The Trouble With
Part One
kreska
osiris lunar colony
Part One
kreska
osiris lunar colony
"You're the exotic plant specialist?"
"Yeh." Kreska still reeked of cigarettes, her thumbs hitched in her pockets, utterly unperturbed by the other woman's incredulity. "Y'want me t'look atcher thing'r what?"
The woman continued to frown, but moved out of the way to allow Kreska inside. Kreska took her time, deliberately making the situation more awkward than it needed to be to prove a point.
The point was mostly ‘fuck you'.
"This th'thing?" Kreska asked, pointing with her chin at the tree taking up a third of the room. It was entirely too big for the space, branches contorted out of shape for the aesthetic, roots cramped in their pot. That probably wasn't why she was here.
"The Raca tree," the woman explained, "is supposed to flower every seven shifts. I've had this for five cycles and it hasn't flowered once. I've followed all the directions, it's getting plenty of light."
"Light's wrong," Kreska said immediately, because she could tell by the way that it felt on her skin that it was useless. "Y'need a bigger pot," she added as she moved closer to it, boots noisy on the sterile white floor, trailing rust.
"It's not a pot, it's a—"
"Y'need a biggerun." Kreska knelt down, sinking her fingers into the soil as she tangled them with the roots. It didn't tell her anything she didn't already know, not enough light and not enough room. Plenty of water and food, though. It should still have been flowering. She shut her eyes to try and focus on small details, anything that might be less obvious to look at it. Then she removed her hand, wiped dirt off on the thigh of her jeans and on the floor.
"Well?"
"Gimme a sec." Kreska stood up, squinting at the trunk of the tree. Then she stood on the edge of the pot to reach a branch, boots bracing against the trunk as she pulled herself upward.
"That is a very expensive tree, and if it gets damaged I expect you to pay for a replacement," the woman warned.
"S'fine." Kreska peered into the hollow between some of the branches. "Foundjer problem." Reaching into it, she fell back to the floor with a handful of fur. She winced as tiny teeth sank into her hand, but continued to hold on. The woman shrieked, and the thing in Kreska's hand bit harder.
"Get rid of it!"
Kreska held out her free hand, palm-up. "500 credits."
She brought the thing home with her because she didn't know what else to do. It had stopped trying to gnaw on her. Left to its own devices it looked like a featureless ball of yellow fluff, but its underside held a blunt snout and small black talons. It fit in her pocket. The small puncture wounds it had left on her hand had already closed.
Her apartment was barely large enough for a single small person. There were definitely not any convenient cages. She opened a drawer full of clothes, and dumped its contents onto the floor. This made very little difference, because the floor was already covered in laundry. Then she stuck the fluff into the empty drawer.
It was sort of like a cage. Kind of.
She didn't actually know what it ate, but an empty plastic tub full of water seemed like a safe bet. She decided to experiment by offering it various items from her fridge to see what it went for. One tomato, one mushroom, various leaves. A pepperoni, for variety.
Things would be a lot easier if she knew what it actually was. Her solution to this problem was to take a picture of it with her tablet, and post it to her feed, with the question, "the fuck?" The response was almost immediate.
» Why do you have a rocaburra?
☠» not mine
☠» is that what it is?
» It's in a drawer in your apartment.
» That counts as having it.
☠» nah
» How did it even get there?
» Do you have an infestation?
» Is your apartment so filthy it has transcended normal vermin, and only the exotic will do?
☠» how do you know what my place looks like
» That thing might look cute but rocaburra are deadly, you can't keep it.
☠» deadly how
☠» and you changed the subject
☠» i saw that
» Safety takes precedence over privacy concerns.
» They're venomous, it only takes one bite to cause permanent brain damage.
☠» nah
» That's not how this works.
» You don't ‘nah' at deadly neurotoxin.
» It will kill you.
☠» nah
» …
☠» jobari bruh
☠» too late anyway
☠» bit me like first thing
☠» now we're chillin
» Of course.
» Of course it did.
» Of course you are.
☠» holy shit
» Is that ‘holy shit' as in ‘the venom just kicked in and I am literally dying', or…?
☠» it's eating the mushroom
☠» it sounds like a weird pig
☠» or
☠» a weirder pig
☠» dude you gotta see this
» Don't send me cute pet videos of the poison rat.
«File sent.»
» What filter even is this?
☠» it's the candy filter
» This color scheme is nauseating.
» At least give it a top hat.
☠» k
«File sent.»
»… I meant a filter.
» Where did you get a tiny top hat?
☠» idk
☠» laying around
» You baffle me.
» You know those things only live like a month, right?
» There's no point getting attached to it.
☠» lol bc i'm so sentimental right
☠» no it's too late
☠» i'm going to love and treasure this pos 4ever
☠» i no longer accept the concept of death
☠» i'm too attached to this weird sock
☠» bc i gave it a hat once
» What kind of socks do you wear?
» Is that how it works? The hat is the secret?
☠» obvs don't you know anything about love and friendship
» Apparently not.
Kreska did not name the rocaburra. Naming was how people got attached to things. She wasn't keeping it; she was just waiting for it to die. It probably wouldn't take that long, although it all depended on how long it had been living in that tree. At least five cycles, but probably more. Thirty in a month, wasn't it?
Fortunately, it excreted waste in the convenient form of small pellets, so it wasn't hard to clean up after it. Easier than most of the things Kreska was supposed to clean but didn't. She decided to dedicate a small vacuum exclusively to the task, in part because she had never bothered using it for anything else before.
She also vacuumed the fur of the rocaburra. It did not seem particularly happy about it. Sometimes hygiene could be unpleasant. That was just a fact it was going to have to live with, for the rest of its short life. Same as everyone else.
"Good morning, good morning…"
Kreska's usual morning ritual was interrupted by a strange sound. She stopped her reflexive singing, and the sound stopped as well.
"It's great to stay up late," she continued experimentally, stopping immediately. The sound once again persisted only so long as she sang. She yawned, untangling her limbs from the intar and stretching her legs out across the floor. The accumulated laundry made it a less uncomfortable place to sleep than it could have been.
She considered checking her tablet for messages, but that would have meant getting dressed as a precautionary measure. She was not yet awake enough to bother.
Anyway, she had a hunch.
"Good morning, good morning…" This time she did not stop singing as she stood, opening the drawer in which she had left the rocaburra.
Yup. It was trying to sing along. Or else it was howling. Tiny, weird, rodent howls. Hard to say. Animals were not her specialty. The fact that it did not object when she reached into the drawer and picked it up suggested singing might be more accurate. Singing was generally pretty friendly, right? Music soothing savage beasts, and all. Or was that just a saying?
It seemed pretty soothed, anyway.
She kicked the spot in her wall that made the bed emerge, sliding outward and pushing clothes out of the way as it went. She sprawled backward onto it, and contemplated the ball of fluff as she ran out of song.
"D'y'only like weird old shit?" she asked the rocaburra. "Or d'ya like good shit, too? Like, guitars'r whatevs?" Unsurprisingly, the animal did not respond, resting on her palm. She tried growling an imitation of a guitar riff, and it fluffed it's fur with an unhappy sound. "Kay, metal's a no." She hummed a few bars to get it to calm down, mulling over other songs she knew.
She sat upright and set the rocaburra on her shoulder, freeing up her hands to retrieve her guitar. It seemed to like her idle strumming better than it had liked her impression of an electric, so that was something. She switched to a song proper, sang again and was rewarded by the ball of fluff attempting to do the same.
"Oh lordy me, didn't I shake sugaree — everything I got is done and pawned."
The impromptu interspecies jam session was eventually interrupted by a notification on her tablet, noisy and persistent. Kreska huffed, putting the guitar carefully away and rummaging along the floor for a shirt. The rocaburra was set aside as she pulled on a shirt long enough to hide that it was all that she was wearing. Never could be too careful, where cameras were concerned — disabled or not.
♕» I have a favor to ask of you, Captain's Daughter.
♕» Could you visit a friend of mine to retrieve a gift?
♕» They seem to have forgotten that they got it for me.
♕» If you could jog their memory and bring it here, I'd appreciate it.
☠» k
♕» Wear something cute.
☠» fuck off
♕» I'd give you a gift to match if you did.
☠» fuck off
♕» Try to at least be quick, then, you stubborn little bitch.
☠» k
By the time Kreska was dressed the rocaburra had attempted to burrow and nest in her rarely-used sheets. She scooped it up and, rather than put it back in the drawer, stuck it in the pocket of her jacket.
Might as well, right?
Wasn't like it could hurt.
"Yeh." Kreska still reeked of cigarettes, her thumbs hitched in her pockets, utterly unperturbed by the other woman's incredulity. "Y'want me t'look atcher thing'r what?"
The woman continued to frown, but moved out of the way to allow Kreska inside. Kreska took her time, deliberately making the situation more awkward than it needed to be to prove a point.
The point was mostly ‘fuck you'.
"This th'thing?" Kreska asked, pointing with her chin at the tree taking up a third of the room. It was entirely too big for the space, branches contorted out of shape for the aesthetic, roots cramped in their pot. That probably wasn't why she was here.
"The Raca tree," the woman explained, "is supposed to flower every seven shifts. I've had this for five cycles and it hasn't flowered once. I've followed all the directions, it's getting plenty of light."
"Light's wrong," Kreska said immediately, because she could tell by the way that it felt on her skin that it was useless. "Y'need a bigger pot," she added as she moved closer to it, boots noisy on the sterile white floor, trailing rust.
"It's not a pot, it's a—"
"Y'need a biggerun." Kreska knelt down, sinking her fingers into the soil as she tangled them with the roots. It didn't tell her anything she didn't already know, not enough light and not enough room. Plenty of water and food, though. It should still have been flowering. She shut her eyes to try and focus on small details, anything that might be less obvious to look at it. Then she removed her hand, wiped dirt off on the thigh of her jeans and on the floor.
"Well?"
"Gimme a sec." Kreska stood up, squinting at the trunk of the tree. Then she stood on the edge of the pot to reach a branch, boots bracing against the trunk as she pulled herself upward.
"That is a very expensive tree, and if it gets damaged I expect you to pay for a replacement," the woman warned.
"S'fine." Kreska peered into the hollow between some of the branches. "Foundjer problem." Reaching into it, she fell back to the floor with a handful of fur. She winced as tiny teeth sank into her hand, but continued to hold on. The woman shrieked, and the thing in Kreska's hand bit harder.
"Get rid of it!"
Kreska held out her free hand, palm-up. "500 credits."
She brought the thing home with her because she didn't know what else to do. It had stopped trying to gnaw on her. Left to its own devices it looked like a featureless ball of yellow fluff, but its underside held a blunt snout and small black talons. It fit in her pocket. The small puncture wounds it had left on her hand had already closed.
Her apartment was barely large enough for a single small person. There were definitely not any convenient cages. She opened a drawer full of clothes, and dumped its contents onto the floor. This made very little difference, because the floor was already covered in laundry. Then she stuck the fluff into the empty drawer.
It was sort of like a cage. Kind of.
She didn't actually know what it ate, but an empty plastic tub full of water seemed like a safe bet. She decided to experiment by offering it various items from her fridge to see what it went for. One tomato, one mushroom, various leaves. A pepperoni, for variety.
Things would be a lot easier if she knew what it actually was. Her solution to this problem was to take a picture of it with her tablet, and post it to her feed, with the question, "the fuck?" The response was almost immediate.
» Why do you have a rocaburra?
☠» not mine
☠» is that what it is?
» It's in a drawer in your apartment.
» That counts as having it.
☠» nah
» How did it even get there?
» Do you have an infestation?
» Is your apartment so filthy it has transcended normal vermin, and only the exotic will do?
☠» how do you know what my place looks like
» That thing might look cute but rocaburra are deadly, you can't keep it.
☠» deadly how
☠» and you changed the subject
☠» i saw that
» Safety takes precedence over privacy concerns.
» They're venomous, it only takes one bite to cause permanent brain damage.
☠» nah
» That's not how this works.
» You don't ‘nah' at deadly neurotoxin.
» It will kill you.
☠» nah
» …
☠» jobari bruh
☠» too late anyway
☠» bit me like first thing
☠» now we're chillin
» Of course.
» Of course it did.
» Of course you are.
☠» holy shit
» Is that ‘holy shit' as in ‘the venom just kicked in and I am literally dying', or…?
☠» it's eating the mushroom
☠» it sounds like a weird pig
☠» or
☠» a weirder pig
☠» dude you gotta see this
» Don't send me cute pet videos of the poison rat.
«File sent.»
» What filter even is this?
☠» it's the candy filter
» This color scheme is nauseating.
» At least give it a top hat.
☠» k
«File sent.»
»… I meant a filter.
» Where did you get a tiny top hat?
☠» idk
☠» laying around
» You baffle me.
» You know those things only live like a month, right?
» There's no point getting attached to it.
☠» lol bc i'm so sentimental right
☠» no it's too late
☠» i'm going to love and treasure this pos 4ever
☠» i no longer accept the concept of death
☠» i'm too attached to this weird sock
☠» bc i gave it a hat once
» What kind of socks do you wear?
» Is that how it works? The hat is the secret?
☠» obvs don't you know anything about love and friendship
» Apparently not.
Kreska did not name the rocaburra. Naming was how people got attached to things. She wasn't keeping it; she was just waiting for it to die. It probably wouldn't take that long, although it all depended on how long it had been living in that tree. At least five cycles, but probably more. Thirty in a month, wasn't it?
Fortunately, it excreted waste in the convenient form of small pellets, so it wasn't hard to clean up after it. Easier than most of the things Kreska was supposed to clean but didn't. She decided to dedicate a small vacuum exclusively to the task, in part because she had never bothered using it for anything else before.
She also vacuumed the fur of the rocaburra. It did not seem particularly happy about it. Sometimes hygiene could be unpleasant. That was just a fact it was going to have to live with, for the rest of its short life. Same as everyone else.
"Good morning, good morning…"
Kreska's usual morning ritual was interrupted by a strange sound. She stopped her reflexive singing, and the sound stopped as well.
"It's great to stay up late," she continued experimentally, stopping immediately. The sound once again persisted only so long as she sang. She yawned, untangling her limbs from the intar and stretching her legs out across the floor. The accumulated laundry made it a less uncomfortable place to sleep than it could have been.
She considered checking her tablet for messages, but that would have meant getting dressed as a precautionary measure. She was not yet awake enough to bother.
Anyway, she had a hunch.
"Good morning, good morning…" This time she did not stop singing as she stood, opening the drawer in which she had left the rocaburra.
Yup. It was trying to sing along. Or else it was howling. Tiny, weird, rodent howls. Hard to say. Animals were not her specialty. The fact that it did not object when she reached into the drawer and picked it up suggested singing might be more accurate. Singing was generally pretty friendly, right? Music soothing savage beasts, and all. Or was that just a saying?
It seemed pretty soothed, anyway.
She kicked the spot in her wall that made the bed emerge, sliding outward and pushing clothes out of the way as it went. She sprawled backward onto it, and contemplated the ball of fluff as she ran out of song.
"D'y'only like weird old shit?" she asked the rocaburra. "Or d'ya like good shit, too? Like, guitars'r whatevs?" Unsurprisingly, the animal did not respond, resting on her palm. She tried growling an imitation of a guitar riff, and it fluffed it's fur with an unhappy sound. "Kay, metal's a no." She hummed a few bars to get it to calm down, mulling over other songs she knew.
She sat upright and set the rocaburra on her shoulder, freeing up her hands to retrieve her guitar. It seemed to like her idle strumming better than it had liked her impression of an electric, so that was something. She switched to a song proper, sang again and was rewarded by the ball of fluff attempting to do the same.
"Oh lordy me, didn't I shake sugaree — everything I got is done and pawned."
The impromptu interspecies jam session was eventually interrupted by a notification on her tablet, noisy and persistent. Kreska huffed, putting the guitar carefully away and rummaging along the floor for a shirt. The rocaburra was set aside as she pulled on a shirt long enough to hide that it was all that she was wearing. Never could be too careful, where cameras were concerned — disabled or not.
♕» I have a favor to ask of you, Captain's Daughter.
♕» Could you visit a friend of mine to retrieve a gift?
♕» They seem to have forgotten that they got it for me.
♕» If you could jog their memory and bring it here, I'd appreciate it.
☠» k
♕» Wear something cute.
☠» fuck off
♕» I'd give you a gift to match if you did.
☠» fuck off
♕» Try to at least be quick, then, you stubborn little bitch.
☠» k
By the time Kreska was dressed the rocaburra had attempted to burrow and nest in her rarely-used sheets. She scooped it up and, rather than put it back in the drawer, stuck it in the pocket of her jacket.
Might as well, right?
Wasn't like it could hurt.
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