02-13-2018, 02:04 PM
“Internet is a savage place,” Seventeen muttered as he scanned through a message board. Were people this savage in his world?
Probably not. Internet wasn’t a big deal there.
Ever since his meeting with Smithy, Seventeen had tried to strike a balance between research the stars and being a productive number two for Trixie. They had just celebrated four months of work in their new assignments, and the woman still seemed to spend most days on her last nerves. They rarely bumped into each other in the halls of the Venator, and her work often required Trixie to take all of her meals in her office or the command bridge.
For his part, Seventeen quickly realized something that hadn’t been true in his home world: This wasn’t his operation. So many years of his life had been spent scampering around beautiful, Victorian-era hallways rounding up a motley crew of warriors. When he wasn’t doing that, he was underground arguing semantics with an almost sentient supercomputer. Now that he was in the Omniverse, he was little more than a second fiddle, if that. The incident at Jagiellonian Pharmaceuticals had put, as he figured it eventually would, an end to his role as field operative for the foreseeable future. An official memo had come last night notifying him:
Effective immediately, you are to be removed from all active field muster logs. You are to be reassigned to security measures indefinitely. Your Commanding Officer has been notified. Any change in your status will be transmitted to you.
‘Security’ in the context of the Imperial missive meant ‘housekeeping’ duties. While he didn’t have to mop floors, they had tried to get Seventeen to complete some of the inanest tasks around the Venator. Because he had respect for Trixie, he had complied for a short while, but when someone wanted him to help clean the engines, he broke their nose. After some time in his room to essentially ‘think about what he had done’, he found himself excuse from most duties.
The last time he saw Trixie, she had been yelling at some corporals for screwing up reports about criminal activity in the surrounding suburban districts.
Over the last three weeks, Seventeen had been hoping to receive some sort of correspondence from Smithy. Failing that, he was hoping that something about stars would pop up somewhere on the Dataverse. He needed to get away from this ship before he went bonkers, and since he was probably close to five years sober when it came to insanity, he didn’t feel like falling off the horse again. Last time he’d did that, he wound up bashing in an acquaintance’s skull with a baseball bat and going on picnic dates with his nemesis.
Still can golf circles around you, you jagoff.
Seventeen smirked at the image of his mohawked nemesis-turned-golf partner snapping yet another putter in half. Some people just weren’t good at the short game.
With the dataverse no help, the cyborg stood up from his ‘workstation’ and ran a hand through his hair. He always had the option to get clearance to leave the Venator, but what sort of loopholes would he have to jump through? He had put in for leave shortly before ‘broken nose-gate’ and been denied by the ship’s staffing officer. At the time, he had decided not to play the Trixie card, and now he regretted it, because his CO was essentially a ghost to him.
Fucking Omniverse.
Sliding his chair under the horizontal sheet of metal that served as his desk, the machine-hybrid undid his belt and pushed his pants to the ground. Turning to the corner of his room, he skimmed through the open closet doors for the pair of pajamas he wanted. He found them by the time he was within arm’s reach, and a beat later, he was pulling the drawstring of the flannel bottoms right around his bony waist. Sweats locked and loaded, he tugged off his socks and promptly dropped back onto his bed. After his debacle with the Koopas, he had summoned his own sleeping arrangements. Since his quarters wasn’t spacious—a fact that didn’t bother him, despite Trixie’s initial apprehensions—it was a full-sized version of his old home’s bed.
Even so, the coziness was ingrained into his memories, and that was what counted in the long run.
Removing his shirts and chucking them onto his pants, Seventeen crossed his hands behind his head and stared up at the metal ceiling of his room.
[i]Day at a time. It’s all we can do, for now. [i]
Probably not. Internet wasn’t a big deal there.
Ever since his meeting with Smithy, Seventeen had tried to strike a balance between research the stars and being a productive number two for Trixie. They had just celebrated four months of work in their new assignments, and the woman still seemed to spend most days on her last nerves. They rarely bumped into each other in the halls of the Venator, and her work often required Trixie to take all of her meals in her office or the command bridge.
For his part, Seventeen quickly realized something that hadn’t been true in his home world: This wasn’t his operation. So many years of his life had been spent scampering around beautiful, Victorian-era hallways rounding up a motley crew of warriors. When he wasn’t doing that, he was underground arguing semantics with an almost sentient supercomputer. Now that he was in the Omniverse, he was little more than a second fiddle, if that. The incident at Jagiellonian Pharmaceuticals had put, as he figured it eventually would, an end to his role as field operative for the foreseeable future. An official memo had come last night notifying him:
Effective immediately, you are to be removed from all active field muster logs. You are to be reassigned to security measures indefinitely. Your Commanding Officer has been notified. Any change in your status will be transmitted to you.
‘Security’ in the context of the Imperial missive meant ‘housekeeping’ duties. While he didn’t have to mop floors, they had tried to get Seventeen to complete some of the inanest tasks around the Venator. Because he had respect for Trixie, he had complied for a short while, but when someone wanted him to help clean the engines, he broke their nose. After some time in his room to essentially ‘think about what he had done’, he found himself excuse from most duties.
The last time he saw Trixie, she had been yelling at some corporals for screwing up reports about criminal activity in the surrounding suburban districts.
Over the last three weeks, Seventeen had been hoping to receive some sort of correspondence from Smithy. Failing that, he was hoping that something about stars would pop up somewhere on the Dataverse. He needed to get away from this ship before he went bonkers, and since he was probably close to five years sober when it came to insanity, he didn’t feel like falling off the horse again. Last time he’d did that, he wound up bashing in an acquaintance’s skull with a baseball bat and going on picnic dates with his nemesis.
Still can golf circles around you, you jagoff.
Seventeen smirked at the image of his mohawked nemesis-turned-golf partner snapping yet another putter in half. Some people just weren’t good at the short game.
With the dataverse no help, the cyborg stood up from his ‘workstation’ and ran a hand through his hair. He always had the option to get clearance to leave the Venator, but what sort of loopholes would he have to jump through? He had put in for leave shortly before ‘broken nose-gate’ and been denied by the ship’s staffing officer. At the time, he had decided not to play the Trixie card, and now he regretted it, because his CO was essentially a ghost to him.
Fucking Omniverse.
Sliding his chair under the horizontal sheet of metal that served as his desk, the machine-hybrid undid his belt and pushed his pants to the ground. Turning to the corner of his room, he skimmed through the open closet doors for the pair of pajamas he wanted. He found them by the time he was within arm’s reach, and a beat later, he was pulling the drawstring of the flannel bottoms right around his bony waist. Sweats locked and loaded, he tugged off his socks and promptly dropped back onto his bed. After his debacle with the Koopas, he had summoned his own sleeping arrangements. Since his quarters wasn’t spacious—a fact that didn’t bother him, despite Trixie’s initial apprehensions—it was a full-sized version of his old home’s bed.
Even so, the coziness was ingrained into his memories, and that was what counted in the long run.
Removing his shirts and chucking them onto his pants, Seventeen crossed his hands behind his head and stared up at the metal ceiling of his room.
[i]Day at a time. It’s all we can do, for now. [i]
![[Image: 17.jpg]](http://omniverse-rpg.com/images/17.jpg)