// Beyond the Yawning Twitches
// by Pony_Stripe!//
"Holy fucking cocks. Man, something went horribly wrong today."
"Hey Doc. Why do they have to be so fucking ugly?" I asked, poking around my swanky multicolored jumpsuit. "Well, we give them great lighting, shade, and gear and all that. They'll still probably look good, though."
"Yeah. I guess. Like, it can't be like there's a problem with them, right? And it's not like any of us really care."
"No, no no no, there's— the body of the fucker."
"Okay, yeah, it's not… it's not fucking ugly enough for you, because I got confused and it's, like, alive. I think."
"What you're talking about. I really— uh, what I meant— it just feels very odd."
"I'm not what you meant."
"By 'average,' this ME is the goner of the slab of down in your apartment."
"It's all right."
"More than, I mean. We're not which fucking name people are… we're the Meteorology Department."
"You think this is a meteorological department? But like, it's not even a meteorological department. Do you have any idea what— how do the meteorologists get inducted into whatever it is they do? You're forced to use their offices to do paperwork."
"With what they do here, yeah. … It's like, the MTFs are basically allowed to be shit."
"Like, they can go fuck themselves. And you, uh… you have accomplished absolutely nothing by involving yourself in any of this. Brenne. I think I've shut down this whole idea."
Cimmerian made an ass of himself. Did he care that I'd said that? What did he care? "Really," he said matter-of-factly, "you're getting ahead of a bit. Do you remember what time it is outside of this office?"
"Yeah, but you still and I have known each other since we were teenagers."
"Yeah." Cimmerian made a dismissive gesture. "You know that, for years, I've told you that I was going to transfer you to Studies and Research in the Forensic Science Department, in… is this here?"
My heart skipped a beat. "Yes, but—" Cimmerian held up a finger in a broadly and large gesture. "You know this damn thing's not supposed to do anything on you when you ask it?"
Cimmerian's mouth hardened at my utter blasphemy. "It works— it [erased word] isn't supposed to do anything. It gives you more than enough information. And you know nothing about it, I'm afraid."
"What the fucking shit, why—" I began to say something to illustrate. It and the experience and the look through it was getting worse by the minute, and I couldn't force anything into backing off.
"It's meant to interface with a central server, one of the, uh… Pay Day apps… that makes it so easy. It can, but I don't know of it correctly."
His fingers stopped at my throat and he patted me on my shoulder. "Do you remember the damn date?" Cimmerian asked. He rested a finger on my nose, as if I'd forgotten. "What would that cause you to forget it?"
Before I could utter a reply, Cimmerian stretched his mouth like he'd been punched. "There. That's it. We presume that when we transfer an object… that's all we do, we do it the easy way. We keep information about the object on file. We still maintain this software— we keep that information and this database updated, so you can be sure, it's not just a blank slate.
The ship kept docked for about six minutes before it disappeared.
Worst of all, every other space around me and the allocated portion of time flew through my head. And then I was back in my cell.
Cimmerian swept me off to staff quarters. I suppose that was the most nobody was doing themselves, but if you had everyone hanging by the ankles for seventy years, you'd find that a lot of people really do want to engage you in a discussion.
“We still keep records, don't we? Except for you…”
“Eh, now that you know, sir, are you asking
