#thought 42

[stoppit-keepout]

SK please tell me about a time before the beginning of the Murderbot fic

BUT OF COURSE!!

Crew.Iris was propelling herself faster than advisable down the corridor connecting Large Plant Biome to Crew Quarters, so I pushed a warning to her newly implanted feed. Crew.Iris flinched as if it were visual stimulus and mis-timed a footfall as she turned a corner, causing her to supinate her foot excessively, probably over-stretch her lateral ankle ligaments, and fall to the ground.

A MedDrone was already on its way and I alerted Crew.Seth and Crew.Martyn about the incident over the feed, then there was nothing I could do but listen to Crew.Iris produce a high-intensity sibilant through her vocal tract and watch her make a facial expression consistent with depictions of pain.

I'm sorry, I told her.

She bared her teeth (aggression? humour?) and said, "It's fine, Peri, it just hurts," before returning to her hissing sibilant.

MedDrone arrived and injected a painkiller within thirty seconds of the incident, at which point she ceased her atypical vocalization, and Crew.Martyn arrived shortly after.

I focused on treatment in MedSystem until she was no longer exhibiting signs of pain.

Why were you making that sound? I asked.

"It just helps to have somewhere for the feeling to go," she explained.

Her explanation wouldn't make sense to me for at least twenty-five thousand hours. I am reliably informed that some things have to be felt to be believed.

[anneapocalypse]

7, 10, and 20?

7. favorite episode?

Spiral, for personal reasons. :)

10. favorite song?

I’m deeply fond of “Terminate” from season 10, and of course Carolina’s themes. From the Trocadero side of things, “Steady Ride” and “Keep Moving.”

20. favorite armor enhancement?

Speed unit and active camo. (Sorry Carolina. Adaptive camo is cool but it can’t compare to being straight up invisible.)

[thisshowisover-blog]

Thought 42: Where are they now, Irwin?

I’ve watched those hipsters, golden haired, acid riddled, faces disheveled, make their way around to new lives, Watched them tumble and fall, sniveling sheepishly, slowly claw their way back up the machine, Grab hold of the driver’s seat and settle in comfortably, bringing their own with them, Thirty years older, washed and cleaned, finish their degrees in those very halls they abhorred before, recognizing that a necessity was easy for them to achieve, Brought their previously radical ideas to pass in senate seats and breaking dreams of their children over the backs of those very same wretched spawn and diseased, Watched as they stole the lives and bread from a country, tactics they learned from good old Charlie, Who sits, laughing, cozy in prison, every other sentence from his mouth an I told you so, Those golden hipsters, though dying right and right these days, still manage to screw over everyone else with their last stinking, rotten breath, Over tea trays and sacks of money, both adorned with the dollar signs they now love so much – They keep the sick in their beds with all the bills they hoard and pass, unthinkingly, or maybe deviously, in the great white halls of our dear be(un)loved nation – Irwin, I envy your death, and while I was only eight at the time, I would have sat next to your death bed and smiled As you trembled and shook, last breaths rattling from your chest, mirroring the tinkling of fine china on the tea tray I had Charlie bring in, I would have sipped on my tea, look you straight in the eye as Charlie giggled in apprehension, And told you the bad news I could see with my naïve eight year old eyes: They didn’t eat the poem of life from their own body cavities after cutting it out of themselves, Irwin, They ate our next thousand years, with caviar on melba toast and a nice Pinot Noir.