December 7th, 2011
There is the new crew member from space look, sitting looking brooding at a desk at the end of the rume. He probbly has DARK BROODING THOUGHTS.
M8s approach the desk, and new crewmember look slightly round a bit.
“Do you need something?” he goe.
“Have a few minutes to talk?” say M8s.
“If you wish.”
“Are you aware you’ve been in hibernation?” say M8s to the funny-shaped man.
“I am aware of great stretches of time, but also of not having lived through them,” he say thoughtfully.
“It’s the same everywhere,” go M8s. “Bodies hanging in suspension, either asleep or dead. They don’t breathe, even their blood doesn’t flow. It’s just you, me, a couple of crewmembers – the Spirit of Christmas has awoken us to perform our last mission.”
(See I said I was the Spirit of Xmas so there nobbly)
“Ah, yes,” say new man, “the mission. I will be honoured to perform this task with you. Then I assume our suspicions were correct? That Santa Claus is really gone?”
“It seems so,” say M8s, “there is no sign of him anywhere, and Stevi has performed every kind of scan. Santa has either fled, or else…” he then glance at me & nobbly and stops saying any more things. which seems a bit concerning to ME.
“Either option is functionally identical from our perspective,” say new crew man. “He is gone. We must operate in Santa’s place, and hope to put an end to whatever catastrophe he has caused.”
“HEY” go nobbly boy and I am inclined to agree with him “SHURRUP YOU BOGJOB”
“Yeh,” I goe, a bit more politely, “don’t say nasty things about Snatter like that!”
“It may not be a catastrophe,” say M8s to crew man, to try and calm him down, “and Claus may not have caused it. Let’s not act before we’ve had time to assess the situation. You remember what happened on the planet Spot.”
New man’s eyes go FLICKY and BLINKY, and he SPEAK IN QUICK BITS.
“Loops of rock, hung with heavy iron fingers of plantlife – traffic zipping past – incidental jazz. My sister calls from beyond the rushing rocketcars – I step out to meet her – a scream – streaks of silver shooting past all around me – whizzing, wooshing – a great rush of air – the great moons of spot – the flashing fangs of the oncoming vehicle…”
He blink, and around him stops being whizzy. His voice is spluttering, with a sound like the chickens in zelda on the snes when you pick them up (or sword them). They really sound a lot like each other I think, this spotty bloke and those chickens, maybe it just me.
“That was very weird,” go Nobbly, which I think is rude of him, but he’s right.
“My race has a closer relationship with their memories than yours,” the man xplain. “We relive them, as though they were happening in the present.”
“Oe, can you remember Snatter like that? We’ve not seen him yet this year and it would be nice to go back to happy Snatter times.”
“I can. I recall a time, long ago, before the scale of his duties began to escalate, when fun was still had in the grotto. A pantomime was put on for the entertainment of the staff.
Santa played the back of the panto horse…”
him eyes go funny and wizzy again – and look! he’s remembering Santa’s stage turn look.
“The glare of the spotlights shining back out at the crowd, reflected off the googly eyes – the thunder of the coconuts accentuating every twist and gallop – the rain-patter of the tap dance scene reverberating across the auditorium – a curtain call – the applause – tumultuous.”
Was he good then?
Spotty man go a bit faraway and wistful remembering Santa’s stage triumph.
“As the critics all stressed… he owned that role.”