Torjesgo
Crazy Man McJangle
[POSTING FOR TYGER TYGER]
Deep Space
Just outside Polis Massa
The music had a tinny quality to it as in came in over the hyper-relays, distributed itself through blown speakers, and rebounded off the old, metallic walls of the Far Star’s interior -- but this was hardly a problem. It added an authenticity to the tune, stripped of production value to reveal the rawness and weight that kept record enthusiasts resurrecting the bloated corpse of vinyl decades after obvious obsolescence.
It was this rawness, this old-timeyness that spoke to Milo’s task at hand: Scrubbing the pile of maggots festering in a pretty giant, pretty disgusting clump of rotten flesh from the deck of the main recreation area, left for him by his new crew member, Akk Akk.. The flesh itself succumbed easily to the friction of the pushbroom, but it was the maggots in their scattering flight that made the job difficult. As some inevitably got away, it’s likely what also made the job fairly routine.
Milo never used to have bugs on his ship.
At least he’d gotten used to the smell.
The center holocom emitted its own music, the melody so foreign and exotic that Milo could not identify what it was at first. If not for the flashing indicator light, he may have never. Glancing to the side, Milo answered with a “Proceed,” stifling Tyger Tyger’s customized ringtone and patching the holocall through.
“Tyger Tyger! How are you?”
It was Watcher-Four, smug as ever. A knowing grin leveraged between two haughty cheeks.
“Oh, are you busy? I suppose I could call back later…”
Milo’s eyebrows furrowed in irritation, feeling a tug at his decades of military brainwash. Though he was no longer “active” in the Imperial Navy, he still felt somewhat beholden to chain-of-command.
With a majority of the maggots poisoned by bleach or ground into the deck floor, the job could be put on pause for now. Milo brought the pushbroom to a full-vertical posture, leaning on it casually as he addressed the hologram.
“I was just taking a break.”
“Good…Good. I would hate for the security of the Galactic Empire to be an inconvenience to you.”
“No. Never.” Milo muttered begrudgingly like a scolded child. Watcher-Four, however, didn’t appear to know that his efforts at humor were being interpreted as condescending by his audience. He didn’t know, or he just didn’t care.
He let Milo marinate in the crushing silence of realized subordinance for a moment.
Shifting gears, Watcher-Four inspected nails through gloved hands and began his brief.
“We have received intelligence that a particularly gifted Scientist and aspiring doctor – gifted despite his decision to throw with the Confederacy – has been sighted on Karideph conducting investigative research on the recent…hrmm…”
Watcher-Four paused noticeably, not quite sure how to phrase it. He didn’t want to say “Blackwing.” He didn’t want to say “Mnngal-Mnngal.” He didn’t even want to say “Zombie.”
“…rabid civil uprising. I trust you have heard from the holofeeds about the recent, horrid bouts of mass-cannibalism?”
Milo feigned ignorance, attempting to work Watcher-Four’s previous hesitation. Perhaps he could work more information than was offered to the press. His smirk betrayed his intentions. “I haven’t. Mass-cannibalism?”
Watcher-Four’s grin suddenly inverted, calling his bluff.
“No matter. The local movement seems to have overrun his designated testing area. You will uncover all you need to know soon enough.”
Milo could detect that, on some invisible scale, he had ascended in Respect. On another one, however, he had also increased in Threat.
Kriff.
“Vesto Weary’s pattern-of-life data suggests his location at the time of encroachment to be at the coordinates I am sending you now. It is highly likely to probable that the Confederacy will be sending their own agents to rescue Weary – after all, he is the heir to Weary Spacia Goods and there is even reason to believe he is being groomed as their Director of Research and Development…”
Milo could have sworn he heard the sound of a shoe hitting the floor. He waited for the other one.
“Tyger Tyger, you have been tasked –“ Milo winced, the phrase binding him to the job by Spyworld contract. “—with the rescue of Vesto Weary, Esquire, dispatching or profiling any Confederate agents you should encounter, and recovering all readily identifiable research regarding this –“ Watcher-Four rolled his eyes, clearly figuring Eff It. “—‘Zombie’ situation. You are to leave the doctor unharmed and amiable, lest he be unwilling to share Confederacy battlefield capabilities with his new BFFs, the Galactic Empire.”
“Roger…,” Milo agreed with a hint of reluctance.
Watcher-Four let out an exasperated sigh, bored with Milo’s despondency. “Of course, you will be handsomely rewarded for your efforts,” he placated. “And who knows? Perhaps even promoted –“ He blackmailed.
“How does Lieutenant Milo Nox sound?”
It sounded great, appealing to Milo’s dreams of becoming a Naval Officer prior to his father’s unfortunate death…and yet…
This was the first time Watcher-Four had used Milo’s real name. He had been found out. Milo just stared for a moment.
“Tyger Tyger, what is it we say when someone awards us with a grand opportunity?”
Watcher-Four would answer for him.
“We say ‘Thank You’…,” he trailed off into an echo, inspecting his nails dismissively once again, “We say ‘Thank You.’”
“…Thanks,” Milo murmured from the bottom of Watcher-Four’s pocket.
“Oh, don’t mention it. You’re so very welcome.” That awful grin had returned.
“Break a leg, sport.” And with that, Watcher-Four vanished from the holoscreen.
Milo stared at the floor for a moment – the mash up of eroded rot, crushed maggots, and bleach, a macabre Rorschach for his life right now as it hit the proverbial wall.
With a sigh of ambivalent nature, he pushed the intercom button, speaking to his co-pilot in a mash-up of Galactic Basic and picked-up Kaalese.
“Akk Akk, set a course for Karideph” was the gist.
Deep Space
Just outside Polis Massa
The music had a tinny quality to it as in came in over the hyper-relays, distributed itself through blown speakers, and rebounded off the old, metallic walls of the Far Star’s interior -- but this was hardly a problem. It added an authenticity to the tune, stripped of production value to reveal the rawness and weight that kept record enthusiasts resurrecting the bloated corpse of vinyl decades after obvious obsolescence.
It was this rawness, this old-timeyness that spoke to Milo’s task at hand: Scrubbing the pile of maggots festering in a pretty giant, pretty disgusting clump of rotten flesh from the deck of the main recreation area, left for him by his new crew member, Akk Akk.. The flesh itself succumbed easily to the friction of the pushbroom, but it was the maggots in their scattering flight that made the job difficult. As some inevitably got away, it’s likely what also made the job fairly routine.
Milo never used to have bugs on his ship.
At least he’d gotten used to the smell.
The center holocom emitted its own music, the melody so foreign and exotic that Milo could not identify what it was at first. If not for the flashing indicator light, he may have never. Glancing to the side, Milo answered with a “Proceed,” stifling Tyger Tyger’s customized ringtone and patching the holocall through.
“Tyger Tyger! How are you?”
It was Watcher-Four, smug as ever. A knowing grin leveraged between two haughty cheeks.
“Oh, are you busy? I suppose I could call back later…”
Milo’s eyebrows furrowed in irritation, feeling a tug at his decades of military brainwash. Though he was no longer “active” in the Imperial Navy, he still felt somewhat beholden to chain-of-command.
With a majority of the maggots poisoned by bleach or ground into the deck floor, the job could be put on pause for now. Milo brought the pushbroom to a full-vertical posture, leaning on it casually as he addressed the hologram.
“I was just taking a break.”
“Good…Good. I would hate for the security of the Galactic Empire to be an inconvenience to you.”
“No. Never.” Milo muttered begrudgingly like a scolded child. Watcher-Four, however, didn’t appear to know that his efforts at humor were being interpreted as condescending by his audience. He didn’t know, or he just didn’t care.
He let Milo marinate in the crushing silence of realized subordinance for a moment.
Shifting gears, Watcher-Four inspected nails through gloved hands and began his brief.
“We have received intelligence that a particularly gifted Scientist and aspiring doctor – gifted despite his decision to throw with the Confederacy – has been sighted on Karideph conducting investigative research on the recent…hrmm…”
Watcher-Four paused noticeably, not quite sure how to phrase it. He didn’t want to say “Blackwing.” He didn’t want to say “Mnngal-Mnngal.” He didn’t even want to say “Zombie.”
“…rabid civil uprising. I trust you have heard from the holofeeds about the recent, horrid bouts of mass-cannibalism?”
Milo feigned ignorance, attempting to work Watcher-Four’s previous hesitation. Perhaps he could work more information than was offered to the press. His smirk betrayed his intentions. “I haven’t. Mass-cannibalism?”
Watcher-Four’s grin suddenly inverted, calling his bluff.
“No matter. The local movement seems to have overrun his designated testing area. You will uncover all you need to know soon enough.”
Milo could detect that, on some invisible scale, he had ascended in Respect. On another one, however, he had also increased in Threat.
Kriff.
“Vesto Weary’s pattern-of-life data suggests his location at the time of encroachment to be at the coordinates I am sending you now. It is highly likely to probable that the Confederacy will be sending their own agents to rescue Weary – after all, he is the heir to Weary Spacia Goods and there is even reason to believe he is being groomed as their Director of Research and Development…”
Milo could have sworn he heard the sound of a shoe hitting the floor. He waited for the other one.
“Tyger Tyger, you have been tasked –“ Milo winced, the phrase binding him to the job by Spyworld contract. “—with the rescue of Vesto Weary, Esquire, dispatching or profiling any Confederate agents you should encounter, and recovering all readily identifiable research regarding this –“ Watcher-Four rolled his eyes, clearly figuring Eff It. “—‘Zombie’ situation. You are to leave the doctor unharmed and amiable, lest he be unwilling to share Confederacy battlefield capabilities with his new BFFs, the Galactic Empire.”
“Roger…,” Milo agreed with a hint of reluctance.
Watcher-Four let out an exasperated sigh, bored with Milo’s despondency. “Of course, you will be handsomely rewarded for your efforts,” he placated. “And who knows? Perhaps even promoted –“ He blackmailed.
“How does Lieutenant Milo Nox sound?”
It sounded great, appealing to Milo’s dreams of becoming a Naval Officer prior to his father’s unfortunate death…and yet…
This was the first time Watcher-Four had used Milo’s real name. He had been found out. Milo just stared for a moment.
“Tyger Tyger, what is it we say when someone awards us with a grand opportunity?”
Watcher-Four would answer for him.
“We say ‘Thank You’…,” he trailed off into an echo, inspecting his nails dismissively once again, “We say ‘Thank You.’”
“…Thanks,” Milo murmured from the bottom of Watcher-Four’s pocket.
“Oh, don’t mention it. You’re so very welcome.” That awful grin had returned.
“Break a leg, sport.” And with that, Watcher-Four vanished from the holoscreen.
Milo stared at the floor for a moment – the mash up of eroded rot, crushed maggots, and bleach, a macabre Rorschach for his life right now as it hit the proverbial wall.
With a sigh of ambivalent nature, he pushed the intercom button, speaking to his co-pilot in a mash-up of Galactic Basic and picked-up Kaalese.
“Akk Akk, set a course for Karideph” was the gist.