You bite back a hiss and hunch your shoulders up to your ears when Galley accidentally sparks the machine and Sigmah makes a sad face at it. You should have seen that coming. Oooh, you’re an idiot.
But before you can berate yourself, your bro is all huddled up and making incredibly distressing wheezy noises. “Heeey, hey, shhh.” You rub his back as unobtrusively as possible. “S’okay man, you’re doing just fine.”
He goes still and quiet and you feel a little pang of relief as he seems to recover a little. You’re quiet while Sigmah gets him hooked up to the other monitoring equipment. Galley is wearing a face you know well—it’s the same expression he gets sometimes when he sees certain scenes in grubvids featuring highbloods getting sucked out into space or eaten by monsters. It’s the face you’ve seen him wear when he talks about his shitty last captain and how he’s feeding bone eating snot flowers now.
You wonder what exactly he’s thinking about in there, and there’s a twingy part of you that’s weirdly jealous you can’t see.
"Man, I wish I brought me a book,” you say when things settle down. “You got any porn in there, Galleybro?”
You snort. “Close enough” is what you want to say, before sending her the photo. But no, you used up your insults for the perigee and spreading that picture counts as a putdown. You send her a couple ashen smut clips that you downloaded purely for research a few days ago instead.
You are giddy. So giddy. You look Sigmah right in the eye and ask, “are you goxng to take my blood next? Go for xt, knock yourself out. Have a lxter.”
What do you care, this is nothing.
"I only need a few cc’s, but thank you for your generosity," you smile, and draw two tiny vials of yellow from the cannula.
After you start the blood analyzer, you turn on the treadmill and beckon to him. “Just stand at first, you can use the armrests for balance but don’t lift yourself by them, it’s going to weigh you. Then you can use these buttons to control the speed. I want you to go just fast enough that it feels like a bit of effort.”
You stand as elegantly as you can manage and give LL a little hair-scruffing headpat (not just because you need to stabilize yourself without it looking weird, either). You catch Bel’s eye to make sure he’s watching as you limp with determination to the treadmill. You’re feeling so saucy you even feel for the master switch that controls your punishment subroutines, and switch them off. You don’t need them. You have something better. You have the power of negative thinking!
"Ever notice how some people,” you say with a sniff, “are ruled by thexr emotxons.”
You stumble getting on the treadmill, but it warrants restating that, at the moment you do so,
- Nothing in the vicinity detonates, catches quietly on fire, or is reduced to atoms from panic-induced psionic freakout
- You do not make a sound, other than a bit more hyperventilating, but that doesn’t count, because you technically do need to breathe.
- You pick yourself back up instead of launching yourself out of the room at cruising speed, never to return, with phantom monsters on your ass
Your only goal in life is to comport yourself with dignity during this (hopefully final) invasion of your personal… person. You will prove that you are not worse at something than any glistening saline foamtard. You will prove yourself, and everyone will finally stop worrying about you. Including yoursel.
After that’s done you will go hide somewhere green and secluded far away from the security grid and have the complete sobbing breakdown where no one will see. You are the king of plans that cannot possibly go terribly terribly wrong. It’s you.
You stand on the treadmill, beaming and shaking. You have the Domo-Kun. The world is your snot-textured shellfish to cut from its sandy shell and ingest.