TALK TO YOUR MOIRAIL, GALLEY.
==>Galley: Overdo it A Little Bit.

negativeepsilon:

bustedcrankshaft:

lackadaisicallimpet:

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.

"Proceed."

==>Galley: Overdo it A Little Bit.

lackadaisicallimpet:

bustedcrankshaft:

negativeepsilon:

bustedcrankshaft:

negativeepsilon:


It hasn’t been quite five minutes, and you very much doubt he’s remotely calm, but you think this is probably the best you’re going to get. “Okay, give me the arm that doesn’t have the cannula.” You wheel the blood pressure machine over, attach the cuff to his arm, press the button… and nothing happens.

The screen says 8888 and is flickering slightly.

"Ah," you sigh as you un-velcro the cuff. "That was kind of an expensive machine, Galley." You captchalog it and get your the manual blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. You’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.

You fold into a ball with a creamy traumatized plush animal center. You are impossible. Utterly impossible. You can’t even make the sparks clear up. You, the key mechanism of the Sunslammer, are leaking from the horns like a wiggler.

You think about more dumb screensaver scenery shit but it’s no good. You call up a memory of doing it with Bel. Nice, but not really helpful. Snuggling with LL? You try that. Try to recapture how calm feels. Maybe it helps, you don’t know.

You may or may not be hyperventilating a little bit.

Unbidden to you comes a flashed image of another troll holding a stuffed animal—the same screaming face—in Sigmah’s care.

HIM.

That fucking violetblooded garbage.

What reason does he have to be afraid of a medical professional? Did him get an owie and they pulled the adhesive medical strip off too hard and hurt him’s little boo-boo?

Cold fury floods you, and you surface from your ball of woe with something like a sneer.

"Well?" you prompt Sigmah. "It’s not gonna go down any lower."

"Yes, I’m getting that," you say sadly. "Well, we’ll do what we can, and maybe Pancho can take your blood pressure at the kitchen table a few times and send me the results." You put the cuff on him, tuck the stethoscope bell under the edge of it, and pump it up with the little black rubber bulb.

The result is a bit high, but you were expecting that, and it’s the relative numbers you’re most concerned with. “Good,” you say as you release the cuff, “That’s pretty normal. Now I’m going to put this strap around your chest, it should fit snugly but not inhibit your breathing.” You fasten the respiration monitor around his ribs, making sure it doesn’t bunch up his t-shirt uncomfortably, and test that you can get a finger in under it easily enough. “Feels all right? Okay, just breathe normally. And this is the blood oxygen monitor, it just clips to your finger.” Clip!

"And now we sit around for a few more minutes. I should’ve told you to bring something to read, sorry."

"He’s got books in his head," Bel points out, as if you’re a bit slow, and you have to concur that you are being a silly butt to forget that.

"Don’t need ‘em," You say flatly. You are staring intently at a certain photograph in your head.

You are, for the first time in your life, experiencing a horrible, wonderful feeling that is both completely illegal and so powerful that it’s distracting you from your own anxiety.

The name of that feeling is smug superiority. You may not be able to control your own sparking, but by god you can be better than the violet-blooded carp.

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. “Near 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.

==> Sigmah: Give Galley a checkup.

negativeepsilon:

bustedcrankshaft:

negativeepsilon:


It hasn’t been quite five minutes, and you very much doubt he’s remotely calm, but you think this is probably the best you’re going to get. “Okay, give me the arm that doesn’t have the cannula.” You wheel the blood pressure machine over, attach the cuff to his arm, press the button… and nothing happens.

The screen says 8888 and is flickering slightly.

"Ah," you sigh as you un-velcro the cuff. "That was kind of an expensive machine, Galley." You captchalog it and get your the manual blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. You’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.

You fold into a ball with a creamy traumatized plush animal center. You are impossible. Utterly impossible. You can’t even make the sparks clear up. You, the key mechanism of the Sunslammer, are leaking from the horns like a wiggler.

You think about more dumb screensaver scenery shit but it’s no good. You call up a memory of doing it with Bel. Nice, but not really helpful. Snuggling with LL? You try that. Try to recapture how calm feels. Maybe it helps, you don’t know.

You may or may not be hyperventilating a little bit.

Unbidden to you comes a flashed image of another troll holding a stuffed animal—the same screaming face—in Sigmah’s care.

HIM.

That fucking violetblooded garbage.

What reason does he have to be afraid of a medical professional? Did him get an owie and they pulled the adhesive medical strip off too hard and hurt him’s little boo-boo?

Cold fury floods you, and you surface from your ball of woe with something like a sneer.

"Well?" you prompt Sigmah. "It’s not gonna go down any lower."

"Yes, I’m getting that," you say sadly. "Well, we’ll do what we can, and maybe Pancho can take your blood pressure at the kitchen table a few times and send me the results." You put the cuff on him, tuck the stethoscope bell under the edge of it, and pump it up with the little black rubber bulb.

The result is a bit high, but you were expecting that, and it’s the relative numbers you’re most concerned with. “Good,” you say as you release the cuff, “That’s pretty normal. Now I’m going to put this strap around your chest, it should fit snugly but not inhibit your breathing.” You fasten the respiration monitor around his ribs, making sure it doesn’t bunch up his t-shirt uncomfortably, and test that you can get a finger in under it easily enough. “Feels all right? Okay, just breathe normally. And this is the blood oxygen monitor, it just clips to your finger.” Clip!

"And now we sit around for a few more minutes. I should’ve told you to bring something to read, sorry."

"He’s got books in his head," Bel points out, as if you’re a bit slow, and you have to concur that you are being a silly butt to forget that.

"Don’t need ‘em," You say flatly. You are staring intently at a certain photograph in your head.

You are, for the first time in your life, experiencing a horrible, wonderful feeling that is both completely illegal and so powerful that it’s distracting you from your own anxiety.

The name of that feeling is smug superiority. You may not be able to control your own sparking, but by god you can be better than the violet-blooded carp.

==> Sigmah: Give Galley a checkup.

negativeepsilon:

bustedcrankshaft:

askcrossfirehurricane:

lackadaisicallimpet:

You settle in on Galley’s other side, squeezing in between him and the arm of the couch, and fold your hands in your lap. Yes, okay, so, relaxing. What’s a nice calming topic? “So hey Galley, why’d the tech support trainee get his finger all stuck inside the computer?” You rush on before he can answer or object. “He was tryin’a put in his THUMB DRIVE.”

You groan and roll your eyes. “Oh god, are we telling computer jokes? Okay, um… there are 10 types of people in the world, those who understand binary and those who don’t.”

Somewhere, a row of lights goes “Vworp.” There is a popping sound.

"Erf. ‘Scuse me," you say into the screaming bear-creature. "The jokes are dxstressxng. X wxll use vxsualxzatxon xnstead of tauntxng my thxnkpan wxth punch lxnes."

You think calm thoughts. You imagine flop-eared nibble-beasts ushering their potato-shaped lagomorph babies through shining green meadows. Dusk on the sea. H-happy songs.

"Okay. Try it now."

It hasn’t been quite five minutes, and you very much doubt he’s remotely calm, but you think this is probably the best you’re going to get. “Okay, give me the arm that doesn’t have the cannula.” You wheel the blood pressure machine over, attach the cuff to his arm, press the button… and nothing happens.

The screen says 8888 and is flickering slightly.

"Ah," you sigh as you un-velcro the cuff. "That was kind of an expensive machine, Galley." You captchalog it and get your the manual blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. You’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.

You fold into a ball with a creamy traumatized plush animal center. You are impossible. Utterly impossible. You can’t even make the sparks clear up. You, the key mechanism of the Sunslammer, are leaking from the horns like a wiggler.

You think about more dumb screensaver scenery shit but it’s no good. You call up a memory of doing it with Bel. Nice, but not really helpful. Snuggling with LL? You try that. Try to recapture how calm feels. Maybe it helps, you don’t know.

You may or may not be hyperventilating a little bit.

Unbidden to you comes a flashed image of another troll holding a stuffed animal—the same screaming face—in Sigmah’s care.

HIM.

That fucking violetblooded garbage.

What reason does he have to be afraid of a medical professional? Did him get an owie and they pulled the adhesive medical strip off too hard and hurt him’s little boo-boo?

Cold fury floods you, and you surface from your ball of woe with something like a sneer.

"Well?" you prompt Sigmah. "It’s not gonna go down any lower."

==> Sigmah: Give Galley a checkup.

askcrossfirehurricane:

lackadaisicallimpet:

askcrossfirehurricane:

bustedcrankshaft:

negativeepsilon:

Beaming, you hand over the plush. Finally, your taste in soft toys is appreciated. “He’s been through his share of troubles, but he’s as squishy as ever. His squish is undaunted.”

You gesture to the couch and go back to the spinny chair.

"Xt’s all rxght," you say, not wanting to admit that the frozen scream of agony is actually soothing you. "Got nothxng on LL’s Lords and Saviors, smxlewxse, but then, who does."

You sit heavily on the couch, skin already crawling with phantom sensations. No vivisections, you tell it, but your stubborn epidermis gives you a sea of tiny fuck-you goosebumps.

That plush immediately stopped being creepy once Galley was holding it. Love is a strange, strange thing.

You sit beside him on the couch, arm around his shoulders. “Now we just wait?”

"Yeah, give it five minutes or so," Sigmah says. "I know you’re nervous, Galley, but being freaked out is going to kind of throw the blood pressure reading off, so if there’s anything you can do to calm yourself a bit that’d be good. Like play tetris or talk about something that interests you."

You settle in on Galley’s other side, squeezing in between him and the arm of the couch, and fold your hands in your lap. Yes, okay, so, relaxing. What’s a nice calming topic? “So hey Galley, why’d the tech support trainee get his finger all stuck inside the computer?” You rush on before he can answer or object. “He was tryin’a put in his THUMB DRIVE.”

You groan and roll your eyes. “Oh god, are we telling computer jokes? Okay, um… there are 10 types of people in the world, those who understand binary and those who don’t.”

Somewhere, a row of lights goes “Vworp.” There is a popping sound.

"Erf. ‘Scuse me," you say into the screaming bear-creature. "The jokes are dxstressxng. X wxll use vxsualxzatxon xnstead of tauntxng my thxnkpan wxth punch lxnes."

You think calm thoughts. You imagine flop-eared nibble-beasts ushering their potato-shaped lagomorph babies through shining green meadows. Dusk on the sea. H-happy songs.

"Okay. Try it now."

==> Sigmah: Give Galley a checkup.

negativeepsilon:

bustedcrankshaft:

lackadaisicallimpet:

bustedcrankshaft:

"Xt has been mutxlated," you point out. "There. And there. Xs that the one from…?"

The awful thing is making an endless silent daaaaaa face, which has been rendered even creepier by the repair stitching.

You understand instantly that this Domo beast is your spiritual plush-twin, and desire very much to hold it.

You kinda nudge up against Galley’s side and smile in a way that says, ‘see, that doesn’t sound so bad, does it’? Your lips quirk at the little plush thing. “I think it’s cute. Look at it, all chasin’ mewbeasts and shit all happy and grinnin’ like the moons shine out its ass.”

"Psychxatrxc xllnesses manxfest xn varxous ghastly ways," you shrug. You have been trying to not show your stress, but it’s hard.

Beaming, you hand over the plush. Finally, your taste in soft toys is appreciated. “He’s been through his share of troubles, but he’s as squishy as ever. His squish is undaunted.”

You gesture to the couch and go back to the spinny chair.

"Xt’s all rxght," you say, not wanting to admit that the frozen scream of agony is actually soothing you. "Got nothxng on LL’s Lords and Saviors, smxlewxse, but then, who does."

You sit heavily on the couch, skin already crawling with phantom sensations. No vivisections, you tell it, but your stubborn epidermis gives you a sea of tiny fuck-you goosebumps.

==> Sigmah: Give Galley a checkup.

lackadaisicallimpet:

bustedcrankshaft:

askcrossfirehurricane:

negativeepsilon:

bustedcrankshaft:

negativeepsilon:


You greet Galley and Lu with a wagglefinger wave and put your tablet away. “Hey there. Have a seat and take it easy, let’s give it a few minutes before I take your resting pulse. Do you want to wait for Bel?”

You refuse to look at all those nice bright sterile surfaces. You’ll just get all messed up inside, and you don’t have room in you for more of that. It’s not proof that you’re not better, it’s just a phobia. Which lots of people have. Sane, normal people.

Lots of sane, normal, calm people dig their claws into the doorframe without quite noticing they’re doing it.

"We would lxke to waxt," you say in your very chillest tone. "For Bel."

"Okay," you say. "But please wait sitting down and not using psi, or else we’ll all just end up hanging around here that much longer. I can’t get resting heartrate unless you’ve been resting."

He looks as if he’s going to be obstinate, and you’re about to shrug and get your tablet out, but then you hear Bel on the stairs. He walks lightly for such a big troll.

"Ah, nevermind, there he is," you say happily just before he comes in.

You greet Galley with a kiss on the cheek, and leave your arm around his waist. He’s radiating nervousness. Poor darling; even though the lab is not really a mediculler’s office, and the only equipment arranged by the couch is a monitor thingy and a treadmill, it’s still enough to set off his medical phobia.

"So what’s the plan?" you ask, so Galley won’t have to.

Sigmah, blind to moods as always, cheerfully takes this as invitation to lecture; he gets up and swoops around in his pastel lab coat (pale yellow today) touching things as he mentions them. His claws are painted in rainbow stripes; Jethro’s doing, you’d bet.

"First, I’d like Galley to just sit down and relax for a few minutes, so I can get his resting pulse, blood pressure, respiration, and blood oxygen. None of those are invasive; there’s a chest strap, a finger pinchy, and the blood pressure cuff. Then I’d like him to walk on the treadmill for five minutes, and I’ll take the readings again. You can hang onto the armrest thingies," he adds to Galley, "just don’t support yourself with psi, it needs to be physical exertion. This is to check that your heart’s not damaged and there’s nothing wrong with your circulation."

He goes to a desk with some blinkenlight boxes and a rack of what even you can recognize by now are blood vials. “I’ll draw some blood from your arm catheter and do a blood workup. That’s to see if the dialysis is doing what it’s supposed to.”

He grabs the plushie off the blanket-draped couch and gives it a squeeze as he finishes happily, “And finally, I want to have a look at your surgery scars, to make sure they’re all healing properly and not irritated or cracking. And that’s all! Any questions?”

"Yeah," you say. "Why do you keep putting out that Troll Domo-Kun when you have nervous patients? It kinda makes things worse…"

"Really?" He turns it around and holds it at arm’s length to study it. "I think it’s cute.”

"Xt has been mutxlated," you point out. "There. And there. Xs that the one from…?"

The awful thing is making an endless silent daaaaaa face, which has been rendered even creepier by the repair stitching.

You understand instantly that this Domo beast is your spiritual plush-twin, and desire very much to hold it.

You kinda nudge up against Galley’s side and smile in a way that says, ‘see, that doesn’t sound so bad, does it’? Your lips quirk at the little plush thing. “I think it’s cute. Look at it, all chasin’ mewbeasts and shit all happy and grinnin’ like the moons shine out its ass.”

"Psychxatrxc xllnesses manxfest xn varxous ghastly ways," you shrug. You have been trying to not show your stress, but it’s hard.

==> Sigmah: Give Galley a checkup.

askcrossfirehurricane:

negativeepsilon:

bustedcrankshaft:

negativeepsilon:


You greet Galley and Lu with a wagglefinger wave and put your tablet away. “Hey there. Have a seat and take it easy, let’s give it a few minutes before I take your resting pulse. Do you want to wait for Bel?”

You refuse to look at all those nice bright sterile surfaces. You’ll just get all messed up inside, and you don’t have room in you for more of that. It’s not proof that you’re not better, it’s just a phobia. Which lots of people have. Sane, normal people.

Lots of sane, normal, calm people dig their claws into the doorframe without quite noticing they’re doing it.

"We would lxke to waxt," you say in your very chillest tone. "For Bel."

"Okay," you say. "But please wait sitting down and not using psi, or else we’ll all just end up hanging around here that much longer. I can’t get resting heartrate unless you’ve been resting."

He looks as if he’s going to be obstinate, and you’re about to shrug and get your tablet out, but then you hear Bel on the stairs. He walks lightly for such a big troll.

"Ah, nevermind, there he is," you say happily just before he comes in.

You greet Galley with a kiss on the cheek, and leave your arm around his waist. He’s radiating nervousness. Poor darling; even though the lab is not really a mediculler’s office, and the only equipment arranged by the couch is a monitor thingy and a treadmill, it’s still enough to set off his medical phobia.

"So what’s the plan?" you ask, so Galley won’t have to.

Sigmah, blind to moods as always, cheerfully takes this as invitation to lecture; he gets up and swoops around in his pastel lab coat (pale yellow today) touching things as he mentions them. His claws are painted in rainbow stripes; Jethro’s doing, you’d bet.

"First, I’d like Galley to just sit down and relax for a few minutes, so I can get his resting pulse, blood pressure, respiration, and blood oxygen. None of those are invasive; there’s a chest strap, a finger pinchy, and the blood pressure cuff. Then I’d like him to walk on the treadmill for five minutes, and I’ll take the readings again. You can hang onto the armrest thingies," he adds to Galley, "just don’t support yourself with psi, it needs to be physical exertion. This is to check that your heart’s not damaged and there’s nothing wrong with your circulation."

He goes to a desk with some blinkenlight boxes and a rack of what even you can recognize by now are blood vials. “I’ll draw some blood from your arm catheter and do a blood workup. That’s to see if the dialysis is doing what it’s supposed to.”

He grabs the plushie off the blanket-draped couch and gives it a squeeze as he finishes happily, “And finally, I want to have a look at your surgery scars, to make sure they’re all healing properly and not irritated or cracking. And that’s all! Any questions?”

"Yeah," you say. "Why do you keep putting out that Troll Domo-Kun when you have nervous patients? It kinda makes things worse…"

"Really?" He turns it around and holds it at arm’s length to study it. "I think it’s cute.”

"Xt has been mutxlated," you point out. "There. And there. Xs that the one from…?"

The awful thing is making an endless silent daaaaaa face, which has been rendered even creepier by the repair stitching.

You understand instantly that this Domo beast is your spiritual plush-twin, and desire very much to hold it.

==> Sigmah: Give Galley a checkup.

negativeepsilon:

askcrossfirehurricane:

lackadaisicallimpet:

bustedcrankshaft:

"Fuck X am," you snarl. "X am all coffee makers xnsxde, and staples. X hate lxfe."

You make her tow you to the lab.

"Honeydarlin’, my prettiest sulky yellow balloon, I love you like madness but you would be the shittiest goddamn coffeemaker, all pissing out java what tastes like spite and binary. BLUH. Which is why I thank my Lords they didn’t make you one.” You beam sweetly at him as the two of you enter the lab. “Oh hey, Bel ain’t here yet.”

""Oh, rxght, X forgot to tell hxm we were leavxng. Maybe xt’s better xf he doesn’t show up for thxs atrocxty."

"Naaaw, lemme ping him—" You rummage in your pocket and draw out your palmhusk, pecking out a message while you tut and wave away Galley’s fussing. "Now, now, it ain’t no thing—"

—LL [lackadaisicalLimpet] began trolling CH [crossfireHurricane]—

LL: bro

LL: bro it’s wakey time

LL: your matesprit is all up here with me in sigbro’s lap

LL: LAB

LL: adn he’ s like this pissy mewbaest what doesnt wanna go to the vet

LL: im almots all like to be afraid hes gonna pee in all teh cupes in revenge or some shit

LL: you better get over here and smooch him quick ;)

Fortunately, you were already awake, dragging ass through the process of getting dressed and getting some coffee down your neck. When you woke and found Aspera gone, you lay around in your robe for much too long scrolling through camera logs to see where he went and what he did. Only once you’d concluded that he headed for the interior rather than toward his own hive did you realize you probably ought to get ready for when Galley pinged you.

And they’re already up at the lab? Thanks for the advance warning, guys.

CH: * Thank you for the mental image of you and Enkidi both perched on Sigmah’s lap while he flails and tries to see past the obstruction. :D

CH: * I’ll be right up.

You drain the dregs of your coffee, brush your fangs superquick, and head out at a jog. No one will even notice that your outfit clashes and your hair’s not brushed. You’re the only one around here with any fashion sense anyway.

You greet Galley and Lu with a wagglefinger wave and put your tablet away. “Hey there. Have a seat and take it easy, let’s give it a few minutes before I take your resting pulse. Do you want to wait for Bel?”

You refuse to look at all those nice bright sterile surfaces. You’ll just get all messed up inside, and you don’t have room in you for more of that. It’s not proof that you’re not better, it’s just a phobia. Which lots of people have. Sane, normal people.

Lots of sane, normal, calm people dig their claws into the doorframe without quite noticing they’re doing it.

"We would lxke to waxt," you say in your very chillest tone. "For Bel."

==> Sigmah: Give Galley a checkup.

lackadaisicallimpet:

bustedcrankshaft:

You do try to be less pathetic, but you still drag ass and whine your way through the process of getting yourself presentable. Your mouth feels like it’s about to fall off from how hard it’s twisted down into a scowl.

You don’t even bother with your crutches. You float your surly ass across the dock like the bitchiest little raincloud. You wish you were a raincloud, you’d rain on everybody.

You are beside yourself with delight the entire time. Oh, his face. You poke and prod him into the ablution chamber and sing to him while you lather up his hair. By the time the both of you are dried and dressed, you are positively chipper spite of having no coffee. Teasing your palebro gives you its own boost.

I’m just a little black rain cloud, hovering over the honey tree," you croon while he floats along with you. "I’m only a little black rain cloud, pay no attention to little me. Y’know, bro, it’s funny as shit singing that all about you, considering you’re all honey inside.”

"Fuck X am," you snarl. "X am all coffee makers xnsxde, and staples. X hate lxfe."

You make her tow you to the lab.