“Yo pierre, you wanna come out here?” A shrill voice rings out through the doorway of Pierre Limace's office, which he currently abides. Although, at first glance, many would consider it more of a storage room or closet. It is compact, dimly lit, and filled to the brim with various technical contraptions, truthfully, most of them completely useless and coated with a palpable layer of dust. Crammed between the boxed circuity is Pierre himself, clawing away intently on his keyboard with his single mechanized arm. The luminescent sickly green light from the vector monitors around him creates a faint gleam upon his slimy bubblegum pink exoskeleton while his elongated mollusk-like body spans across the entire length of the room. Not noticing the first call to action, the voice from before beckons out again in his direction. “Pierre! Get your mind out of the machines for a moment! There's a problem with the cafeteria menu on the third deck. It's all glitched out again!” Finally hearing the request, Pierre slowly shifts his thick neck around to respond. As he expected, Lana, the lead chef of the ship is peering at him from outside his room expectantly with a pointed face.
Her tall stocky figure takes up most of the opening to the outside. She is a model Clawzian, through and through, despite her older age, gruff in appearance and demeanor. She stands eight feet tall, appendages ending with elongated claws and her body coated in a dense, dark scaled skin all the way down to her broadened tail. “Right away madame!” Pierre chimes up at her imposing sight. “It should be a quick fix!” He follows up with, as an attempt to appease her supposed impatience. This is the third time this week the screens have broken, and he is starting to get the idea people are getting a little fed up with the failure of something so simple. After all, its just a TV screen, surely he could solve it for good this time, he thinks to himself, otherwise he'd be a failure. And we can't have that. He must not.
Lana stares at him as he slowly shifts his elongated body around in the tight room, leaving a faint layer of residual slime as he slugs out into the hallway. As the two meander their way down the fluorescent lit, bright metallic hallway to the elevator, Lana looks ahead steadfast, about a foot ahead of Pierre walking at a constant pace with no intention to slow down. As he follows along, every now and then his indented eye sockets shift to look up to her, almost expectantly. He desperately hopes that she would start some sort of conversation in order to break the deafening silence of the ship. Anything to drown out the low hum of the engine. He would do it himself, but he never was one for starting conversations. Ever since he was a young Gastropoda, he had spent his days shelled away in his own private domain, fully engrossed in anything electronic, often to an obsessive extent. This was not too abnormal for many (diesel punk faction name) denizens, but Pierre took it to its logical extremes.
When he was just nine, his parents sought to embrace his interests, thinking he could be the next great inventor that would save the faction and lead them to the glorious recapture of their once greatness. Lofty goals for quite hopeful parents. They even took out a loan to pay for a mechanical arm all of his own. This investment never did truly pan out, however. That's not to say Pierre gave up his interest in engineering and computations, if anything, the arm allowed him to become even more engrossed in the hollow world behind his multitude of screens. Unfortunately though, Pierre never had any imposing motivations in the grandest of scopes. He was content just as long as he was able to feel safe, and fully engaged in the reality of his own making, and most importantly, needed. In the digital world, he could be anyone he wanted. He could be a hero. Even if he was just answering someone's ultimately inconsequential tech question on an unfrequented internet forum.
That was the beginning of the poisoning of his psyche. He was able to easily amass large scale praise for doing nothing more than answering a simple question online. In those times, he felt his knowledge had to be unmatched, and spent many days alone, reading up on trivial topics, all in favor of appeasing any niche questioner that might come along, and in return, receive that sweet, sweet praise he cherished so dearly, all without ever leaving the tight confinement of his room. Ten years later after his prosthetic installation, and no real future prospects in mind, his parents began to worry. It was only one year till his mandatory exportation out of his parents household. The (diesel punk kingdom)'s enforcement was not just out of social norms or tradition, but part of the law itself. Every child, at their mature age, would be systematically moved into the workforce, and out of anyone's “mind deteriorating” care.
Originally imposed during the early years after the great diesel-magic war, it was unanimously voted into place by the AI triumvirate. It was supposed to reignite the spark of passion and innovation that they once shared throughout the kingdom. It was ultimately opposed at first, but as time wares on the minds of all, it eventually became an accepted part of society. Although, it helped that there was a constant monitoring of every citizens' birthday in order to determine when they were sufficient to begin their place in the faction's overwhelming workforce. Even more so, due to the fact that if at least ten employment applications were not sent out by then, enforcers donned in mechanized suits would show up at your door within one or two days to “check in” on the progress, and give a slight nudge or two either in the form of a hefty fine or short-term imprisonment, depending on their mood that day, or perhaps if their lunch was particularly tasty.
Though, it was not all bad. There was still a choice in what career you could choose from based upon an aptitude test taken during adolescence. Unsurprisingly, Pierre, tested into the engineering field, with a large swath of potential jobs to chose from. His scores were high, which meant so were his potential number of choices. Upon receiving his results, he stared into the luminescent list on the screen inches away. As he read each career choice, architect, innovator, designer, inventor, he imagined himself as each of them through the reflection he cast upon the black mirror in front of him. Each vision allowed him to see his proposed future. At first, he was excited. One successful innovation and he would praised by thousands, if not millions. He began to feel a fire inside himself he had yet to experience before. This was beyond getting a couple hundred up-votes on an obscure website, this was something greater. Something that would allow him to become greater, in the eyes of himself, but more importantly everyone around him. He would finally get the recognition he deserved. The recognition he craved.
Just as he was reaching the height of his spirits, and only few clicks away from submitting his application for head technical engineer of D-Tech, one of the largest and most innovative companies in the faction, a high pitched “Ping!” echoed out from one of his various machines behind him. It was at that moment it was like he had been broken from a spell. No longer fully consumed by the digital forum in front of him, he unthinkingly looked behind him to see what caused the call. It was then he was pulled back into the reality of it all. As he stared into the dark room of his parents basement, lit up solely by the white screen in front of him and the many blinking servers and mechanisms he brought in over the course of his life. While almost never thinking about it previously, he now noticed that the computer that emanated the distracting sound was covered in a thick layer of dust. “When was the last time I cleaned that?” He questioned, seemingly interrogating himself.
Almost unwillingly, he began to notice more and more flaws from within his living space. Untouched textbooks, error lights on interfaces, and piles of neglected parts and pieces he never took the time to build into anything at all. In an attempt to get reprise he looked away, and back into the portal cast by this monitor. Although this time, he did not see his reflection as any variation of a successful genius or leader, but rather the true version of himself in this very moment. Disheveled mustache, surprisingly wrinkled skin, and bloodshot eyes with bags underneath. Withing seconds, flashes of his potential failures took shape in any consequential role he had previously considered. He did not see the hero he perceived himself of for so long, instead he saw a dead beat with no prospects, and now an even lesser idea of what he was going to do with his life than since before he even started.
Time was running out though, and he knew he had to choose something, anything, lest he bring the disdain of the enforcers upon himself, but more importantly, his parents, and he refused to let that happen. After all, the spent so much time and effort trying to get him to succeed. The least he could do was make a peaceful departure. He was not always attune to the social implications of his actions, but at this moment he was surprisingly self aware. After a couple hours of desperately scrolling past any rolls he saw could lead to potential disaster, he came across one that caught his eye. It was for a role as Information Technology Specialist aboard a sizable military observation ship, with a crew size of at least five thousand. It may sound like prestigious title, but upon reading the description, he saw that it was not any kind of compelling role, and would simple acquire him to solve whatever menial technical problem that was occurring on the level of the ship he was assigned to. Normally, this task would be assigned to one of many artificially intelligent IT bots that was wander the ship. However, those kind of automatons tended to be quite expensive after the war, and considering this was a government vessel, the budget was not the highest. This was especially true since, while it technically did no more than coast around the boarders of the faction, it was legally labeled as a military asset, and there was a strict cap on the funding of martial ships forcefully set by the (fantasy faction) after the resolution of their conflict.
“This sounds just like ze forums!” Pierre thought to himself, gleefully. He immediately figured that considering the large number of employees aboard, any mess-ups would easily be forgotten. It also meant that he would be able to slug around solving all the problems of those who needed him- and they would need him. The low risk, and relatively high potential reward seemed like the perfect fit for Pierre in his time of despair. Without anymore thought, he filled out all his info into the bloated application, and once he was finished he began to slowly and dramatically lift his mechanical arm. Once it reached the zenith of his limits, he released it causing it stiffly drop and fall directly the enter button of his keyboard, submitting his application, and sealing his fate. He would have his chance to be the helpful hero he always wanted to be, with little chance for misfortune.
The next day, he got an automatic reply from the government agency. With a gaped mouth and intensive nervousness, he shifted his cursor over to the message to open it. Finally clicking the button to reveal the decision, his pale face lit up. “CONGRADULATIONS!” It read in bold text at the top of the screen and continued below: “YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR THE ROLE OF IFORMATION TECHNOLOGY SPECIALIST FOR MILITARY VESSEL #89234234202! PLEASE PREPARE FOR PICKUP IN ONE WEEK FROM THIS DAY!” Not having much time to prepare, Pierre quickly began packing his bags with all the nick-knacks and gadgets his had laying around that he figured he might need. Of course, his parents were quite eager to help in the process, having less than year to get him out of the house before the law bars down on them.
After the shortest week of his life, the day had finally came. He received a package the day before with a letter stating that a military convoy itself would be coming to pick him up from his neighborhood docking station that morning, and would provide him with passage to his vessel of work. It also contained his uniform, cut perfectly to the need of his Gastropoda body. It was a simple design, intentionally retro in design to hearken back to the glory days of the faction. Its base was an desaturated sea foam green with a dark red collar with a white name patch on the left side. On the front was a yellow tube that traversed across the bottom half of the suit in order to provide much needed airflow to the moist species. The top half contained a small panel of lights and buttons that allowed for various communications and controls across the ship. Putting on the outfit, Pierre could not help but feel a bit of prestige, and enjoyed the feeling enough to wear it to bed in preparation for the next morning.
One last time, his parents burst into his room to wake him up from his deep slumber. They often had to do this while he was still in school, and he never quite grew out of it. As they approached, they saw him lying on his bed, curled up, sleeping in his military uniform. While it was not immediately the impressive position they envisioned for their now not-so-little neonate, they couldn't help but feel proud at that moment. At first they hesitated to wake him, knowing that once they do, it would only be an hour or too until he was out of their lives. Though they knew what they had to do and called to Pierre to wake up. Upon hearing them, he was up and at em, still filled with the determination of yesterday. After a short, bittersweet breakfast, they made they way the down to the nearest intergalactic docking station,
Once the hour hit 8 am, a deep rumble could be heard from the distance. Before anyone had to time to realize what it was, a small, but bulky ship zipped into sight and slowly began to descend from the sky. At first glace, Pierre quickly made out the large flags of the (diesel punk faction) painted on the sides. The green, red, and white hues aligning perfectly with the colors comprising his new uniform. It was obvious this was it, his convoy, and one-way trip into his new life. Once it finished landing, the large hatch on the front crashed to the ground with a deafening thud, revealing a tall intricate robot standing in the doorway. It bleeps out coldly: “Convoy for Pierre Limace to ship #89234234202! If you are Pierre Limace, please aboard the ship! If you are not Mr. Limace, you will be obliterated upon entrance!”
Right as Pierre began to say his final goodbyes to his parents, the robot interjected. “Countdown to departure beginning! This ship will leave with no exceptions in 30 seconds...29. Seconds...28 seconds... As the uncaring machine continues his countdown, Pierre turned once more to his parents and speaks up. “Looks like your parting ceremony is cut short! Au revoir ma and pa! It's time for me to make slugistory (insert better slug history pun here)!” With half hearted smiles, his parents wish him good luck and wave their heads back and forth as is customary for Gastropodas upon saying goodbye, Pierre boarded the ship just in time for the robot to finish its countdown and the metal slab of a door quickly began lifting up in front of him and sealed itself shut. While he still writes, that was the last he saw of his parents or his home world for fifteen years, and to this day has been wondering the cramped hallways of the same, now even more outdated, military vessel, hopelessly trying to solve the multitude of tech problems that make themselves apparent day in and day out.
Lana finally speaks up abrasively. “Pierre! Where are you going?” He snaps around to see Lana no longer striding in front of him, but rather standing at the entrance of the cafeteria. In his almost comatose day-dream state, he seemed to have walked right by without noticing they had already arrived at their destination. As Pierre begins to meander back to the doors, he attempts to utter out an apology, but is quickly cut off by Lana. “It's the same screen as yesterday. You remember right? It's not like you haven't done this a hundred times before.”
“Oui oui, er, yes ma'am, of course I know the one!” Pierre replies with an anxious tone, noticing the impatience in her voice.
“Right. Well, just let me know once its up and going. The lunch rush begins in thirty minuets.” As soon as Lana finishes her command, she shift her imposing figure around and begins walking back to the kitchen, swaying her tail back and forth in a passive tell of annoyance. Pierre does not pick up on this though, despite working with her for almost half his life by now and immediately takes up the task of fixing the menu screen and wonders into the greater cafeteria. Despite being only one out of five on the ship as a whole, the room looks as massive as if it were the sole provider of food for every passenger. It is not a particularly welcoming sight. Towering dark metal walls surround the seemingly infinite rows of rough geometric chairs and tables, obviously made for mass production ease rather than comfort. It is clear that anything in this room has not been updated or refurbished for decades, and despite the, all be it small, cleaning staff''s efforts to make things look tidy, grease and rust are difficult to remove and their stains remain on a large amount of the furnishing.
Finally, Pierre makes his way to the order counter where the broken screen resides, blinking and twitching rapidly. It seems to be the same issue it has been for the past week for so. Pierre could do what he had been doing to fix it the last couple of times. The technique every IT engineer learns: power cycling, or, in layman's terms, turning it on and off again. Though he knew that if he did that, it would likely just end in it breaking again, if not tomorrow, but the day after that. The success would only be temporary, and the recognition fleeting and soured. This time, he was going to fix it for real! The only issue was he had no idea how. Usually this kind of thing would be his bread and butter, some small problem that only a couple people were dealing with. He used to solve all sorts of these types back in his youth on the forums he used to so often frequent. Though in those days he had all the time in the world to read whatever obscure manual or tutorial he needed. Now, most of his time is made up of walking from area to area on the ship to where ever someone requests his assistance.
And so, with what little knowledge he had on this particular model, he reached for the tool kit on his side, and began dismembering the screen in attempt to solve the problem for good. Though, as more and more time passed, Pierre noticed he was making no real progress on even just figuring out what was broken. Dollops of thick slime began to form upon his already moist brow, and with less than ten minuets left until lunch time, the color of his face began to drain as he worked faster and sloppier. Finally, he saw something that looked off: a single pin connector seemed to come undone from one of the various connectors, although, he could not tell which slot it belonged to originally. As he began to think, he heard the footsteps of someone approaching from behind the counter. Thinking it was Lana, he quickly wiped away his sweat and attempted to seem like everything was under control.
Once he glanced down though from atop the counter though, he saw it was not Lana, but rather Marcel, a young human cook who had been working for the kitchen staff for about a year now. He was of average height, short dark hair, olive skin, and pointed green eyes. He was staring at Pierre with a disingenuous smile, and once he noticed him looking down to him, he blurted out in a sarcastic tone “Well, look who it is! Our hero that has come to save us from the troubles of the machines!” Pierre did not pick up on his tone, and took his statement at face value.
“Bonjour Marcel!” Pierre shouted down, perhaps a bit louder than he needed in a bit of a panicked tone. Pierre did not do the best at wiping away all the mucus he had been producing, and Marcel was quick to notice. Seeing this as an opportunity for more ribbing, he was quick to reply back “Say, Pierre, it looks like you're really showing that menu who's boss! It will be done soon won't it? I would hate for our patrons to go without knowing all the wonderful meal options we have to offer... Oh, but what am I thinking? Of course you'll have it done!” Still at a a loss, Pierre glances back down to the open box of circuitry. He knows the connector had to go somewhere.
He pans back to Marcel to proclaim with false confidence “You're quite right! As a matter of fact... I've only got one last thing to plug in, and it will be up and going before you can say omelette du fromage!” In a rush to appease the looming staff member, he swipes up the loose wire and quickly snaps it into the nearest connector. “Surely this is the correct spot!” he assures to himself as he plugs the lost pin into the nearest slot it would fit. With an air of accomplishment, he closes shut the dusty wire box, and quickly screws it sealed. With Marcel still watching intently for any chance to make a quick jab, Pierre shifts his arm to the minuscule power switch and gives it an impactful flick. The screen immediately blinks on to present the bright white menu programmed to it. “Voila!” Pierre exclaims, almost in surprise upon seeing it work just as expected.
Marcel, clearly taken aback by his success, widens his eyes in shock, and only slightly in admiration. “Wow, uh, good job, I guess. Looks like we won't need your 'valiant' efforts for the rest of the week after all.” Feeling pride for the first time in months, Pierre is quick to call out to Lana in order to show off his efforts.
“Mademoiselle Lana!” He echos throughout the kitchen. “I'm finished resolving the naughty screen! Just in time for luncheon!” Upon hearing the calls from the front of the counter, Lana quickly strides over to make sure everything is in the up and up. The countdown for the rush is quickly ending, and she could not risk any mishaps like before. When she reaches the two crew mates standing beneath the luminescent menu, she looks above to see all the day's items displayed perfectly, though she gives it a double check just to be sure. Pierre feels the tension grow as she assess his handiwork. After what felt to him like thirty minuets, but in reality was only about thirty seconds, Lana glaces over to him sharply.
“Alright, Pierre, looks good to me. I likely won't be bothering you anymore today.” She says with a slight grin. She never blamed Pierre for the many failings of the ship, she knew the budget was dropping every year, and it was only a matter of time till every component began to fail. To an extent, she even felt a bit of pity for him since she knew he tried his best. But she was never one for emotional expression, so much of her interactions came off cold, whether it was the intention or not. Pierre, perhaps in a bit of overconfidence, wanted to give one last assurance before he left.
“I've got quite the good feeling about it zis time! From here on, the menu should work butter smooth, with not a problem to be see-” Though before he could finish his final words, the screen began to flicker once again. Lana's brow furrows, in slight annoyance, but not out of surprise, Marcel cracks a slight grin. “Ah, don't worry, this is merely a hiccup!” He tried to convince the now worried kitchen head. With a captive audience, and growing panic, he quickly took to the last resort of any self-respecting IT professional and decided to give the circuit box a couple rough but intentional hits. Oddly enough, this worked, and the screen snapped back to the usual state. “See? Good as new!” But before the staff had time to once again become impressed, a bright spark rapidly manifested from the back of the menu, tinging the air with the trace smell of burnt plastic and creating a small but apparent plume of gray smoke that lingered in the air. As the brief spectacle came to an end, the screen was now sitting completely black.
“Ah, no need to worry! I should just be able to-” Pierre started before quickly being cut off by Lana as she exasperates a deep sigh before interjecting.
“Just forget it Pierre. It's clear that this screen is at the end of its lifespan. It happens to the best of things. Don't worry about it. I'll just put up a paper menu or something until we get a new one.”
“Yeah! We can set the theme for the day to be the 20th century! Maybe we could even cook everything manually too to give more “authentic” flavor!” Marcel jokes sarcastically.
“Give it a break Marcel, Pierre did what he could. Don't you still have prep work to do before the rush? You know what happens if you don't complete your task list on time.” Lana probes as she towers over the human.
“Yes, ma'am... right away...” Marcel replies timidly. He is quick to tease those he can, but sensing any potential retribution for his actions and he often falls in line. He rapidly turns coat and marches back to the kitchen to make his last minuet completions. Pierre on the other hand, is still standing on the counter, too embarrassed to say anything. Not wanting to make any more of a scene, Lana breaks the silence.
“I'll, uh, go get a pen and paper, you can go ahead and go. I don't want you to clog up the line.” She tells Pierre in a bit of an awkward tone. Pierre finally catching on that the best course of action to prevent anymore humiliation nods without saying anything, and slowly descends the counter top, leaving a slight tint of slime that Lana clearly notices, but decides not to acknowledge until he has left. He makes it about halfway to the exit before turning to apologize.
“Désolé, mademoiselle, I'll make sure to write a ticket for a new screen post haste! It should arrive, in no time! I'll even give it high priority!” This was of course a lie. He knew that it would take weeks to get any new part, let alone an expensive plasma screen. Lana knew this as well, and responded enthusiastically.
“Sure thing Pierre.” And before he could come up with any more excuses, she quickly followed suite of Marcel and made her way back into the kitchen to prepare with the little bit of time remaining until their deadline. Pierre, now alone, begins treading back to his puny, dark office in defeat. As he makes his way down the empty hallway alone, he can't help but think of not only this most recent failure in fixing the menu screen, but all the recent times he botched what should have been an easy fix. There was the time just a week ago with the ships landing gear, the mishap of the cabin door locks, and worst of all the tragedy of the 4th floor bidets, a shiver travels down his sloped body just thinking of it. More and more defeats flash through his mind before he could reach his office door.
Building up shame within him, he constructs a self-made ultimatum as he reaches for the door handle. He could enter his office, stop thinking of what happened today and those times before, and continue his steady routine of sometimes solving the tech problems of the ship. Or... he could march in with a goal, and truly make an impact. After all, did all he want to be remembered by is the Gastropada that every now and then succeeded, more often than not letting those down he so sought to appease? What would his parents think of him? What would he think of himself? With but little consideration he came to a conclusion. “No.” He did not want to be that. He did not want to be a failure. He would not let himself be one.
With a newly lit flame of inspiration, he entered his office with a goal. He was going to create an improvement for the vessel they could not ignore. Not passively fixing something that already should have been working, but rather actively crafting something new that could not go without recognition. Even if it meant working off the clock, or during his short reprise of a lunch period of fifteen minuets, he was going to make a difference. After a tedious brainstorming and research session, he decided upon coding a software that allow the ships engines to optimize the energy harnessed by its fuel supply, and thus, making it much faster, in theory that is. Ecstatic to begin, he turned down his ship mandated radio, and put his full effort into his lofty ambitions.
Days passed, with Pierre spending the majority of his time alone, tacking away on his keyboard, making as many keystrokes as he could manage with a single, all be it, mechanical arm. Each click seemed to ring out with a distinct purpose as he continued to type. Finally, after less than a full week of getting less than ample sleep, and little to no social interaction, Pierre made one final declaration at the top of his source code adding a clear signature that would appear right before the software was run, as to let everyone know of his handiwork. He glanced upon his complete work with a great smile.
Now, all he had to do was get it installed. But that was easier said than done. Software on this level, would have to be installed directly into the captain's computer in the control room of the ship. Of course, wanting to keep a dramatic tinge, Pierre figured he would not just ask if he could install it. By the time it made its way onto the vessel's computer, it would go through so many checks and balances that he could barely claim it to be his own, and would doubtfully get any credit being the low-level engineer he is. He could not risk that. He would have to find a more creative way to get it installed.
And so, he waited, for the perfect opportunity to strike until, a couple days later, he got a call on his radio. “Call to IT! Pierre, do you copy? Over.” A muffled voice rang out from the speaker installed onto the front of his uniform.
IT, Pierre speaking! What is ze issue? Over.” He replied hastily.
“Hello, this is first mate Zorthan, we've got an issue over here in the control room. One of the computers is saying something about an outdated driver? It's not like that captain is even that old, so I don't know what it's on about, but I figured you could come and resolve it for us. Over.” As Pierre heard the situation, he could not help but grow a mischievous grin. This was the perfect opportunity, what he's been waiting for all this time.
“Of course, monsieur! I'll be there right away!” Pierre replied placidly, trying to hold back the growing excitement in his voice. He quickly made a copy of his software on a flash drive and stuffed it into his toolkit. Once he gained his composure, and wiped away his anxiety produced slime, he headed out towards the control room on the first floor. Making it in record time, he approached the large metal doors, and range the buzzer to gain entrance. A voice echoed out from the outside speaker.
“Who is it?” it questioned in a demanding tone. Pierre recognized that this was the captain speaking, and made sure to make a good impression.
“It is Pierre sir! From IT, here to fix your driver problem!” He replied confidently. Silence persisted for a moment before the speaker activated once more.
“Come in.” The chords answered directly. A deep buzz emanated from somewhere within the walls, and the mechanical unlatching of the locked doors' seal could be heard as they slid open horizontally in the each respective side of the walls revealing the interior of ship's brain. One large window spanned across the back wall, revealing the vast expanse of space in front of it. There were a couple windows throughout the rest of the ship, but none this clean, this pristine. It was clear at first glance that this room was the most heavily funded. Not a spec of rust could be seen across the multitude of dark metal furnishings and machines. Below the many screens at the back, were sprawling panels of buttons and switches, about ten times the size of anything Pierre had ever operated before. On the screens, he could barely make out the error pop-ups mentioned in the radio call.
The first mate and captain are standing near the entrance, eyeing Pierre as he enters the room. Both are (species name of the captain of our own ship). Tall and slender with rough skin in shades of blue, faces twisted in a natural grimace, despite their mood. Before Pierre had time to come up with any kind of excuse to get some alone time with the computers, the two inadvertently decided to make things much easier on him. The first mate speaks up: “Hello Pierre. Thank you for arriving on such short notice. We were actually about to head out for dinner, our usual delivery is late, and we were feeling quite impatience today. Surely you can handle the issue by yourself while we're out, right?” They both stare at Pierre intently, waiting for a reply.
“O-of course! Not a doubt in my mind sirs!” Despite his mental preparation, the imposing figures of the two were enough to make him a bit nervous. After all, it was now or never for his master plan.
“Excellent. We'll be back in no less than thirty minuets. I hope you'll be finished by then. If so, farewell, and thank you for your service.” The first mate gives an honorary salute. It is never a mandatory gesture, but often done now a days by those who like to relive the days of yore, before the economic collapse after the war, when spirits were up, and patriotic pride was high. The captain stands stiffly. “Alright then, we'll be taking our leave.” The first mate utters up, before both of them march past Pierre, and seal the doors behind him shut, leaving him isolated in the room free to execute his scheme.
Taking one last glance around to make sure he is alone, he beings his stealthy installation. Resolving the problem with the driver was an almost instant fix. All it needed was a quick download which he ran sequentially with the transfer of his optimization software. Being a long term IT agent did have its perks, including having unsanctioned access to even the highest security computers, making the installation a breeze. As he stares into the progress bar, he can only imagine the praise he will receive upon them noticing how much time and money this will save them. He thinks perhaps he will even be promoted to head IT engineer, or even to a lead software architect or designer. Once it hit one hundred percent complete, he wasted no time in starting the program. Now all he had to do was wait.
With his mission complete, he tried to hide his smile as he shifted around and began to exit the room. Though, right as he was about to leave, the doors slid open rapidly in front of him. Again, stood captain and first mate, a bit more pleasant in expression after their lunch.
“Ah, Pierre, I assume you have solved our little issue?” The first mate inquires with an assuming tone.
“Of course, sir! What kind of Information Technology Specialist would I be if I had not?” Pierre replies smugly.
The first mate begins to reply as both him and the captain begin to walk back to their seats. “Right then. We'll let you know if we need further assistance, and-” he swipes his head around to look back at Pierre. “-keep up the good work.” Pierre was gitty with excitement, and almost got the gut to just tell them right then and there about the improvements he placed upon the ship, but was able to keep it down, and with a simple “Thank you sir!” he exited the room.
Though, he was not going to just head back to his office without seeing the effects of his efforts firsthand. He figured he might linger a bit outside the control room, just until they see his improvements, and without a doubt, run out to praise him for his valiant work. Almost shaking with anticipation, he kind of awkwardly, decided to just stand out in the hallway, a couple feet away from the doors. Every now and then he would look down and unthinkingly play with the buttons of suit in an attempt to seem busy. After a couple of minuets though, he began to hear a hurried pace head his way from down the hall. A voice calls out from the distance.
“Coming through! Make way! Cafe delivery! High priority cargo here!” As the sound became closer, Pierre could make out the figure bolting his way. It was Marcel, carrying a large parcel that he was holding closed tightly with his free hand. As he approached, Pierre attempted to greet him, but before any words any could escape from his mollusk maw, Marcel interrupted, “Not now, Pierre, I'm already late, I got to get the captain his dinner!” Truly only wanting to help, Pierre figured he should mention to Marcel that his task was already in vain.
“Actually, Marcel, they already got their diner. They just returned from the cafeteria.” Pierre proclaims in a bit of a haste.
“What?!” Marcel breaks to halt, while making sure not to spill any of his precious cargo. “How would you know? Are you buddy-buddy with the captain or something now?” He asks with clear annoyance in his voice.
“You could say that.” Pierre grins as he replies, stroking his moustache with his metal arm. “I was just fixing an advanced technical problem for them and they left me to my devices as they went to get dinner themselves. They mentioned they could not wait any longer for delivery!” Not realizing he was directly insulting Marcel, he did not remove the smile from his face after his answer.
“Oh, so you think your hot shit now? I'm willing to bet whatever you 'fixed' in the control room will be broken by the end of the hour. You want to know why I was late for delivery? It's you! We've been backed up non-stop with the menu being broken. A piece of paper doesn't cut it for a five-thousand passenger ship, especially when I have to explain to every other crew mate that 'Sorry! We are out of the garloid!' or 'Oh, actually, we aren't serving the Mirnroot soup today!” followed by ten minuets of their incessant complaining!” Marcel rants as Pierre attempts to interject.
“Excusez-moi? I did everything I could! A-and I don't appreciate-” before he could finish, Marcel cuts him off abruptly.
“I don't want to hear it, slimeball! I've tried to play nice with you, but this is the last straw. Do you even know how mad Lana is going to be after the captain's complaints trickle down to the kitchen? And not at you, at me! You're useless! A failure! But you continue to get a pass because people feel pity for you! Can you do anything right?” Marcel continues to yell, catechizing Pierre harshly.
Normally, Pierre does not pick up on insults, but he is not dense enough to ignore this, and begins swelling with emotion. At first, a strong wave of dejection envelops his body, and he becomes flushed with shame and embarrassment as his body shifts into a hot pink. At this point, anyone would fully expect him to squirm off in defeat back to his office, but in the moment, he was able to look past Marcel, literally, and as he focused on the locked doors of the control room behind them, and he was reminded of the masterful software he had just implanted in the engine system.
“As a matter of fact, blaireau, I just so happen to have a special surprise for the captain, that will be certain to show my je ne sais quoi to the whole crew! They'll all know my worth, and I'll get the recognition I deserve! No one is going to remember the petite server-boy who does nothing more than whine!” As Pierre snaps back, the two are suddenly thrust to the back hallway wall, due to the immense force of the ship's new speed. After coming to, Pierre realized the phenomenon. “Zis is it! Ze fruit of my labour!” And for the first time in a long time, utters out a vindictive laugh.
Marcel, obviously taken aback, looks to Pierre with fear and grills him. “What did you do? Are you trying to kill us?” He gasps out.
“What? Of course not! This is for the greater good! Think of the possibilities we can achieve moving with such haste!” Pierre reposes with an almost maniacal inflection.
You did tell them about this right?” Marcel immediately questions.
Pierre's confidence does not dampen as he responds, “Of course not! I thought it would be much more impactful if it was a surprise. Theatrics run in my blood after all!”
“You idiot! You're going to get us all killed!” Marcel shouts in horror, as they are still bound to the walls from the unexpected G-force of the newly enhanced ship. Before Pierre could give a rebuttal, an earsplitting alarm booms through every corner of the ship as red emergency lights begin to flash rapidly from atop the ceiling. At the same time, both of the crew workers' radios begin blasting a message loudly from a familiar voice.
“ATTENTION ALL CREW MEMBERS! WE ARE EXPERIENCING SOME TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES WITH THE SHIP! EVERYONE PLEASE REMAIN CALM AS WE ATTEMPT TO RESOLVE THE ISSUE! REST ASSURED, EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL! FOR THE TIME BEING, PLEASE MOVE TO A SAFE SPACE AWAY FROM ANY WINDOWS, SHARP OBJECTS, OR DANGEROUS EQUIPMENT! THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING AND- HEY, HEY, WATCH OUT FOR THAT-!” A resonate thud is heard through the speaker as the first mate's panicked announcement is cut unexpectedly short.
Pierre looks to Marcel in their supposed last moments, act now fully broken, and mutters with exasperated breath “I only wanted to help...”
As he ends his final remarks, an astounding crash can be heard at the front of the ship near the control room. Before there was any time to react, a deafening silence fills the air as the only sound that can be heard is a high-pitched piercing ring. Within seconds, a blistering white light envelops the entire hallway, emerging from the front of the ship. And as soon as the light came, things go dark and silent for Pierre as he slips into almost instant unconsciousness.
He suddenly awakens, ears drums still ringing intensely to the point of making him temporarily deaf. At first, he wonders where he is on the vessel, but quickly realizes he is no longer on the ship at all, but rather flying through the void of space. Although departing from it at rapid speed, he can make out the horrible state of the ship in front of him. The entire front half has exploded, having clearly ramming directly into a hulking asteroid, leaving nothing in its place but a multitude of debris and dark smoke. He is not certain, but it almost seems he can make out other crew mates floating in the wreckage, some still in once piece, others not so lucky. Its sight is enough to compel him to look away. Everything in his body is screaming at him to turn from the horrible sight that he can't help but feel responsible for- yet he can not. Despite the back half of the vessel still mostly intact, he can't help but notice that it is almost entirely engulfed in flames and spiraling out with no real controls. Doomed. Just like the like other half.
As he is propelled further and further away from the wreck, he begins to wonder about the status of other crew mates: Lana, Marcel, the first mate or captain. His mind wonders. His parents are next to come to mind, finally, his legacy. Will any survivors know that it was his fault? Will there even be any survivors? Will he survive? Will- SMACK! An abrupt sound resonates as Pierre flies head first into a relatively small asteroid, about twice the size of his body, bashing his exoskeleton and knocking him out instantly leaving him once again in total blackness.
For a brief moment, his haze diminishes. He can once again hear something other than the ringing in his head. His vision is fuzzy, but he came make out a conversation, no, commands. A gruff voice is shouting each of them out to what seems to be two people. “Alright, you two, this is a big one! Hurry up and reel it in! Is that the best you got, I know you can go faster! Pull! Pull!” As the figure yells out, he begins to gain feeling and realizes he is the one being pulled in. Without being able to fully conceptualize what is happening, his dizziness returns and he passes out for the last time.
He comes to once again to a loud call, instantly realizing he is bound tightly in what feels to be a itchy rope. Rubbing against his face seems to be a splintery wooden floor through a thin cloth that is wrapped around his head, muffling his yelps. He immediately begins to squirm about in an attempt to get free to no avail, despite the slick ooze covering his body. As he begins to struggle he hears the familiar dour voice from just before. “Looks like we got a live one, eh, fellas? Let's make this quick.” He huffs out, with a slight, but perceptible, chuckle at the end. Just as he thought he was about to meet his maker, a different, much higher pitched voice grows close.
“WAIT! THAT'S NOT AN OUTER RIM ENTITY!” The voice proclaims in a fretted voice. Before Pierre knows it, he is pushed over on his back, no longer facing the floor. Right as it happens the piercing thud of something right next to him resonates from the floor. Suddenly his face is de-bagged, and he attempts to adjust to the scene unfolding around him, a task harder than usual since it almost seems like his eyes are now cast in separate directions. From the spot in which the thud was heard, lies a deadly sharp harpoon, pierced into the ground, and judging by the layer of residual slime on the floorboards, right where he was lying. Looking up he presumes sight of the entities behind the two voices. The first is what seems to be a relatively young female faun from (fantasy faction name). She has a copper coat speckled with white spots and short curly auburn hair that is flowing down as she looks over him. She is wearing what seems to be a white button up shirt, splattered with stains of various colors and sizes. Her forest green eyes piece into him as she looks away to the second figure lifting her ears as proclaims cheerfully. “See! I told you! It's a Gastropoda! Though I'm not sure why he was floating all the way out here...”
The other figure is also still looming over him, unimpressed by the faun's outburst. His is much taller than the faun, and has a much more narrow, slender form. He's a (captain's race name), with dark teal skin, slightly wrinkled by age. Various parts of his body are coated in brick red metal armor, slightly tinged with rust Each of them are lit with a short row of small yellow circular lights. Other parts are wrapped with a thin, tan gauze. He is dawned with a classic black captain's coat with gold accents. His left spindly arm is perched upon the base of the harpoon that currently lies next to Pierre. The other is nonexistent. In its place is nothing more than the loose cloth of the coat tied into a knot creating a hollow hanging stub. Upon his head he is wearing some sort of horned mask made of the same metal of his armor that covers half of his face and fully shades his left eye, while his other gleams a bright orange intensity. Pierre feels he looks familiar, but he doesn't know why. He replies sternly to the faun: “You're lucky you were right. How many times do I have to tell you that I'm the one that handles the fresh catches?” He looks down to Pierre, still laying below them. “And you! Stand up! Who are you? And how did you get all the way out here?”
Pierre slowly lifts the upper half of his body upright, still immensely sore. He begins to utter out- “I'm...” but stops for a moment as he takes time to just remember his own name. “I'm Pierre. Pierre Limace.” He made sure to include his last name almost just to prove to himself his knew it. “I don't know who I got here.” He stammers out before he begins wracking his brain trying to remember, dazing off in the meantime. The faun, beginning to look worried, asks, this time nicer than the (captain's species).
“Are you ok? What do you remember? What do you know?” She probes him on until he utters a response.
“I know... computers... Oui!” He exclaims while parts and pieces of distorted memories rush back to him. “That's my specialty! I'm a lead technical engineer! The greatest on board!” He looks over to the tall blue figure. “And you're my captain!”
The man chuffs sharply. “Confident aren't we? … I like that.” In a swift motion he pulls the spear from floorboards and begins to slowly circle around Pierre, analyzing him. After getting a good look, he is able to make out that Pierre is wearing a (diesel punk faction) military uniform. He is all too familiar with the army, and is often much more receptive to those from similar circumstances. He is pleasantly surprised, but hides any emotion, keeping a stiff poker face. After a break of silence, he speaks out. “You said you're good with computers? It's your lucky day, then. We've been needing someone to to work our electronics. Our mechanic Eggtwon isn't as accustomed to these modern machines as I'd like him to be. Think of it as repayment. Without us, you'd still be stranded in space, cold and alone. So, are you gonna help us out?” He pauses for a moment. “Or should we toss you back overboard?”
Pierre, unphased by the treats and without missing a beat, chimes in. “Of course I'm willing to help, monsieur! You're my captain after all! I'll do everything I can to be the best technical engineer I can be!”
The captain, while being a bit taken aback by Pierre's enthusiasm, remains composed. “That's what I wanted to hear!” He pans around the ship to the various crew mates who have began making their way to the top deck to see what all the ruckus has been about. “The rest of you should behave a bit more like Pierre here... if you know what's best for ya!” He looks down to the faun who is still nearby. She is currently scraping up residue left behind from Pierre where he first laid and compiling it into a small vial completely ignoring the abrupt initiation of Pierre into the crew. “Sylvia!” The captain calls out to her.
She looks up, startled. “Huh?”
The captain resumes his command. “Show our new member here our computer room. He can get started right away.”
Sylvia finishes filling the glass vial in her vinyl gloved hand, caps it, and quickly shoves it into her shirt pocket. “Yes sir!” She looks to the slug besides her. “You said your name was Pierre, right? Just follow me! We keep all our electronics on the lower deck.”
“After you, mademoiselle!” Pierre exclaims happily. As Sylvia begins to make her way down to the bottom of the ship, Pierre follows suite.
Before the two get too far away, the captain yells out. “Welcome aboard Pierre, and good luck. You're gonna need it. You've just jumped from out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
Pierre shifts his thick neck around to give one final assurance. “Thank you Monsieur! I won't let you down! I guarantee it!” He exclaims with pride, before slugging away into the depths of the ship.