They stepped onto the ship—and immediately noticed a man sitting in the pilot seat,
smug as hell, like it was his personal throne.
The guy was…
not exactly strange—
he was an insult to geometry.
Fat. Belly like its own damn moon,
sticking out a full ten inches ahead of him.
Tank top with a print:
ten hands reaching out for a high five—
and under it, in bold letters: SCI-FI.
Like the designer tried to be clever,
swapped high-five for sci-fi,
and thought he made genius—
but it came out crooked, awkward,
and painfully cringe.
Shorts.
Sandals.
With socks.
Like he dressed himself
specifically to offend every culture in the galaxy at once.
On his knee sat a recorder, quietly hissing—
the bastard was already recording
even though nobody had said a word.
Round face. Short hair.
Not bald yet—but the bald spot had already started negotiations.
He smiled like he was greeting friends—
not two mercenaries
who’d kill you for a fuel discount.
Blindy snorted and went straight in:
“Yo—hey—fat pants, sandals—get yo ass off my damn ship!”
He grabbed the guy under the arms, tried to lift him—
and realized the man’s center of gravity
was made of dark matter.
The guy groaned, wheezing:
“W-wait… hold on… I—ugh—
that hurts…”
After a brief, deep sigh.
“No, no—
the recorder…
don’t drop the recorder…”
Zeros stopped Blindy.
“Wait, you spoiled piece of meat.
That’s the second part of the job.
Remember? His Highness Snow-White Dipshit said
we’re hauling someone too.”
He turned to the man.
“That you?”
The guy nodded fast, struggling to breathe:
“Y-yes… yes… I’m a WRITER…
Sage… uh… I have to speak…
at a conference…
signings… books…
fan service… the… uh…”
inhale—inhale—
“…fandom…”
Blindy sighed.
“Aight—fine, tubby… shit happens. Just—sit yo ass down, man.”
He dropped into the pilot seat.
Zeros took the second chair.
The Z-P-N-E-S™ shuddered, came alive,
kicked into orbit—
and jumped into hyperspace,
leaving Sage strapped into a seat
clearly designed for a different species.
Blindy threw his feet onto the console.
“Listen yo, tubby—we’ll get you there.
Just… don’t talk. Like—at all. Whole ride. No words.”
The Writer lifted his recorder, clicked it on, and declared:
“Blindy said that in a tone intended to project authority—
though, as usual, it collapsed into something closer to performative idiocy.”
Blindy snapped around:
“HEY—!
I SAID SHUT THE HELL UP—NO TALKIN’—ZERO WORDS!”
Zeros slowly raised his left hand—
while his right casually adjusted a flamethrower setting.
The ship rattled like a wet dog
as it dropped into hyperspace.
But Sage didn’t stop.
He physically could not stop.
He muttered into the recorder:
“Zeros sat beside him, his optics dimming—
not from malfunction, but from something resembling existential fatigue.He did not sigh—androids do not sigh—
they merely approximate the gesture for the benefit of lesser observers.But if he could…
he would have sighed.Deeply. Very deeply…”
Blindy grumbled:
“What the hell you mumblin’, you wheezin’ blob—why you narratin’ me?!
The Writer kept going, ignoring him:
“Zeros entertained a single projection:
the statistically inevitable moment
Blindy would compromise their financial stability yet again.”
Blindy turned to Zeros, offended:
“Yo—scrap-brain—he lyin’, right?!
…I mean—okay, yeah,
I lose money, but—BUT THAT AIN’T THE POINT!”
The Writer continued:
“Blindy asked—while internally negotiating with fate
that the casino incident remain permanently undisclosed—
where he lost everything…
and nearly pawned both the ship
and his android partner…”
Blindy jumped up:
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
The Writer, calm as ever:
“…Blindy shouted into the cabin atmosphere.”
Blindy roared.
“I’M SHOUTIN’ ON YOU, YOU WHEEZIN’ BIO-DOME!”
“…he insisted, engaging in a futile dispute
with the surrounding atmospheric composition” the Writer added.
Zeros froze.
Very slowly.
“Wait.
Wait a second…”
He turned toward Blindy.
“You…
lost our money?
And blamed it on the Guildmaster?!I’ve been wanting to turn Uls’Than into lizard stew for MONTHS…”
His voice dropped.
“…and it was YOU?!
You just blew it all?!”
The Writer:
“…the android replied, already modeling trajectories
for the efficient disposal of his organic liability.”
Blindy swallowed.
“N-no?”
The Writer:
“Blindy lied.
Without conviction.
Without skill.
Without even the structural integrity of a believable falsehood.”
Zeros stood up so slowly
it felt like gravity itself was trying to hold him back.
“You…
UNGRATEFUL.
PIECE OF SHIT.”
Blindy shrieked:
“HE SAID THAT—
THAT AIN’T ME—
HE PUTTIN’ WORDS IN MY BRAIN!”
The Writer:
“Blindy screamed, while Zeros’ eyes lit up in lethal red—he was already calculating trajectories.”
Zeros replied coldly.
“I AM NOT CALCULATING.”
“I AM ANALYZING. ALWAYS.”
The Writer raised the recorder:
“…analyzed that Blindy would be the first to—”
Blindy jumped:
“WHAT THE HELL—?!
I AIN’T THINK THAT—
HOW HE KNOW WHAT I DIDN’T THINK?!”
The Writer:
“…and in Blindy’s opinion, the Writer’s face meant only one thing—
this high-five clown is full of shit…”
Zeros’ palm opened.
A small flame flickered to life—
steady, calm, promising death.
“You.
PUT.
ME.
ON.
THE.
TABLE?!”
Blindy panicked:
“NO-NO-NO!
OH GREAT DEGRASSE!
I CAN’T EVEN THINK THAT COMPLEX!”
The Writer:
“But deep inside, he knew that if—”
Blindy howled.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
The Writer, now stuttering—but still going, pure dramaturgical disease:
“…his hands were already reaching for a weapon, and one thought echoed:
‘SHOOT FIRST!’—”
Blindy screamed, raising his hands.
“NO! I’M NOT REACHIN’!
THEY MOVIN’ ON THEY OWN—!
I mean—I wasn’t gon’ shoot you! I SWEAR—I swear!”
Zeros barked coldly.
“Enough.”
The flamethrower clicked into combat mode.
“I am going to terminate this organism composed primarily of carbon…
and unsolicited narration.
And finally… it will be quiet.”
Blindy:
“WAIT! WE—
WE PROMISED TO DELIVER THIS…
THIS PROSE-SUCKER!”
The Writer went pale—but still didn’t stop:
“And in that moment, both realized the mission was doomed, because—”
Both at once:
“SHUT UP!”
Zeros stepped to the airlock,
grabbed Blindy, and slammed the emergency eject.
The vacuum screamed.
“WAIT—WAIT— I WROTE YOU, YOU SON OF BI—”
PSSSHHHHH—
He was sucked into hyperspace.
For a brief second, his voice echoed:
“…rewrite the arc… adjust the chapter… reeeeeeeeee—”
The airlock sealed.
Silence.
Holy.
Fragile.
Beautiful.
When the pressure stabilized, Blindy whispered:
“We… we just dumped the client…”
Zeros shrugged.
“He was annoying.
I removed the annoying object.”
Blindy slowly broke into hysterical laughter:
“Holy deGrasse …
what the hell was wrong with that guy?
Was he trying to make us kill each other?”
He paused. Then softer:
“…but… I love you, buddy.”
And just like that, our two unhinged idiots had thrown Sage into hyperspace.