"You're scaring me, Mag," Terrence commented from his perch on the reception desk as he watched the other man work. Mag didn't pause in his
efforts, but his ever-present cigar twitched from one side of his mouth to the other as he heaved another large crate off the teleport pad, hefting it to his
shoulder in one smooth motion.
"Why?" Mag inquired as he vanished down the hall towards the medbay, his voice betraying none of the effort of carrying his load. Terrence waited
while a rushing sound, almost like water, drifted down the hall. After several minutes Mag returned empty-handed and took up position near the platform
expectantly.
"You're hauling around enough crates to feed an army," Terrence pointed out. "If they were food, I mean. What are you doing?"
Another crate flashed into view. Mag hoisted it, then brought it over to the reception desk and dropped it unceremoniously next to Terrence.
"Take a look," he offered, drawing deeply on his cigar and frowning momentarily as he visibly recalled it wasn't lit.
Terrence shrugged and wedged his fingertips under the top, prying it loose with the sound of nails protesting as they were drawn out of wood. He blinked down
into the box.
"Mag."
"Yes, Terrence?"
"Are these...?"
"Yes, Terrence."
"For god's sake, man, why?"
Mag reached down into the crate and drew forth a handful of little blue objects, letting them trickle through his fingers. "Do you remember what time of
year it is?"
Terrence frowned. "Fall?" he hazarded.
"No! Well, okay, yes," Mag admitted, "but that's not the point. It's almost Halloween."
Terrence blinked and frowned, staring at his fingers as he ticked off days. He looked up. "Okay, but what's that got to do with anything?"
Mag clamped the lid back on the crate and snorted. He lifted it to his shoulder and started for the medbay. "Remember last year, 'Unca
Terr'?"
"... oh. Yeah." Terrence winced. Another crate flashed into view.
"That'll be the greens," Mag called, his voice echoing down the corridor. "Be a good forklift and bring them back here?" Terrence
shrugged and did so.
"Don't you think you're overreacting a little?" he asked as he entered the bay. Mag was perched on a stepladder, shaking the last few blues
out of the crate he carried into a cavernous hopper feeding into a dispenser at the bottom with a large "HELP YOURSELF" sticker pasted crookedly
above the lever.
Mag popped his neck and crunched the empty crate into a trashbin. "Let me ask you this, Terr," he said, removing his cigar and habitually tapping
the nonexistent ash off. "How many more catgirls do we have hanging around here than we did last time around?"
Terrence thought about that for a minute as Mag took the crate of greens from him, repositioned the stepladder, and began filling the other hopper. He cleared
his throat.
"Sooo... I'll just go get the other crates..."
"Thanks, pal, you're a saint," Mag replied cheerily as he shook a green waterfall into the dispenser.
It's that time of year again -- well, almost -- so I figured I'd start the ball rolling. Feel free to add your
Halloween stories to this thread.
--sofaspud
--"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs
efforts, but his ever-present cigar twitched from one side of his mouth to the other as he heaved another large crate off the teleport pad, hefting it to his
shoulder in one smooth motion.
"Why?" Mag inquired as he vanished down the hall towards the medbay, his voice betraying none of the effort of carrying his load. Terrence waited
while a rushing sound, almost like water, drifted down the hall. After several minutes Mag returned empty-handed and took up position near the platform
expectantly.
"You're hauling around enough crates to feed an army," Terrence pointed out. "If they were food, I mean. What are you doing?"
Another crate flashed into view. Mag hoisted it, then brought it over to the reception desk and dropped it unceremoniously next to Terrence.
"Take a look," he offered, drawing deeply on his cigar and frowning momentarily as he visibly recalled it wasn't lit.
Terrence shrugged and wedged his fingertips under the top, prying it loose with the sound of nails protesting as they were drawn out of wood. He blinked down
into the box.
"Mag."
"Yes, Terrence?"
"Are these...?"
"Yes, Terrence."
"For god's sake, man, why?"
Mag reached down into the crate and drew forth a handful of little blue objects, letting them trickle through his fingers. "Do you remember what time of
year it is?"
Terrence frowned. "Fall?" he hazarded.
"No! Well, okay, yes," Mag admitted, "but that's not the point. It's almost Halloween."
Terrence blinked and frowned, staring at his fingers as he ticked off days. He looked up. "Okay, but what's that got to do with anything?"
Mag clamped the lid back on the crate and snorted. He lifted it to his shoulder and started for the medbay. "Remember last year, 'Unca
Terr'?"
"... oh. Yeah." Terrence winced. Another crate flashed into view.
"That'll be the greens," Mag called, his voice echoing down the corridor. "Be a good forklift and bring them back here?" Terrence
shrugged and did so.
"Don't you think you're overreacting a little?" he asked as he entered the bay. Mag was perched on a stepladder, shaking the last few blues
out of the crate he carried into a cavernous hopper feeding into a dispenser at the bottom with a large "HELP YOURSELF" sticker pasted crookedly
above the lever.
Mag popped his neck and crunched the empty crate into a trashbin. "Let me ask you this, Terr," he said, removing his cigar and habitually tapping
the nonexistent ash off. "How many more catgirls do we have hanging around here than we did last time around?"
Terrence thought about that for a minute as Mag took the crate of greens from him, repositioned the stepladder, and began filling the other hopper. He cleared
his throat.
"Sooo... I'll just go get the other crates..."
"Thanks, pal, you're a saint," Mag replied cheerily as he shook a green waterfall into the dispenser.
It's that time of year again -- well, almost -- so I figured I'd start the ball rolling. Feel free to add your
Halloween stories to this thread.
--sofaspud
--"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs