elsewhere, held in place as it is. The room is empty, but in the wall directly across from him is a window to a viewing deck, and framed on the other side of the glass is Gust Weatherall. Haggard piece of shit who looks as young as he did the night he betrayed Norman and the Brigade and all those parents in one fell swoop, the only expression on his face as he stares down at him being one of calm indifference.
Movement behind Norman, the surgeons. Too close to his skull comes the sound of a bone saw.
Norman wakes up. He opens his eyes, frightened tears warm at the corners, and swings an arm out just to see if he can. It flails loosely in the air above the bunk, the bunk of the ship he’s back on, in the gunner quarters. The Barrys are across the room, silently sleeping. He has a fleeting thankfulness that he hadn’t done anything to wake them, though it’s doubtful they would have held it against him if he had. Their night terrors are nothing short of explosive.
—man? Norman. What happened? What’s wrong?
He comes back to himself, to the concern voiced by Skip and the weight Skip is resting on his thoughts, a balm to the receding nightmare. Laying down feels suddenly too much, and he sits up, lets the scratchy sheets pool at his waist. His breath comes quick and shallow, and his throat still burns.
Skip. V— Shit.
You can say it.
Valdrinor. It comes out in a plea, and if his voice could mentally break he thinks it would in this moment.
I’m here. What happened? Let me see.
This isn’t the first time Skip’s asked to see a dream. Apparently cerebroslugs don’t do so themselves, and Norman has entertained the request before—on frivolous and unimportant ones, the ones that make less sense the more he consciously thinks about them. Those had always partially dissipated by the time he’d woken, and he wishes this would do the same.
But it hadn’t been just a figment. It was a memory, and a dreadful one at that. There isn’t much Norman has to do to let Skip see; he takes a shaky breath and drops the guard he holds on his side of the tether, feels the worry as Skip delves his curiosities further down.
It only takes a ribec.
“Oh, dear.”
It’s stupid, Norman immediately counters, his heart jolting at the endearment despite his state. It didn’t even happen like that, it’s just… not a great memory.
But they did strap you down. And cut into your head.
Norman winces. That’s— I wasn’t awake for that, obviously. But it happened.
There’s a bit of a pause, in which his heartbeat gets the time to level out. The last vestiges of the warped memory are still on the far edges of his mind’s eye, and he continues to catch glimpses of it, like a scab he can’t help but keep picking at.
I feel awful, Skip says suddenly. I shouldn’t have taken that craniobolt out so… so carelessly.
Norman doesn’t try to appease Skip, because he agrees. He isn’t as angry as he probably should be—very well would be, were circumstances different—but he’s also not of the mind that putting him through a round of impromptu surgery was a great idea. If they absolutely needed to rid him of that ill-begotten shard of metal in his brain, they at least could have let someone with a medical degree do so.
I’m just glad it’s gone.
Doubt courses through and from Skip, directed at the nightmare Norman just woke from.
No, I know, but it’s better that I have all my memories, and he wipes at the wet on his cheeks. Even that one. I just have to get over it.
A welcome weight on his mind, a support as Skip eases over and hums, I don’t know, maybe this is something we can work through. You weren’t really given the time to, before.
Norman slumps a bit in defeat. He’s stubborn, doesn’t like to admit faults and failings and even less to seem like he is someone who is weak, who needs to be coddled, but… he’s changed. And it is with all respect to Skip who, unerringly, has helped change him. We, he’d said. Norman’s never had a we before, lest he counts the general conglomerate we of the Brigade, and the men there were all so formally distant from each other that it never settled that bizarre feeling that he was ever really missing something. Now, though, he knows that this we —he and Val and the symbiosis between them—has pulled to the surface all the good he had previous potential to be, has knitted up that emptiness inside and given him exactly what had been lost.
So he says, “Okay,” and, “I guess, yeah, you’re right. We can.”
Though, he knows it will not be overnight. In fact overnight is probably the least likely to be of help, as his proclivity for waking to his body still paralyzed from the sleep it believes it to be in is a direct and unwanted reminder to those brief martrons before the operation. Him being unable to move on his own just doesn’t sit right, after that.
A small, contrite gasp from Skip. “That’s why,” he whispers, “that night, when I tried to help you sleep…”
You didn’t know.
But I should have.
Norman is too exhausted to even want to argue about what should or shouldn’t have been known; they’ve gone down that road before, and now isn’t the best time to do so again. He has tacky tear tracks drying at his temples. All he wants to do is shake off the damn shock and stress, down a drink no matter what marbec it is, give something a good hit—preferably Gust Weatherall’s jaw, dead as he is.
Or maybe, if he lets himself listen to his innermost yearnings, if he lets himself cut down the thorns and brambles guarding his heart, all he really wants is touch, human and real. Not in the form of a cold, impersonal slap on the shoulder but in comfort, amity, closeness to another as a result of someone choosing to be so rather than any kind of requirement. All he really wants is something Valdrinor cannot give him. Because while he has come to rely on and truly enjoy what they share, it’s both a companionship more intrusive than he’s ever experienced before and yet too limited when it comes to anything outside of their mental space.
I agree. Skip toys at the fraying hem on the sleeve of their nightshirt and in doing so brushes his knuckles tenderly against the skin there. It seems there’s a downside to symbiosis I didn’t think about. Because even now, even when we’re more connected than anyone else, I can’t comfort you physically.
The burn in his throat has fully migrated to his face. You heard all that, then.
Sorry. Sometimes you think really loud, and this time it was strong, and sad. I can tell that’s what you need right now and I kind of hate that I can’t give it to you.
No, it’s— Yes. Norman sighs, still slightly wavered and watery. “Void, yes.”
One of the Barrys stirs and grunts in his sleep, he doesn’t know which. It’s enough of a reminder to keep quiet, and he sniffles, sinuses all clogged from the pressure, twists the hand Skip isn’t using into the bedsheets at his lap.
Can I try something?
Norman responds only with a defeated shrug. Tonight has drained him, so much that he doesn’t yet recognize Skip moving their arms up to wrap around their torso in an approximation of an embrace until Skip adds, This feels kinda silly, but—
Oh, you’re— and Norman laughs, soft and tearfully, and can’t help but to tighten the hold on his own body. This is so fucking pathetic.
Skip runs a soothing hand down his ribs. It’s an odd dichotomy, where Norman can feel that it’s his own hand and has sensation on each end of the touch, but he isn’t in control of it, can’t predict where it’ll stray to next. I don’t think you’re pathetic, Skip says.
Oh yeah? What the hell you call this, then?
Brave, mostly. In addition to the physical warmth, Skip swaddles their thoughts as well, connection blurring and lighting up with pure affection. Norman leans back against the headboard, closes his eyes.
Brave?
Mostly.
Norman bites the inside of his cheek.
“Norman,” Skip murmurs, and imparts a bright, electric spark of mental contact. “I love you.”
The declaration is terrifying, heart-stopping, the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard. It’s obvious, it's of course he does, it takes him by pleasant surprise and makes all his insides stutter. He tucks his chin to his chest, habit to hide the joy and satisfaction breaking loud across his face.
“It’s not a— I’m just saying it because, well,” Skip continues in a whisper so quiet he might as well be sending his thoughts, “it’s true, and I think you should know it, and hear it from myself. You don’t have to— it’s not a requirement to— I can already tell you’re happy, you don’t have to say it back.”
But I want to. Petulant, puzzled, an automatic thought. And he does, so dearly, but Norman has little history of being a man outspoken with his kinder emotions. Bottle them up, hold them close, protect what can be used to break you. Speaking—in the definitive sense of expressing oneself vocally, putting words in the ear of the universe, an outward display—is difficult.
The words catch in Norman’s throat, rest idle atop his lungs and seep.
Tension leaves the sharp line of his shoulders. He does not need to speak yet. He can build up to it.
“Norman—”
You have given me— so much. More than I deserve. You accepted symbiosis when you know well as I do that you could have completely taken me over and nobody would have faulted you. I wouldn’t have faulted you. Skip digs his fingers a bit into the skin at this side, but Norman barely feels it. You’ve been kind to me… protective of me. You were the first to listen to me and believe me when I said I was going to change and be better than I was. And that— they all listen to you! I wouldn’t have been able to be here without you. He pauses for a half ribec, huffs a laugh. I actually think they would have thrown me out the airlock if it wasn’t for you.
Affectionate humor spills from Skip, and he shrugs.
Skip… Val. Norman takes a breath, tries not to choke on it. “You are the— the best thing to happen to me. I don’t… Void, I don’t think there’s a universe where I don’t love you.”
The tether between them is warm, comparable to hearth and home, and his heart is racing in continuing nerves and the anxiety that somehow this’ll turn for the worst. In as long as he’s been alive, Norman has declared love, of the romantic kind, a single time prior—early college cycles, to a young woman who only a rigon later he lost to his own sense of self-importance and stubbornness. He doesn’t love easily, and he’s not a person made for being loved in return. It almost feels like he’s pulled the wool over Skip’s eyes; no matter the rush of invincibility he feels now, Norman wouldn’t be surprised if Skip changes his mind in a similar rigon or so.
Don’t you dare think that.
Sorry.
No, no, I don’t need you to apologize. I know you, Norm, and it’s because I know you that I love you, not despite it.
You want me to fuckin’ cry again?
His laugh is quiet, and only lightly at Norman’s expense. It’s only then that Norman realizes his arms are still plenty clasped around his own body, and goes ahead and takes control enough to relax them, opens his eyes to the dim room. It’s a relief just to make sure this isn’t more of a dream. He’s awake, truly, and will be living with all this revelation come tomorrow.
This is new for me, Skip says.
Would it surprise you, Norman huffs, to hear that this is new for me, too?
He does hope that this will become their new normal, a pleasant presence of mind beside his own, a constant mental touch to at least show the present desire for physical touch, unreliable as that is. And Skip has done this before, obviously, in all the moments Norman welcomed a shove to his thoughts, a weight, a pressure, a brush or an envelopment, and he has learned all the ways to mimic them, to return them in kind. However it would be nice to not need a reason for the settling comfort, like lovers who need no reason to kiss one another. It’s all they can do under the circumstances.
Then just like everything else, and as he lays back down, Skip continues running the pads of his fingers lightly over Norman’s arm, enough to for now sate the need for touch, we’ll figure it out together.
It is malton units later, and Norman has a plan to combat this absent craniobolt.
He doesn’t often find himself on the engineering deck. The reactor, the tachyon drive, SQ—these are not his areas of expertise. His presence down here is unneeded, always accidentally in the way of something, and though it’s born from a desire to help—even if helping is just a way to embolden his own sense of self-importance—he is more a hindrance. It always bruised his ego when Gunnie very obviously did not want or need his amateur hands all over his projects; the young man can accomplish five times the amount of work in a single martron that Norman could only ever stumble into.
(Gunnie had tried to explain it to him, once, not long after he was first recruited onto what was then The Red Hot, that he went to school for cycles upon cycles to get where he is intellectually, and if Norman did want to learn all the ins and outs of the ship he owned it would take more than infrequently dodging into the reactor room assuming he could just figure it out.
Norman had lost his temper then. The fuse inside him had been exceptionally short during that rigon, cord all frayed and easy to initiate an explosion. He never could just take it on the chin, hearing he was somehow less than.
Two PhDs and a Masters. He had those words running through his head too long after that for him to ever forget how a cyborg in immense debt, incurred entirely by his own choice to dismiss insurance, was so much more accomplished than him.)
The engineering deck is less a symbol of Norman’s failed ambitions now that Skip is with him. Skip adores Gunnie, adopted him by word and action alone, and Norman doesn’t know if Gunnie is merely entertaining a cerebroslug with a fondly confused sense of family, but the man doesn’t seem to mind having a third dad to encourage him and his work. If the two of them take time out of a malton unit to visit the belly of the ship, it’s always on behalf of Skip, and Gunnie’s quite aware of this.
Therefore when Norman trots down the stairs and gets to the loud landing at the mouth of the deck, metal of the gun-boots announcing his entrance, he isn’t surprised that Gunnie expects him to be Skip.
From around the far corner of the room, Gunnie calls out, sounding a bit strained, “Ah, hold on Skip! Ah, just, uh, I’m a little busy right now!”
Norman pauses a few steps into the room, frown pulling lines between his brows.
“Gunthrie.”
At his warning tone, at the use of his full given name, something clangs as if dropped and Gunnie begins to whisper and stammer to himself, which Norman cuts off with, “Are you decent?”
“Am I— What a question! Yes, I just—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, and Norman takes his chances and turns the corner into the alcove, curious. “So what’s going—?”
His words die in his throat at the scene there. Gunnie sits perched on a stool pulled up to the workbench. On the bench is a soldering iron, which he guesses to be what Gunnie had just tossed to the side, and on Gunnie’s chest are Norman’s Brigade wings, partway soldered to the gleaming gold metal above his original heart.
“Gunnie…”
“I was going to ask first!” He cuts off whatever Norman meant to say, panic in his eyes. “I mean, Skip gave them to me, so you know, I assumed it was fine with you that I had them, but— well, okay— see there’s a whole thing, and, uh. Um.”
Gunnie winces as if expecting to be berated, but Norman can only blink down at the wings, mouth agape.
You good there, dear?
Skip, there’s… he’s…
Wearing the wings? When Norman only nods, Skip fronts and says, “They look good, son. Norm thinks so, too.”
He does think so. Gunnie’s not his son—is only in a bizarre perspective Skip’s—but for this moment there’s a pride coursing through him that does feel familial, like if he’d ever had a kid of his own this is where they’d be, pinning his wings to their own lapels. It’s only on account of Gunnie’s metallic state that they have to be permanently affixed there.
“H-he does? He’s not angry?”
“Of course not.” Norm, you wanna say something? Anything?
Right, yes. He swallows the lump in his throat and stands at attention. “Gunthrie Miggles-Rashbax. I’m honored to have you choose to display my old wings on your person. They’ll have a fine home there.”
Rather than uncomfortable with the praise, Gunnie looks incredibly touched, lower lip wobbling. He stands, only comes up to Norman’s shoulder, and salutes. It’s not needed, but it’s certainly appreciated. A well of tenderness forms behind his eyes.
“I agree,” Gunnie nods, a certain and decisive dip of his chin, “Captain.” Then, almost immediately, he slouches his shoulders forward and gives a sheepish glance to the side. “But, ah, this is— I did this ‘cause— well. I wanna go see my dads.”
He blinks, and somewhere in the mind Skip hesitates. “Okay. Sure.”
“It’s just— you know, it’s been a while, and, uh, they really wanna see me, they miss me, a-and I miss them!” he frets over himself, rings his hands. “That’s what that message was about, before. Remember?”
He does. It’s been quite a while since then. He’s surprised it took Gunnie this long to do anything at all about it.
I don’t know, this is a man who avoided paying his debt for cycles. I love Gunnie, but he’s good at not doing important things.
Norman inwardly admits agreement, proven Skip knows their engineer much further than the sheer surface which he has yet to see past.
“Right, okay. Uh, where do we need to go?” he asks, and Gunnie stutters.
“Wait, just like that?”
“We’re not doing anything else, are we?”
Gunnie laughs a bit breathlessly, holds a hand to his forehead. He whispers, “Holy shit, I can see my dads,” and then, louder, “Okay, uh, so yeah, I wanted to finally go see them, but, um, I’ve been gone a long time, and I wanted to have something to show for it.”
“So, the wings,” Norman guesses.
“It makes me look official, right?”
All Norman can do is nod.
Gunnie steps back up to the workbench, checks to make sure the soldering iron is still on. “Yeah so, I’m gonna finish this up. Did you… you came down here for a reason, right?”
Right, he did. With a barely-there touch to his temple, he says, “Skip said this is where you guys played surgery on me, right?”
“Oh, uh… y-yeah? You’re not still mad about that, are you?”
Norman pulls a face and glances over to the side, not sure if he should be honest with him or take the high road and ignore it. Skip helps him out by giving a mental pat on the back, and Norman decides to indeed ignore it. He instead asks, “Did you keep the craniobolt?”
Gunnie thinks for a moment, brows furrowed even as he continues to solder the rest of the metal pin to himself. “Well, I know we didn’t throw it away,” he says. “Actually, well, technically I did throw it away, but I didn’t throw it away, you know?”
“No.”
“It’s probably around here somewhere, I’m pretty sure—” Gunnie cuts himself off, then with a renewed invigoration says, “Wait. Skip. You remember the table we had you lay on?”
Skip nods.
“Yeah. Check the drawers on it…?”
They do. Norman tries not to notice the dark and dried stain on the corner of the wooden table shoved against the far wall, while Skip goes through the thin sliding drawer. It’s mostly junk, trash, and excess Gunnie should probably go through and toss most of, and if Norman’s being honest he doesn’t know if he could discern the bolt amidst all the rest of the mess. He thinks he at least knows what it looks like, though only a vague memory of seeing the image of one on the news, not from any personal experience outside of being the unwitting surgical host for one. Skip, though, most certainly does know what he’s looking for.
It’s a small thing, a surprisingly small thing for how much it’s caused Norman pain. Shaped like a screw, the shard of metal he thinks at first has started to rust—which is a concerning thought in and of itself—but a closer look determines that the red flaking off the edges is not a cause of oxidation. He bites his lip to hold back the disgusted curl it wants to form.
We’ll clean it off.
Norman hums.
You still want to keep it, right?
That’s the crux of his plan, yes, to keep the craniobolt. He’s not the smartest guy in terms of overcoming trauma, in fact would rather do so much else than admit he even has any of it to overcome, but he thinks having a physical element to face and witness and outgrow every unit is going to be more of a help than some sort of cowardly avoidance of the issue, than fearing going to sleep and seeing warped nightmares of a bad memory. It’s a sign of strength, to him, the decision to keep what had violated him so.
I have to, he says, and tightens a fist around the metal. The edges dig.
Gunnie is just about finished with his own silent work by the time they round the corner. Skip pulls them up short before they can pass, says to Gunnie, “You can set a course as soon as you’re ready to leave, son.”
“Thanks, Skip,” he gives a genuine smile. “I want you to meet them, my dads. Well, my real— my original— ah, you know what I mean. They might not get the whole brain slug thing, they’re a little sheltered, b-but really nice!” He once more frets over himself. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Skip steps closer and lays a supportive hand on his metal shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just nods, just smiles, but it seems to do the trick more than any words could have.
“Okay, yeah, cool,” Gunnie says.
“Just make sure we let the rest of the crew know before you make a jump.”
“Right. Of course!”
They leave him to it. Before they reach the landing, Norman can’t help but look back, at the Brigade wings adorned above the young man’s heart. A once-severed tie to his history among the ranks means something different now, means something so much more.
He relaxes his grip about the bolt.
Norman remembers why he never could stay in a big city for long from only the short few martrons of being planetside once more. He grew up rural, never stuck too much around crowds, and escaped to the loneliness of space the moment he realized it was an option; sometimes he forgets just how bustling life can be. The ship docks he never quite strayed from are usually reserved for engineers, mechanics, those who live off-world and are only stopped for a refueling and a maintenance check, and are kept at least enough out of the way of the regular flow of foot traffic to be moderately isolated. He’s unused to them being right in the middle of such a grand city as the one they’ve landed in now, on the southern hemisphere of Mirage.
A mostly dry desert planet with a penchant for harboring everyone from old Bajars to the scraped-together UFTP, it is quite unpleasant; the only real draw Norman can rationalize being here are views of the vibrant yellow and orange skies, the warm sun.
And Gunnie’s home, he supposes before Skip has a chance to kick him for that afterthought.
They stand away from the brunt of the crowd, or as close as they can get to the far edge of the dock, which just opens up to more street and building and city walkers. Behind them, loud enough to be heard over all the noise not yet adjusted to fade to the background, The Wurst crew discuss and debate the best way to get to Gunnie’s old home on the other end of the city; either take the time to walk and sightsee while they do, or rent one of those ridiculously overpriced yet street legal hoverships. Norman—amused enough with the antics to let them figure it out themselves—has his hands clasped behind his back, staring intently up at the alien species of birds alighting on the upward drafts between the tallest spires of cement. Through their tether, blurred and bright as it is, he leans up against Skip.
I don’t miss much from Amercadia, he muses, still following the silhouettes of wings, but I do miss the birds.
Why birds?
They mean a lot of different things, at least in human culture. Peace, freedom, love. Strength, even. Norman shrugs one shoulder. But I also think I just liked watching them.
It’s not an outlandish statement to say that he didn’t do much socializing when he was younger. Kansas hadn’t given him much to do, either, except to sit out among the fields and suburban trees watching the goings-on of those who could easily fly away from everything. It didn’t take long for him to recognize their patterns and behaviors, and it gave him an outlet of distraction less destructive than picking fights with peers. He doesn’t recognize these bright-feathered flights, obviously, as he’s never been on Mirage, but the feeling is the same. Just a bit of borrowed calm amidst the bustle of everything else.
Skip’s laugh is fond and light beneath the murmured, I’m in your head and yet still have much to learn about you. He sends a reassuring simmer through the body. I’m so glad.
“Are you two coming or what?”
Margaret’s there, suddenly, snuck up beside them while their attention was aimed inward, with a glint in her eye that betrays her inquisitive curiosity.
Norman hasn’t told her of the new development, and knows Skip hasn’t either.
Perhaps they will, one unit. Perhaps she already knows.
“Did you guys finally agree on how we’re getting there?” Skip asks her.
“Yep. Gunnie’s figuring out how to rent out a hovership right now,” she gestures somewhere behind her, off to the side of the docks. “Says it’s ‘essential city transport.’”
“You sent Gunnie to do that.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“You sent Gunnie,” Skip repeats in a deadpan. “With the credits to buy a rental. Alone.”
Margaret shakes her head, somewhat amused, and says, “Listen, Skip, ya gotta let them go out on their own sometime, okay? Leave the nest and all that, gain some independence. I’m sure Norman agrees.”
He doesn’t, and he says as much. The man hasn’t proven himself to be the greatest when it comes to money. Margaret rolls her eyes.
“Oh fine, we’ll go with him. But I’m demoting you two for not having faith in that boy!” she feigns exasperation, turns and begins to march off with a disbelieving sort of grin. “Gunnie can pilot, look even better for his dads, and you two can sit and watch. Now are you coming or what?”
The last she calls over her shoulder, halfway back to the crew stood waiting at the end of the dock.
Norman has a moment of brief and intense appreciation, gratitude, gratefulness, for not one thing but for all the opportunities that have been given to him. Symbiosis gave him a new life, and while maybe a good handful of nargons prior he would be hesitant to say he deserved one, he has more than one inner voice now to argue against that thought. He had gone into this with a singular promise to himself, and while that promise may have been purposely difficult, it was necessary—that if he could not show his ability to change for the better, he would ask that Skip submerge him in the dark haze of a full takeover.
He has never been more glad that all his maudlin brooding were for naught.
You ready to go? Skip asks, mentally prodding them to follow, to bridge that gap between themselves and those waiting on the last two missing pieces of their family.
It’s an easy choice to make.
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